A great teacher has such contagious enthusiasm, that a child can’t help but catch it. This was not the case with my piano teacher, Eugenie Janice. She had short, manly nails, wore tweed skirts to the shin and got very cross when I hadn’t practiced my scales. Even the metronome was more animated than she was. Her hands were theatrical, I’ll grant her that. And when she played she’d contort them in the oddest ways. She tried to have me do the same, but it just felt awkward. By the time I stopped taking lessons, I could play quite well mind you. But I had zero interest. By then, I’d moved on to fencing. And I was wicked at that. Touché.