(diaryland) March 09, 2005 - 5:37 p.m.

In music skool, we have to play duets on some form of piano. We have to do them for an exam or something. I did mine last year with a girl who ended up failing her performance exam. It wasn't my fault.

This year, I was panicking because already in the first week of class everyone had picked their duet partners. I wanted to get a partner who was crap who I could blame all my shortcomings on again, but they'd all formed themselves into their own partnerships of mutual crapness. I knew I shouldn't have dressed like a 1930s boy scout on the first day of university. I think it scared everyone off.

Yesterday, in class, I knew my fate would be sealed. I couldn't avoid it. I would be paired up with the extremely tired-looking gangly jazz guy with the tiny penguin prints on his shirt. He was the only one left. Even the acne-infested guy with the bowl haircut and the expression of utter blankness had already been taken.

In the first week, I'd scoped out all the abilities of the other students, and what struck me about the jazz guy was that he plays loud. Real loud, like he must be heard over an exploding tanker. This was not good news because I wanted to play some Debussy duets, which must be played very quietly, as if someone in the piano is trying to get some sleep and you don't want to piss them off.

But, jazz guy it was. I decided to go for it, since I had no other choice. Somewhere in the chaos of the class, I leaned over to the jazz guy and said, "Hey. Can I be your duet partner?" It felt kind of sleazy for some reason.

He said, "No."

I knew this actually meant yes, but then I realised that he might be way more of a smartarse or domineering type than I had thought before. Oh, well, it was too late now. He seems like a very nice person after talking to him for a while. I just hope our minds don't clash or some shit. I can turn into a diva sometimes.

After class, we tried out our duet pieces. I had accidentally picked ones where you had to tangle up your hands with the other person's. If you have ever seen two tall, gangly, tired-looking strangers crammed over a small piano and sight-reading a piece of music and saying "sorry" all the time while they poke through each other's giant, unwieldy hands, then you'd probably be looking at us. And laughing. I know I did.