This morning, I travelled all the way to the other side of London to buy a musical instrument that I haven’t got the faintest idea how to use. I was so happy with my new purchase that, as soon as I got on the train to go home, I couldn’t resist taking it out of my backpack just to look at it.

And it was while I was sitting there, with my new toy on my lap, that I started thinking about something. Something that, looking back at the way I’ve lived all these years, might explain quite a lot about my approach to life. But to explain it, I need to go back a few days.

It all started when I came across a video of a girl singing while using some really unusual vocal effects. I was so fascinated by what she was doing that I started wondering how she managed to create those sounds. So I took a few screenshots from the video and uploaded them to ChatGPT, hoping we could identify the equipment she was using.

That was the beginning of a little investigation that introduced me to the world of samplers. After comparing different machines and trying to understand which one would be best suited to what I wanted to experiment with, I eventually settled on the Roland SP-404MKII. Naturally, once I’d decided that was the one I wanted, the second part of the adventure began: finding one at a reasonable price.

For days, I searched through listings, compared prices and checked second-hand websites, until I finally found one on Gumtree. £300, fully working, and with a wonderfully colourful custom design that looked as though it had been made especially for me.

There was just one tiny detail: it was in Enfield Lock, Zone 6, practically on the opposite side of London. In the absolute middle of nowhere, to be precise. But I’m leaving for Lapland in a few days, and I didn’t want to risk someone else buying it while I was away. So this morning, I got ready and set off.

The journey was actually quite enjoyable. I’d brought along the second printed copy of my book, “Io, giocattolo rotto“, because after leaving the manuscript alone for a few months, I’d decided it was time to read through it again and make some final corrections. At one point, I’d realised that working on it continuously was making it increasingly difficult to see what I’d actually written. I needed to leave it alone for a while and come back to it with fresh eyes. So, while travelling across London to collect my new musical instrument, I took the opportunity to get back to work on another project that means a great deal to me.

When I finally arrived, I met John, the gentleman selling the Roland. He was incredibly kind, showed me how everything worked and let me try it out. Meanwhile, I had pretty much the expression of a little girl sitting in front of her Christmas presents. I was ridiculously happy.

I bought it, carefully packed it into my backpack and started the journey home. Unfortunately, it was raining, so I had to keep it safely tucked away under my waterproof jacket. But the moment I got on the train and sat down, I couldn’t resist. I opened my backpack and took it out.

There it was, sitting on my lap, with all those wonderful colours, buttons, knobs and an impressive number of functions I still know absolutely nothing about. And I couldn’t wait to get started.

Because now comes the fun part. I need to learn how to use it, figure out all the connections, choose a microphone, find a small two-channel mixer and, most importantly, start experimenting. I’ll probably spend hours trying to understand why something isn’t working, watching tutorials, reading instructions, making a thousand mistakes and getting thoroughly frustrated with the whole thing. But sooner or later, I’ll manage to create my first composition.

And maybe it won’t be technically perfect. Maybe an experienced music producer would listen to it and find a hundred things that could be improved. But I already know I’ll be absolutely delighted, simply because I’ll have learned how to do something I couldn’t do before. And thinking about that reminded me of something that happened many years ago.

It must have been around 2004. Some of my friends were DJs, and I was completely fascinated by what they were doing. I’d asked if I could borrow their DJ equipment to have a go, and they’d agreed to lend it to me for a day. In the end, they brought it over in the afternoon and came back to collect it three hours later. Three hours! I still remember my reaction. I thought, “You know what? I’ll buy my own”.

The following morning, I went to a music shop and bought my first DJ setup. I had absolutely no idea how to use it. I hadn’t taken any lessons, didn’t know the techniques and knew practically nothing about DJing. I was living in a tiny flat and didn’t even have anywhere proper to put it, so I set everything up on the carpet, sat down on the floor in front of it and started experimenting. And I kept experimenting until I learned.

Looking back, it’s incredible how much this way of doing things has stayed with me over the years. When something catches my interest, I want to try it. I don’t necessarily feel the need to spend months preparing before I begin. I just throw myself into it, often with absolutely no idea what I’m doing, and figure things out as I go along.

Sometimes I take a course, sometimes I watch tutorials, and sometimes I simply try to work things out on my own. I improvise, make mistakes and start again. And, most importantly, I enjoy myself.

I’m not saying this is the best way to learn. In fact, I’m sure that in many situations a more structured approach would be far more effective. There are people who spend years studying a particular discipline, exploring every detail and reaching extraordinary levels of expertise. Whenever I meet someone who is genuinely brilliant at what they do, I admire them enormously. But I’ve realised that I’m simply not that kind of person.

I’m not someone who feels the need to specialise in one thing and dedicate my entire life to becoming the best at it. I like too many things. I’m constantly curious about discovering something new. And even when I’m deeply passionate about something, I don’t necessarily feel the need to turn it into a competition.

That doesn’t mean I don’t put effort into what I do. When I’m preparing a DJ set, I can spend days searching for tracks, listening to them, selecting them and figuring out how to put everything together. And when it finally works, and I’m happy with the result, the satisfaction is incredible. But there’s something else that probably explains what I mean even better.

When I DJ at home, alone in front of my decks, I dance, laugh, pull ridiculous faces, get ridiculously excited when a transition works and enjoy myself just as much as I do when I’m playing in front of an audience. If someone secretly filmed me, I’d probably look completely ridiculous. But I’m happy. And that happiness doesn’t change depending on whether there are a hundred people in front of me or nobody at all.

Of course, sharing music with other people is wonderful. But that’s not what determines how much pleasure I get from making it. That pleasure is already there, even when I’m completely alone.

The same thing happens when I learn to make something with my hands. During my jewellery-making course, for example, I can be absolutely delighted with something I’ve created, even if a professional jeweller would probably find a thousand imperfections in it. I look at it and think, I can’t believe I made that! I couldn’t do it before. Now I can. And I absolutely love that feeling.

Maybe that’s also why I’ve never particularly identified with the kind of ambition that drives some people to always want to be the best, the most talented or the most successful. Not because there’s anything wrong with that, absolutely not. Everyone finds satisfaction in different things, and if someone is happy dedicating all their energy to achieving excellence in a particular field, I think that’s wonderful. I just know I wouldn’t be happy living that way.

My ambition, if we want to call it that, is something else. I want to be happy with the things I do. And I don’t mean some enormous, extraordinary kind of happiness built around great achievements, incredible milestones or unforgettable moments. I mean something much simpler: I’d like my days to be filled, as much as possible, with things I enjoy doing.

Obviously, we can’t choose everything. There are responsibilities, obligations, problems, hospital appointments and a thousand other things we have to deal with, whether we like them or not. I certainly don’t live in a world where I can spend every minute doing whatever I fancy. But in the parts of my life where I do have a choice, I want to choose the things that make me happy as often as I possibly can.

And today, while looking at that colourful Roland sitting on my lap, I think I finally found the perfect comparison to describe my approach to life.

A child.

I was thinking about a child who goes to school in the morning, does their homework, maybe goes to sports practice and takes care of whatever they’re supposed to do. But then comes the moment when they’re free. And what do they do? They play.

They pick up a toy, spend some time with it, try to build something, perhaps get bored and move on to another one. Then they go outside, head to the park and invent a completely different game. They don’t feel the need to become the best in the world at every activity they try. They don’t constantly wonder whether what they’re doing will bring them success, recognition or some future advantage.

They’re simply doing something they enjoy. And perhaps that’s exactly how I approach life.

I’m forty-six years old. I have my responsibilities, my problems and all the complications that come with being an adult. But when I have some time to myself, I still behave a little like that child. I have lots of toys, and I want to play with all of them.

Some are musical instruments, others are cameras, jewellery-making tools, art materials or whatever else happens to spark my curiosity. Sometimes I become reasonably good at something, other times I remain a complete beginner. Some passions stay with me for decades, while others last much less. And that’s perfectly fine with me.

Because I don’t need to be the best at something to enjoy doing it. I don’t need to publish everything I create, receive compliments or prove to other people that I’ve become good at something. All I need is that wonderful feeling of managing to do something I couldn’t do before.

Today, I came home with a wonderfully colourful Roland SP-404MKII, bought second-hand from a very kind gentleman on the other side of London. I still don’t know how to use it, I have no idea how long it’ll take me to learn, and I haven’t the faintest idea what the first thing I create with it will sound like. But I can’t wait to find out.

And when I think back to that girl in 2004, sitting on the carpet of her tiny flat in front of a DJ setup she’d just bought, I can’t help smiling. Twenty-two years have passed. The toys have changed, but the desire to play is exactly the same.