HERE is a sorry little tale, a tragedy in a way. Not a great big tragedy of human loss.

In truth the 'T' word is probably a bit strong but it seemed tragic to me at the time.

This is a story of one man and his guitar. We went back a long way, me and that guitar. In a mood of mild astonishment, I have to admit that the relationship lasted 30 years, perhaps more.

It was, and I suppose still is, a classical guitar, which is to say that the strings were made of nylon and not steel and the body was symmetrical in that cartoon womanly way, all matching curves and a little big on the 'hips'.

Electric guitars and some steel-string acoustic instruments have cut-away bodies so the non-plucking hand can reach the highest frets. Classical guitars, in general, do not.

There was nothing very classical about the way I played, at least not since school concerts in the 1970s. Back then the hall was packed with dutiful parents and, in one of life's happy little ironies, that is now the role I fulfil - watching my children perform at concerts or dances.

In more recent times, my performances have been limited to strumming in front of the TV.

Mostly this only happens when no one is in the room, as a guitar doesn't contribute much to generally content viewing. For some inexplicable reason, my improvised soundtracks don't go down well. Anyway, the 11-year-old has taken to strumming his guitar through the news. This is annoying; but what can I say?

The sight and feel of my old guitar has always been a lift and a comfort, a piece of warm continuity that can be picked up and used to produce sounds the optimistic may call music.

My guitar is rather fine. It has a darker varnish than many, a sort of cherry colour. But it doesn't look so good any more. No, the poor, dear, cherished old thing is sitting in a black bin bag, stringless and without the top of its neck.

This is how it happened.

Christmas Eve and the house is crowded, a few presents having been opened a day early. The video is playing Goldmember, the latest Austin Powers movie - one of the children's new acquisitions - and my wife is saying goodbye to her parents.

My guitar has been moved from its usual place in the front room and put out of harm's way in the dining room. Leaning it against the table wasn't the best idea I ever had, but there you go.

At the height of the goodbyes, and with Austin Powers "oh-do-behaving" in the background, my teenage son bumps into the guitar. It falls to the floor and the top of the neck is smashed.

In the ensuing domestic chaos, there are tears all round and, yes, mostly they are from me. I flee to the front room where I huddle up and gently weep over my desecrated guitar.

In a way it is strange to be so upset over an object, but a musical instrument is always more than just another thing, especially a well-loved guitar with a long personal history, shared bum notes and all.

The prognosis is not good. One mender of sick instruments has already turned down the job.

Perhaps there is still hope but if not I will have to buy a new guitar. I haven't performed in public for decades but there is something about a guitar, its shape and sound, the way it feels in your hands.

No, I'll have to strum and pluck again soon. Life without a guitar just isn't the same at all.

Updated: 11:16 Friday, January 03, 2003