'But what about breakfast?' I pleaded. 'No time,' she replied with total seriousness.
Last night Betty was appalled to learn that unlike her very talented Dad, I didn't know a single note on the piano, and apart from Chopsticks (which I distinctly remember Betty being pretty impressed with when she was two, although she will not admit to it now) I am clueless.
So she sat me down after dinner, and told me that she was going to teach me. 'Can't you just play to me while I like stuff on Instagram?' I asked. She looked appalled.
She then whipped out a piano lesson book and told me that because of my lack of knowledge, we would have to start right from the beginning. 'I finished this book AGES ago,' she informed me.
In her teacher voice, she explained a bit of the theory, and bamboozled me with talk of minims, fermatas and mordents. I nodded in agreement at it all, but didn't have a clue what she was talking about. I felt pretty unnerved when she told me that she would test my theory in a couple of weeks time.
Then we got started with the actual playing. Betty told me to sit with my back straight and find Middle C. 'Middle what?'
After a slightly shaky start, and a lot of encouragement from my very determined six-year-old, we soon got going. And within half an hour she had me proudly belting out tunes with my right hand, using C, D, E, F, and G. I can now play Jelly On A Plate, and Mary Had A Little lamb.
She told me that even though I got stuck on some of the notes, I had been 'fantastic' and 'brilliant' in my first lesson and that soon I might be good enough to hold a little concert for Daddy and Dolly. But she also told me that no amount of lessons or practice would ever make me as good as her. And I don't doubt her for a second.