How I learned to stop worrying and love classical music.

My relationship with classical music had a rough beginning. At the age of ten, I sat my father down and declared (breaking his heart as gently as I could), “Dad, I just want you to know that I’m never, ever, ever, evergoing to like classical music”. In hindsight I recall a gentle, knowing smirk on his face, but at the time I thought I’d emphatically gotten the message across – and that was that. And so I felt released from the life of misery I believed classical music would bring. It’s clear to me now, when I think of the anger I felt breaking this news to my father, that in the same moment I declared my rejection of classical music it had finally gotten under my skin – unsettled me, moved me in some way.

But I was a stubborn child, and even though my father had given my sister and me the choice of which record to listen to while drifting off to sleep every Friday and Saturday night for years, all I could do was complain about his collection. I was passionate...

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