A short history of not whistling

An original comic personal essay about trying to whistle.

I can arrange my mouth into the shape of a confident whistle. The rest of the performance has been delayed for several years.

People explain the method with remarkable certainty. “You just...” they begin, before producing a clear note which makes the unfinished sentence seem unnecessary. I copy the expression. A small, unambitious breeze leaves my face. Nobody would mistake it for music unless they were being paid to encourage me.

The difficulty is its scale. If I had attempted a violin concerto, failure would carry a certain dignity. A whistle is supposed to be something a person does while waiting for the kettle. My inability therefore receives the careful surprise usually reserved for discovering that somebody cannot open a door.

Alone in the kitchen, I occasionally try again. Once, a thin sound arrived above the air and vanished before I could decide which part of me had been responsible. For the rest of the afternoon, I possessed a success I could neither repeat nor explain.

I remain interested in the skill. I also remain capable of hearing a tune without adding to it. The kettle has never complained about this arrangement, and its own performance is sufficiently confident for both of us.

Examine the methods the writer uses to make the inability to whistle comic.