Tin whistle's easy. Said everyone, ever.

Not long ago I realised that, once unleashed onto the unsuspecting national schools of the country in approximately two years' time, I would at some point have to teach tin whistle to the pupils in my class. This undeniable fact filled me with fear and self-doubt. The last thing I want is for a group of 7- and 8-year-old children to laugh in my face when I make a dog's dinner of the C natural, and ultimately lose their coveted respect for the remainder of the school year. That there is the stuff of nightmares. Okay, no bother, one might think, sure didn't we all slog through a stint of the tin whistle at one time or another in primary school. Just pick one up sure, it'll all come flying back. Be grand.

Um, how about no. Getting back into the ways of the whistle has proved to be one of the most back-breaking things I have ever signed myself up for. An outline of the many struggles I come face-to-face with since taking up the quintessential traditional instrument are presented below.

Firstly, um hello, what's with all the breathing?? Never did I have to expend so much physical energy in all 13 years of my playing and still attempted mastering of the fiddle. God forbid that, in the long and distant future, when I have at last conquered the art of the perforated metal tube that is the tin whistle, I should have to sprint or walk in a brisk manner to a competition or a performance venue. I'd be waiting around for 5,000 years for my heart rate to return to a normal state before even thinking about putting a whistle to my lips! And considering the fact that I have a borderline level of fitness (said borderline being a LOW one, btw), the quote about waiting 5,000 years for steady breaths is actually not an exaggeration.

As I mentioned earlier, I play the fiddle, and there is a certain structure to the layout of the notes and what fingers are used to play what notes. To keep this comprehensible for those of you unfamiliar with stringed orchestra instruments, I will not get too complicated in my descriptions. Basically to sound the note E above middle C, just the index finger stops the string. On the whistle, FIVE fingers press down to make E. So immediately you can predict the calamity that will no doubt ensue. When playing a tune on the dreaded wind instrument that contains E, as most do, I am wont in my fiddling ways to lift all six fingers with the exception of the one normally used to play fiddle E, and then an ungodly sound is produced from the whistle and I know that I have lost the run of myself, AGAIN, and strive once more to shake off my old ways.

Not really, of course, as I will never quit the fiddle. Quite frankly, my mother has invested too much time, money and petrol in my fiddle playing career for me to pack it in just because I need to become equally mediocre on a different instrument.

And lastly, it seems that, upon launching my latest creative venture in the hopes of redeeming myself in front of children, I have lost nearly all familial support networks. For nearly a month now I have been carrying out routine practices to hone my tin whistle skills. To a third party, these 'practices' sound more like a cat being rolled over repeatedly by a toddler on a tricycle. It is little wonder, then, that my family often ring or text my phone from the next room politely asking that I "shut the f*ck up or I'll break that tin whistle across your ugly face." Due to these and other such barriers in the way of my achieving artistic nirvana, I have resorted to curling up in the farthest corner of the room at the back of the house, and whispering as opposed to blowing into the whistle. It is also a crying shame that, to sound high notes, one must blow with almighty force into the whistle, thus making the surroundings absolutely unbearable for my family and henceforth all the more dangerous for me, my whistle and my ugly face.

This tin whistling will probably be the death of me. Either I run out of air one day when puffing into it, or I go insane from mixing up my fingers constantly, or, most likely, my family come chasing after me threatening metal-and-flesh related violence. It's a tough road, the one I'm on. But as long as it means that my potential pupils hold me in high esteem for being able to bang out those F rolls like it's my job (and not actually educating them), then it'll have been worth the hassle after all.

The devil incarnate, in tin form