In the hierarchy of pick-replacement technologies, even my non-musician bride – who was, it must be said, a professional dancer and actor – knows that the little plastic closures for milk and bread bags reign supreme. (My experience is that an off-beige tag from a light rye bread is outstanding.) So many tricks for this ol’ guitar dog.

Bar chords kill me, though. I’m having to move my fret fingers into position manually – literally, that is, by tugging at them with my right hand. I can either get my index finger to sit down evenly across the strings, or force fingers two through four to stay put, but not both at the same time. It’s like training several puppies simultaneously. But I can play six or seven straight notes of my little blues riff without having to look back at the cheat sheet to see where I’m going next. I also began to find the first few notes of the second part of the Bonanza theme, the part after the two dun da da dun da da da da da da dun dun DA DAs are over. Still no clue what the notes are, though.

And I now have a dedicated guitar corner down in my tiny basement library (with its lovely lilac walls). It’s right next to the dusty dumb-bells that I haven’t lifted in two months. Uh-oh.