My son pours both lungs into a choppy sequence of scales, repeatedly missing one note switch. He starts again, and one or both dogs whine along with him. Really there’s nothing to do but cook during the thirty minutes of clarinet then oboe practice. Sadly, my husband has the kitchen. It’s not that he’s not talented, my son, that is. He’s quite good. It’s just the depth of the sound coupled with the dogs incessant accompaniment, renders reading, watching or writing difficult. If you leave the room, you cannot comment and encourage. I suppose I could take up flower-arranging.