In my dream last night, I walked along the street, walked into a building and along wide corridors with any number of other people milling about, and I met an oboist.
Only in my dream an oboist was not someone who plays the oboe. An oboist was someone so fanatically devoted to the oboe, that he is practically suspicious of any other wind instrument, as a potential rival diminishing the supreme splendor of the oboe.
He was passionate. He was outspoken. The truth did not matter, only the oboe. The oboe was his Truth. Even the fact that he was restricted from air travel did not deter him in his single-minded devotion to the double-reed instrument.
He talked on and on, and I did not say anything in response, and after a while he fancied that he perceived some discomfort on my part.
You're a clarinetist aren't you? His eyes seemed to drill into my brow.
No, no! I mean, I play the clarinet, but I am not a "clarinetist"!