Paul had been playing the piano for quite some time now, but he had no idea if he was any good. He knew that sometimes people could be deluded about their talents, but how did one know if that were so - for he had also heard of the dreaded Low Self Esteem that could plague creative geniuses. He tried to look for signs and noticed that birds always flew away when he started playing, but then again they could just be jealous of his perfect rhythm and spectacular melodies, or perhaps the tune of his music tended to remind them of appointments they were late for. He wheeled his piano to the beach and put on a concert for a colony of seals and they clapped, but then they clapped at drifting seaweed and bucket sandcastles, neither of which in Paul’s opinion had any artistic merit. Paul suffered many sleepless nights and frittered away many gloriously sunny days tossing and turning in his lair before he realized there was only one thing he was sure of, and that was that when he played, his heart and fur and soul and toe-claws all sang along too, and he may as well continue his public performances until either someone invited him onto Klah Idol or threw a fish pie in his face.