Pausing from a busy morning’s play, the boss (aged 3) and I were peeping out the window overlooking Millbay Road.

There had been a party in the house opposite at the weekend and now, parked outside, there was a white van, dazzlingly brilliant in the sunlight, waiting to be loaded.

Bold black lettering on the side of the van left no doubt what it was waiting for. Its owners were suppliers of pianos… “new and pre-enjoyed”.

A pre-enjoyed piano? Why, it sounded almost indecent.

In fact, come to think of it, the “new” bit sounded a little suspect too.

Given that piano tuners must derive a measure of satisfaction from a job well done, how do we define the border between newness and pre-enjoyment?

In the event, when two men emerged from the house, they were trolleying an object so demurely swathed in protective blanketing that it was impossible to tell how extensively it had been pre-enjoyed.

Later, thinking about pianos and modesty, I looked up “Victorian piano legs” on Google.

There was lots of fancy carving, but no sign of prudish pantalettes.

Wikipedia informed me that it was a myth that Victorians wrapped cloth around the legs of their pianos to stop them inflaming passions.

They were more likely, it seems, to use cloth to disguise the cheapness of their furniture.

The piano myth was started by an author, Captain Marryat, in a short story poking fun at American prissiness.

It’s been quite some time since Captain Frederick Marryat (1792-1846)  topped the best-seller lists. His most successful book was Mr Midshipman Easy which I can recall seeing both at home and in school libraries, but never got round to reading.

Marryat had a distinguished naval career, on more than one occasion diving into the sea to rescue drowning shipmates.

He was the inventor of a type of lifeboat, plus a system of maritime flag signalling… and a myth about prudes and pianos.