THE BASS and the BAGPIPES

Christine Siljeur finds out that music isn't just in her home, it's in her bones too.

- SHUTTERSTOCK

In the Siljeur family, you weren't born so much as debuted. I come from a family of opera singers, renowned conductors and virtuosos. Yes, the everybody-harmonising-around-the-braai kind, but even more so the everyone-on-an-instrument type of family. Our lounge doubles as a performance hall, the fridge hums in D, and the dog howls in F-sharp when she gets excited. This is a typical Sunday.

My dad is a trumpet guy; my mom swears by her piano; my sister, Ashleigh, plays the violin like she's avenging a past life - and little-old me, I'm the double bass kid.

I started on the humble recorder in Sunday-school and graduated to the clarinet, which seemed cooler but wedging my lip against plastic and bamboo became a painful pursuit. Then came the violin, which was elegant in theory but tragic in practice. The long-retired, extra-curricula music teacher smelled like mothballs and scowled like I'd personally insulted Beethoven. These melodious misadventures left me discouraged.