Spectators, though few, swirl around the festively decorated sitting room in a world of their own. Without knowing it, they are soaking up the beautiful eerie music which drifts out from where the two brown curvaceous objects are sat in the corner beside the red bobbin and tinsel laden spiny tree. Each one a bow dances above, light and delicately, barely touching the strings. Just enough tension is used to produce sound only worthy for the ears of angels and devils. The small miracle is thanks to none other than pure skill and art of the musicians.

The elderly man’s bow flies frantically over the cat gut strings only inches away from where his long and tangled grey beard lies. From his breath a pungent smell of tobacco can be smelt. His feet are dressed in a delightful pair of moth worn slippers and his trousers can be seen to rise up slightly were he sits to reveal a pair of holy pringle socks. Despite his frail frame the music doesn’t suffer.

The young girl’s playing is just as skilled and beautiful if not more so. Her long curled blonde hair reaches half way down her slender back before coming to a precise halt. It bounces to the beat as she gives her soul to the music. As the notes flow her silver charm bracelet tingles like Santa’s sleigh calling the magic to the room. The energy and loveliness of her youth can be felt strongly through the elegant and strong melody produced.

The man is having the party of his life, one of many. Without music he would not have life, it least not one worth living. He is no longer in the room but instead in a distant land of his own making magic for the faeries, spells for the witches and dreams for the lively minds of slumber land. The past no longer matters. Nor does the future. His mind does not have a notion in the world for these subjects. All that matters is now and even then he wonders of the value in it.

The girl, although appearing to be the same, is counting the notes to the end of the tune. Each moment is a struggle but not because she cannot play but because she cannot play well enough. Or so she believes. Every time she heaves the bow over the strings she feels regret. Why can she not be good? Why doesn’t she ever evolve and improve? Tears prick her innocent eyes as she bums up another note but she holds them back and plays for her country. She mustn’t let the moment be ruined; for the other’s sake. She carries on but her concentration is gone and the music takes a turn for the worse slowly and progressively rolling in to a deep hole of death. She is the only one who notices this.

The music comes to a close as the dancing bodies become tired and in need of cocoa then bed. Santa will be here filling kid’s stockings in not too long. The sofa once more is full and a noise of buzzing voices once more fills the room. The particular unearthly magic has gone again for now.

The man lets the fiddle down from his chin before leaning down to open up his duck tape fixed antique case. He kisses the instrument before laying her delicately on the aubergine leather interior. Slowly he re-closes the previously open lid. Goodnight honey. Already he is in anticipation for the next encounter with his parallel world of music.

The girl does the same. She does not give her instrument a kiss but instead sighs quietly at it behind the mask of her curtain of hair. Immediately she feels guilt. Why be angry at the object? After all it is her fault. To herself she makes a mental note: practice more this week. Of course she will not. She knows that already. Why endure the disappointment for more than is absolute necessary?

Before retiring to his reading chair the man takes one last look at the young girl:

“I thank you for giving me the pure pleasure of your music this evening. You are coming on really great you know.I really think one day your going to make it. I mean in the world of music. You are going to be big!”