IT is with heavy heart I write to inform you that your best years are behind you, and we’re going to have to let you go.
When I say “let you go” I don’t mean “off the end of a verandah”, although that would make a superb YouTube video.
I mean we’ll have to sell you, and, quite possibly, let you go for not much. Even nothing.
Your heyday of hymns is no longer. My, what a career you’ve had, proudly purchased by grandad for a sum of $5000 so as to listen to the graceful tunes waft from your electric speaker mysteriously hidden behind that tapestry-like fabric.
My eBay research shows there is no market for your generation, as sad as that sounds.
Vendors are begging people to come and take your colleagues away.
I do feel sorry for you. You are something akin to a lost generation, not quite holding the majesty of your piano forefathers, and yet not 'jazzed up' enough to be like your synthesizer contemporaries, whose - it should be forewarned - own time is nearing an end.
Part of your problem is your size. You can’t be easily moved and with modern houses becoming smaller and space of a premium, few families want a hulking double-keyboard music maker with an oak veneer finish.
It tends not to complement the ultra-flatscreen fixed to the wall.
You boast what seems like an unnecessary number of pedals as well. Playing you appears to be a full body workout with legs and feet darting back and forth in precise co-ordination that would make a typewriter jealous.
From behind, the person sitting on that stool (which seems to be uncomfortable by law) could be forgiven for being asked if she/he was having convulsions.
I know, I know ... look at your amazing features; a beat regulator, many tone variations courtesy of numerous coloured buttons, and look at that - even a built-in cassette player - but none of this is going to save you I’m afraid.
Unless, for some future reason, all of a sudden the hipsters of the world declare you cool again, and popular musicians decide to include you in their music; and all of a sudden children around the globe are abandoning their piano and oboe lessons and clutching at their parents requesting organs for their birthdays and Christmas and 'I’m an only-child-get-me-what-I-want' presents.
It will be at that point, after I’ve sold you for a dollar, that your online price will skyrocket, and I indeed wish I had held onto you, if for no other reason than to play a mournful song of economic regret.