I vividly remember the guilty feeling as a young piano student who hadn’t practiced at home and feeling small on the bus on my way to my next lesson. Still, I loved the piano and started picking up songs I heard on the radio early. I used to torment my classmates by asking our elementary school teacher, again and again, if I could play for the class. Truly an obnoxious child. I loved improvising and playing the pieces I already knew, but had less stamina for learning new material. When I had to, I recall strange delusions and mind games in order to step up my game. Like imagining a concert hall filled with nazi officers who gave me one change to save a family from sudden death by playing a piece perfectly. Each error I made meant one dead family member. Unfortunately, I killed a lot of people while practicing. I was five years old when I started taking lessons. My family lived in the suburbs and the school was downtown Reykjavík. My mother drove me to the first lesson but after that I just took the bus. I used to roam around downtown after lessons and loved it. I struck up a friendship with a few store clerks whom I visited after lessons, totally unconcerned about their responsibilities at work. About the same time, I fell in love with Anni-Frid Lyngstad and fantasised taking Benny Anderson’s place in Abba as new the keyboardist and her new eight-year-old lover.