I'VE recently been given a plaster bust of Beethoven.

He's quite grand and has a fine head of tousled hair.

He is wearing a wide- collared jacket with a flamboyant frilled shirt and loosely knotted scarf.

His expression is stern and he has a sense of authority about him, but there's also a softness around his eyes which makes him look approachable.

Beethoven belonged to my piano teacher, Patrick. Patrick was a marvellous man - not only a fine musician but also a generous giver of his enormous knowledge and experience.

He was a professional orchestral bassoonist for many years, playing with such esteemed outfits as the London Symphony Orchestra and, more recently, the now defunct Bournemouth Sinfonietta.

He was also a consummate pianist and I was very, very lucky to have had his tuition for the past few years.

Beethoven sat on a little shelf beside Patrick's piano, and it was there that I had my first lesson with him.

When I was a child I had learnt the piano up to the age of 14.

My teacher, Mrs Simpson, was skilled, patient and enthusiastic and, I now realise, gave me a superb grounding in music.

She didn't believe in exams and, instead, took me on a fantastic journey which taught me to appreciate and enjoy music.

Beethoven was the core of her teaching, and we worked on various pieces, including a number of the sonatas.

I gave up my lessons when we had to move. My piano was dropped by the removal men and there was no money to repair it.

I suppose I was at an age when other things easily replaced my music. Boys, bands, parties and rebellion quickly became more important.

Now I really regret giving up back then. And so finding myself, many years later, still owning my bundle of music books and with the opportunity to buy a piano, I decided to start playing again.

I retaught myself for a few years, but then realised I needed help.

Patrick came along a couple of years later and took me on.

Lessons with him were an absolute joy and I felt we made real advances in a relatively short time.

Lessons were a real occasion and often included Earl Grey tea, cakes and conversation.

When he came for lessons, it seemed that the sun was always shining.

He was very much that sort of person and quickly became a good friend as well as a brilliant teacher.

Much of what we tackled revolved around Beethoven and the techniques needed to improve my playing of the sonatas.

His inspiring tuition made me a relatively quick learner and I found myself beginning to understand the pieces in a new way.

Then, very sadly and quite suddenly, Patrick became ill. An invasive and virulent cancer was to take his life.

His greatest sadness, when he was terribly ill, was that he could no longer play his bassoon or his piano.

Since his death, Patrick's family have been in touch, and have passed on to me his Beethoven bust.

It is an extraordinary thing to have Beethoven sitting on the shelf by my piano. I didn't really understand before why pianists like to have Beethoven looking down on them, but now I do.

As I practise, every so often our eyes meet. If I'm really concentrating and doing well, those soft eyes look quite approving.

But if I'm not, he looks quite stern and I know that I must try harder.