Jack and the Guitar: A Lincolnshire Tale
Once upon a time, in a small village not far from the market town of Alford, there lived a young man named Jack. Jack lived with his mother, who was, to put it diplomatically, not impressed with him on a regular basis.
One grey Monday morning, Jack's mother thrust a shopping list into his hand and pointed him firmly in the direction of the door.
"Jack," she said, in the tone of a woman who had been disappointed many times before, "go to Alford market. Buy bread. Buy milk. Buy something for dinner that is not a packet of crisps. Do not come back with anything else. Do you understand me?"
"Absolutely," said Jack. "Bread, milk, dinner. Got it."
He set off down the road with a spring in his step and the shopping list in his pocket, which is where it would remain, unread, for the rest of the day.
Alford is a fine market town — the kind of place where you pop in for a pint of milk and somehow end up buying a second-hand lamp, a jar of local honey, and get a very strong opinion about the pylons. Jack had been there before. He knew the dangers.
He was doing well, actually. He'd walked straight past the cake shop (heroic), ignored the patisserie (saintly), and was almost — almost — at the grocers when he passed the door of Music Bits Company on the High Street.
The window gleamed. Inside, rows of guitars hung on the wall like a chorus of angels, each one more beautiful than the last. A sunburst acoustic caught the light. Jack stopped walking.
Jack stopped thinking.
He went inside.
The staff at Music Bits were, as they always are, knowledgeable and friendly. They let Jack hold a gorgeous acoustic guitar. They let him strum a chord. They did not laugh when the chord was wrong. They showed him how it should sound.
It sounded wonderful.
"This one's been set up in-store," said the chap behind the counter. "Ready to play straight out of the box. Well — straight out of the shop."
"How much?" asked Jack, in the voice of a man already reaching for his wallet.
The price was fair. Amazingly fair, Jack thought, for something this good. He looked at the guitar. He looked at his wallet. He looked at the shopping list, still folded in his pocket.
He bought the guitar.
Jack arrived home three hours later, empty-handed in the grocery department but carrying a guitar case with the reverence of a man transporting the Holy Grail.
His mother opened the door. She looked at him. She looked at the case. She looked back at him.
"Where," she said slowly, "is the bread?"
"Mum," said Jack, setting the case down on the kitchen table with great ceremony, "I have done something better than buying bread."
"Jack—"
"I have bought a guitar."
Silence.
"With this guitar," Jack continued, undeterred by the look on her face, "I will learn to play. I will busk in the market square. People will throw money. Lots of money. We will be rich, Mum. We will never need to buy bread again — we'll have someone to bring us bread. On a silver tray. Every morning."
His mother sat down heavily in a chair.
"You went to buy milk," she said.
"The milk will sort itself out," said Jack.
Now, here is where this story differs from the one about the magic beans.
Because Jack did learn to play. He practised every evening, much to the initial despair and eventual grudging pride of his mother. The guitar from Music Bits — properly set up, beautifully made, and bought from people who actually knew what they were talking about — turned out to be a joy to play. No buzzing frets. No tuning nightmares. Just a lovely, responsive instrument that made even a beginner sound like they might, one day, be quite good.
He started playing at the local pub on open mic nights. Then at the market. Then at a friend's wedding, which went surprisingly well apart from one incident involving the first dance and a capo in the wrong position.
He did not become a millionaire. He did not retire to a mansion. But he did earn enough from the odd gig and a few online lessons to keep himself in bread, milk, and the occasional new set of strings — which he bought, naturally, from Music Bits Company on the High Street in Alford.
His mother came round eventually. She even asked him to play at Christmas.
She has never once admitted he was right.
The Moral of the Story
Sometimes the best thing you can bring home from Alford market isn't bread or milk. Sometimes it's a quality instrument, expert advice, and the beginning of something you'll love for the rest of your life.
If you're ready for your own Jack moment — or if you'd like to make a slightly more planned purchase than Jack managed — come and visit us at Music Bits Company, 17 High Street, Alford, Lincolnshire, LN13 9DS. We stock guitars, ukuleles, violins, drums, brass, woodwind, and everything in between. Every instrument is checked and set up by our experienced staff before it leaves the shop, so it's ready to play from day one.
Browse our full range at www.musicbits.co.uk, or give us a ring on 01507 838 448 — we're real humans, not a chatbot, and we're always happy to help you find the right instrument.
Magic beans not stocked. Guitars very much are.
