" But this was not proper music! All the instruments plunged in at once, as if they had been holding a party and somebody had opened a door on them. Where was the tune? It was in there somewhere, but the instruments fought over it, tossed it between them, dropped it and trod on it, did something else, then picked it up again and flung it in the air just when you were least expecting it.
There were trumpets and horns, but they didn't sound solemn in the way they did when they boomed out against a background of silence to remind everyone of the dead. Instead they were noisy and irrepressible as a farmyard - they whinnied and squawked and mooed and didn't care what anyone thought. Sometimes they made harsh, cheeky noises like a blown raspberry, or high, giddy squiggles of sound for the sheer joy of it. "
Cuckoo Song, Frances Hardinge