Of That Thing - Getting Back Into It

Three things that bring me joy are boating, busking and biking. Today I woke up on my boat and prepared for the day - breakfast, a little daily French and Italian study, responding to messages and making some phone calls. It was bright and very breezy outside the boat. I had not been busking for far too long, so today was going to be the day I’d remind myself of the joy of being a street performer. I’ve been to several concerts and festivals recently and have performed many a guerilla set somewhere, even if sometimes the only spot I can find is by the van on the campsite, but real busking is where it’s at. 

I haven’t performed Wisbech for a while, so that was the plan. Just then a hire boat, one of the two day boats, went by heading for the lock. If I have the time I generally cycle up to the lock and see if the crew need any support going through. Because my plans were already in hand I drove to the lock rather than cycled. The extended family out on the river for the day were not complete novices at this boating lark, but they hadn’t been on a narrowboat for several years. They were grateful that I’d taken the trouble to see if they were okay. There was the stiff breeze and the idiosyncratic behaviour of the lock to contend with. The two youngsters in the party were so excited they had to run everywhere, except for the times they remembered how much they needed the sausage rolls set out in the picnic inside their boat. Eventually, with the family safely through the lock, I headed into town. 

I parked the van in a long-term car park and loaded my trolley with the gear - Footdrum kit, guitar, harmonicas, neck brace for the harps, my A1 sized notice board (displaying stuff about me, contact details, merch, socials links etc.), drum mat, water bottle, merch box and hat for tips and donations. It’s probably as well I am completely acoustic, I carry enough stuff around without worrying about amplification/mics/stands and suchlike. As I was pushing my trolley towards my intended busking spot I heard someone greet me by name. I turned to see who it was and after a few moments of prosopagnosiac confusion I realised it was my artist friend, Ricki. It’s always lovely to see her and we accompanied each other into the market square where I intended to set up. Ricki was going on to somewhere else.

Wisbech used to have a central car park cum market square. It was recently pedestrianised and on non-market days like today there is plenty of space to choose from. Unless I’m in a street where I can set up in front of a (usually empty and closed down) shop the main difficulty is in deciding which way to face. I have that difficulty here in Wisbech and also in Spalding. Today I opted to have my back against a young tree and facing out into the rest of the square where there is a thoroughfare. That meant I also had my back to people sitting on benches around the square under the shade of some juvenile trees. I don’t like to assume that my music is more important than the conversations they are enjoying with their companions. It’s a juggling act and my feeling is that if they are interested enough they can always come closer, which some did I’m happy to report. 

I played for about two hours, which is about the most my voice will allow these days. I’m happy to know that I have enough learned repertoire that I never have to repeat a song during a two-hour busk. I did attempt a first public performance of a new song, "I've Got Love" and I remembered most of it, I'm glad to say. Unusually for me, the song only took about a week to write and knock into playable shape. It is actually taking longer to learn it than it did to write it. Being out in public means there are songs that do not get an airing. Those have to be saved for a roomful of adults only. So, I guess that I could probably manage three hours if it were deemed necessary. One of the joys of busking is that there is always an interaction with people passing by. As my song, “Busker” observes 

A nod, a smile, a thumbs up and it’s good to pause and chat …

Chatting is a pleasure. People like to ask about the music, usually about the drum kit. Occasionally, like today, it was about other quite personal or even ordinary matters. I recognised a woman I’d seen at the annual “rock” festival on Sunday. When I say “recognised” it was by her beautiful coloured braided hair extensions. I certainly could not recognise her by her facial features. We talked about hair. The braids looked very tight, but she was very happy with them. Another woman stopped. She was Brazilian, so we had lots to talk about - samba bands, dancing, my daughter-in-law and I’d never met anyone from Santa Catarina before. Apparently it has summer and winter, not just all year round tropical weather. Eventually it was time to pack up and go. Just as I was about to start derigging the gear another couple of women approached. I was to find out they were mother and daughter. That was not a surprise, but being told by the mother that she was ninety and her daughter was seventy certainly was! They both could genuinely have passed themselves off with being fifteen years younger - great genes! “What are you going to play for me?” asked the nonagenarian. I asked what sort of song she would like, since I only sing my own songs and she would not be likely to know any of them. She decided it should be up to me. I took a chance, and said I’ll sing you this song, but you can stop me if you don’t like it. A small shadow of concern briefly showed in her features, like a small cloud passing across the sun. I sang “Fighting For Me”. She listened very intently, nodding and murmuring agreement with some of the lyrics I’d written while occasionally wiping a tear from her eyes. When I’d finished she said, “I remember very well the boys who were so full of bravado, very excited to be going to war, boarding the trains and boasting about what they were going to do. Not one of them came home.”

Of Good Times And Bad Vibes

 Here we go again, I’m sorry. I have loads of stuff I could have been writing about over the past few months, but I never got round to it. There may be infill, but I wanted to write this while the events were still fresh in my mind. 

Today I went busking in Huntingdon. You may know, or even remember, that I pick up my bOat milk from the farm at King’s Ripton where the oats are grown and turned into Pure Oaty and generally combine it with a trip into the town centre to provide a little street entertainment. My favourite spot was always in the High Street. For the past few visits, though, I’ve favoured a spot near Holland & Barrett, because the High Street spot was often taken already. There always seemed to be a lot of footfall as people made their way between the High Street and Sainsbury, but I rarely seemed to attract much in the way of tips. Last time I earned less than £5. Today I thought I’d try and get to my old spot on the High Street. Fortunately today it was clear. The sun was shining, the first tip was dropped in the hat during the first line of the first song. I had a good feeling about this spot. I was right. There was a steady flow of smiling people and tips. One woman dropped a couple of pounds in the hat telling me the combination of sunshine and live music had made her day. Definitely comments like that make busking so worthwhile. There were children and animals in plentiful supply and I turned at one point to find a boy out with his family flapping two £10 notes at me. Wow!

Eventually I’d gone through most of my usual repertoire and stopped to begin packing up. Wheeling my trolley back towards the car I saw the man of North African appearance (he later claimed to be Algerian) I’d seen on my way to my spot. He was in position pretty much as he had been before. Sitting on the ground on a blue sleeping bag and leaning against the wall. Now I had some money I was happy to share some of my day’s earnings. In front of him was a sign declaring, “I am very hungry. God bless you”. As I was about to drop a coin into his hat I was interrupted by a young man and his girlfriend, who had completely swallowed the Tory Party’s primer on migration. The young man was an out of work plasterer whose diabetes and recovery from addiction had led to his homelessness and joblessness. He railed at the Algerian man sitting passively in the teeth of a verbal onslaught of cliché’s including “he’s not homeless, he turned up in a van with others this morning”; “they’ve all got iPhones”; “he can sit there with his sign and people give him money, if I sit out with a sign I get done for begging” and the tirade continued. His girlfriend explained she had cancer and was losing her hair. They were both clearly upset that they got nothing from the state and this foreigner was getting everything. He pulled boxes of prescription drugs out of an orange carrier bag. He challenged the Algerian to tell him what time it was when it rained last night. He knew because he was soaked through in the rain … It was horrible and at times very threatening. I thought he might attack the man. I felt sorry for them all. None of them had asked to be dealt these particular hands. He demanded to see the iPhone, which the Algerian denied having. He asked how much money the Algerian had begged yesterday. While this was going on people came up to give food, which clearly heightened the irritation of the plasterer and his girlfriend. “I’m hungry,” he said, “but you don’t see anyone giving me food!” I pointed out that most people probably wouldn’t know he was hungry, homeless and penniless if he didn’t tell anyone. The couple were joined by someone else they knew who suggested the man should sell his iPhone and use the money for food. This got pretty heated and I felt I couldn’t just walk away from this situation. I asked how he knew the Algerian had an iPhone. It seems a woman told him so yesterday … “Ah, I see, and how did she know?” 

“I’m not racist, but poverty (did he mean ‘charity’?) begins at home innit!”

I started to point out that he was playing right into the hands of the government and its disgusting migrant rhetoric. I wanted to tell him he was attacking the wrong target and that he only needed to think through some of the stuff he was saying to realise how illogical it was. If the man arrived in a van, who was driving? If he lived in a house who owned it and how many others lived there too? As a migrant he couldn’t work legally if he did not have the correct papers. If he acquired money through begging where did the money go? Quite likely in “rent” for his shared accommodation. I’m inclined to believe he did not have a mobile phone. Why would he if he were enslaved?

At my suggestion the plasterer and his girlfriend moved on, but I passed them still railing against the injustices of his situation to some of the other members of the Huntingdon underclass. I feared the situation was going to escalate and the Algerian was at risk. I continued back to my van and loaded up my instruments. Then I went back to see if the Algerian was okay. He spoke passable English, French too and asked me if I spoke Italian, which it seemed he knew. I assumed he spoke Arabic and who knows what else. He gave all the appearances of a well-educated man who had somehow ended up in this terrible situation. It seems he has had issues with local homeless people already. 

Government policy is pitting the have-nots against each other. If only they could see it. The plasterer should have been hammering on the door of his MP and demanding fairer treatment. Somehow I doubt that’s going to be seen as an option. I walked around the town looking for a “Town Ranger” to warn her of a possible confrontation in escalation. Naturally neither of the TRs were to be seen. I went to the town council office to see if they had contact details. No one answered the entry phone in the town hall lobby though I buzzed several times. I went to a nearby charity shop assuming they would have a number, which they did. “We call them the ‘powerless rangers’ said a man in the shop. They can’t do anything.” Nevertheless I was given a mobile phone number, which went straight to voicemail. I called 101, the non-emergency police number. The Cambridgeshire call centre tried to put me through to a more local contact, but it rang for fifteen minutes with no reply. I got back to my van and set off for home having used up my three hours of parking. What a mess!

Of Braving The Hundred Foot

Today’s date is actually 30th July 2025 and it has been two years since I added anything to this blog. I hope no one has been waiting! Of course, I shall alter the date to make it appear in some kind of proper sequence and it should appear as though it was written at the time of the events I intend to describe. This will be the first of several, I hope, memories of some of the amazing things I have experienced during the time I have not been active in this dusty corner of the web. I have been wondering if I should migrate to Substack, but it all seems a little earnest over there, even if it does have the advantage of not being Google …

After my weeks on the Ouse, the Cam and the Lark, I arrived at Denver in the afternoon of Thursday, 8th June and moored up on the sunny side to await the next day’s tide. On the Friday morning I crossed the river to the lock landing. I was greeted by Ben, the lockie, informing me I would not get through the lock that day. The gear operating Denver Sluice was not working and there was no indication as to when it would be fixed. I would just have to sit it out. I was still stuck there on Monday with no idea of when the gate would be operational. 

Stuck in front of the lock at Denver for four days

Drone photo taken by the man in the car park near the top of the picture!

E.A. could not even tell me whether it would be a matter of hours, days or weeks!  Normally I’d have just waited, but since I had a ticket for a concert on the 17th to see Peter Gabriel in Birmingham that I certainly didn’t want to miss I had to make a decision. I decided that being pro-active was the best course of action. I turned the boat round, went back past Ely, along the Old West, and moored up under  Streatham Old Engine that night. 

I figured that I would be too late at Hermitage Lock in Earith to catch the next day’s tide, so I didn’t hurry to the lock. I planned on having plenty of time to prepare for the twenty-mile journey down the tidal New Bedford River a.k.a The Hundred Foot River. Twenty miles in my narrowboat was going to be a journey of several hours, so part of the preparation would involve making sure I had plenty of food to eat and water to drink, some extra clothing in case it turned chillier in the wind and that essential item of comfort used by lorry drivers everywhere, an empty plastic bottle. 

What I was not expecting at all was to ushered straight into Hermitage Lock. I was going to be sent down the Hundred Foot a day earlier than I expected with no time to prepare for the journey. I exited the lock and had to turn right on to the Hundred Foot.  I would have tied up on the lock landing and taken five minutes to sort myself out for this trip, but those moorings were already taken up by a couple of GRP cruisers leaving no space for a fifty-foot narrowboat.

Although I was dealing with a fairly stiff headwind, it hardly affected my speed because I was hurtling along on an ebbing tide. It was actually quite exhilarating as long as I didn’t let my concentration wander for even a second. The slightest distraction might see me hitting the bank and maybe bottoming out, which I didn't want to risk. Between Pymoor and Welney something strange happened. The river narrowed to a trickle barely wider than the boat. Then without warning I was lungeing for the steep muddy bank off the starboard side with no apparent control of the boat at all. I could alter neither speed nor heading. Try as I might the boat did not respond. Before I had time to resign myself to being grounded the bow of the boat mounted the bank and I really thought the stern was going to be forced under and the engine room filled with water. The consequences of that did not bear thinking about. Fortunately that didn’t happen, but what followed was even scarier. As the boat climbed the steep, black, sticky, muddy bank it tipped sideways and gently slid sideways back into what was left of a channel. For the second time in as many seconds I thought I was going to tip and take on water, this time through drain exits on the port side. My heart was pounding as I was still struggling to encourage any response to some frantic tiller-wiggling and slamming into reverse gear. Miraculously the boat righted itself once back in the water. I stopped noticing my lack of food, water and clothing after that and kept the speed down to prevent sheer momentum taking me to places I’d no wish to be. 

For the next few minutes all was pretty calm (apart from the headwind, of course). The channel continued to narrow as the tide ebbed. The boat was also getting worryingly close to the bottom of the river. Is it possible I could actually ground myself in the middle of the river? Then I had a dawning realisation that I was barely moving forward at all, maybe making about half a mile an hour. Not only that, but the river was widening. The lock-keeper at Hermitage must have realised I was going to be on the river on a turning tide … surely?! So not only was I battling this stiff headwind, but also now an incoming tide attempting to return me from whence I had come. No wonder I was making such little progress. Oh well, no choice but to keep going; at least I was still going forward, if just barely, until of course I wasn’t. Denver Sluice loomed into view. It had taken two days to get to the other side of the lock the long way round and with the engine still running the boat stopped moving altogether. I had no idea what was happening now. To be honest I was a bit rattled from how this trip had panned out so far. I was hungry, thirsty, cold, tired and nursing an increasingly insistent bladder. I couldn’t do much about any of this. All I could do was to wait for the wind and water to be kind and let me settle among the reeds. Thankfully the elements did exactly that and I came to rest in the reeds just shy of the eyes of Denver Sluice. Once again I was relieved that the big and little eyes at this amazing water management system were not allowing the passage of water, because I’m sure the extra flow would have created further currents. Once settled in the reeds I saw to my immediate needs and phoned the lock-keeper at Salter’s Lode. I knew he would have been expecting me to come through on the tide. Here I was, so near and yet so far - very frustrating!

By the time I’d worked out that my engine issue was only that the throttle linkage had rattled itself loose and needed to be bolted back in place (fortunately I carry a healthy variety of spare fixings) I’d missed the tide. I managed to limp across the tidal Ouse to the floating pontoon where I tied up for the night to await the next day’s tide and check my repairs once daylight returned. I learned a lot on that trip, but I’m not sure if I fancy doing it again. 

Safe for the night on the floating pontoon between Denver Sluice and Salters Lode

Back on the Middle Level again

Buy My Music

 Marshlander's Music - 

It strikes me that I ought to pin something to the top of this page because there is, occasionally, a flurry of people who want to buy my music. The place to get it from is:

marshlander.bandcamp.com

Obviously, more will be added if I ever get round to recording it. I began work on another album last year, but illness, accidents and life in general turned other activities into priorities.

The reason for adding this now is that several people I met on my recent travels in Europe have asked where they can buy my music.

I've been out busking several times over the past week or so. Rather than write a full essay for each time I've chosen a few highlights.

Wisbech

I played for a couple of hours in Wisbech one afternoon. Argos has closed down so I set up on a flat surface (hooray) under the entrance “porch”. I didn’t account for the change of wind direction or the sideways rain. Oh well. Downham tomorrow then.

Downham Market

My usual spot in Downham turned into a wind tunnel. I eventually called it a day after nearly two hours and getting rained on four times. Many thanks to Groovy Sue who came over from her market stall with a tarp to help keep the instruments dry.

Peterborough

On Monday I planned to go to Ely, but issues with the van meant Peterborough was closer. Of course you realise that "issues" is a euphemism. After busking in Downham on Saturday I went to the gym for a bit of exercise. On my way back to the boat I noticed flashing blue lights in my rear mirror. Like any good citizen I pulled into one of the few lay-bys on that road, but guess what ... the blue lights pulled in too. I'm sure someone out there recognises that sinking feeling when one has been pulled over by the police. I was trying to work out what I'd done wrong and couldn't think of anything. I recently replaced the stop light that had blown so it couldn't be that. I could have been speeding. I have an intermittent fault that means my speedometer sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. When it's having a rest I have to guess my speed, but I'm not always sure I'm accurate. This was one of those times. My garage has tried to repair the fault, but it requires a discontinued part for the gear box, that's the trouble with a seventeen year-old vehicle. I guess Citroën weren't confident it would last this long. The rain had started up again so I wound down the window (don't mock, my window has a hand-operated winder, okay?) to let the rain in while a policeman looking the same age as one of my grandchildren sauntered up.

"Afternoon, sir, do you know why we've stopped you?" I confessed I did not. "Your MoT was due at the beginning of December ..." my life flashed before my eyes. I couldn't believe it! Having bought the van in July, or maybe August, I'd got all my dates a bit confused. Admittedly the events surrounding the purchase of the van had been very stressful and had taken place during a very, very stressful year. I was still fretting that I had left my stainless steel flask and the bottle bag made from recycled fabrics in which I carried it (made by Zoe, who trades as Ideal Chaos) at the used car lot somewhere near Maidenhead. I'd completely forgotten to check the date the MoT was due. Well now I knew. Unfortunately there really is no proper excuse for being nearly four months overdue, so the policeman pointed out that he had to give me a ticket. He was very polite. In fact he was so polite that he informed me of my rights twice ("You have the right to remain silent, but anything you later rely on in court ..." etc) as he completed different parts of the pro-forma on his phone. I'd never been read my rights before. He allowed me to carry on back to the boat since I was so close, but I would not be allowed to use my van unless I were driving it to the garage for the MoT test. That put paid to any more busking for a while then. This all happened on a Saturday and there was no reply from the garage until Monday. Apparently this was also MoT season, which I didn't know was a thing, and the garage could not do anything about my van for another week. However they could let me have a courtesy vehicle at the end of the week. At least I would have some wheels for the following weekend.

I wouldn’t normally busk in Peterborough, because parking is so expensive, but I decided to work until I’d earned the car park fee so I could park the courtesy car loaned me by the garage. I was coming towards the final half hour when this happened. No way could I compete with such a loud intrusion. However nicely he played his extended Walt Disney medley all I could do was to pack up early.

I much prefer my small towns!

This is the sound that stopped my busking set ...

King's Lynn

I enjoyed busking in Lynn today. I don’t busk there very often, but I found a good spot in Norfolk Street. A street sweeper came by and told me I was improvement on yesterday. “I could listen to you all day,” he said. “Yesterday’s busker only played one song over and over and it stuck in my head for the rest of the day! It drove me nuts.”

Another man, a professional drummer, wanted to talk drums and guitars. That was cool. Also cool was the little girl who went by several times, sometimes with mum and sometimes with grandma. She stopped for an extended listen. Every time she passed by after that she waved and called a greeting. It was also nice to see an acquaintance I haven’t seen for a while. Many thanks to Chloe for buying me lunch. Strangest and perhaps saddest tale of the day was the man who told me how he and his wife have been kept apart by the U.K.’s hostile attitude towards foreign nationals. The strangest part of that encounter was that a complete stranger explained he'd met her on Chaturbate!

Thetford

Having busked in King’s Lynn earlier in the day I set off for Thetford to attend a session of the Open House Music Group (Thetford). I was made very welcome. Nice to meet lots of friendly people. There seemed to be a bit of a Roy Orbison theme going on, but I stuck to some tried and tested Marshlander repertoire. I sang For Pete’s Sake, Burning and had a request to sing Blame It On Me. Thanks to Mike, the group organiser, for the invitation.

Hunstanton

Which brings me to Good Friday. It was such a lovely day, more busking was called for, so I set off for Hunstanton. I left quite late (after lunch) in the hope of missing the traffic that would undoubtedly be heading for the seaside that day. That didn't work so I took some of the back roads I knew through West Norfolk and didn't arrive in Sunny Hunny until 3.30pm. I assumed my friend, Adrian, would probably have the bookshop open so I pulled in to see what the score was. The shop was indeed open and had been very busy during the morning. Once again I chose a very slow part of the day to set up. Barely raising a two figure amount of cash in tips was more than made up for by the fact that a few people actually stopped and listened. Now that is pretty rare and rather nice when it does happen.

Of Censorship And Grown Up Audiences

I was looking forward to playing an evening concert set for grown-ups, but this line in the contract came as a surprise:

“On stage no swearing or explicit lyrics glamorising drugs, guns, or sex.” 

Is this normal these days? Is it down to interpretations of “explicit” and “glamourising”? Is “sex” some kind of ill-advised euphemism for misogyny, homophobia and child-abuse or are lyrics about these deemed acceptable whilst those that celebrate the joy of consensual sexual experience are banned? I have so many more questions about this and where it could lead. Apart from anything else, a fellow musician pointed out, "Well, that's fifty percent of your set gone!" He could be right. The other fifty percent is what I sing in the street when out busking, so I guess I'm already used to censoring myself. One never knows who is listening.

I’m going to have to seek clarification. I can’t help feeling very uneasy about this degree of attempted influence over an artist’s material or presentation. I suppose For the record, and in case anyone wants to book me for a future event, I have not yet written any songs specifically about drugs or guns and I am fairly certain I’m not very glamorous … Maybe I'm just worrying unnecessarily. Who listens to the words anyway?

Of The Joy Of Getting Back In The Street

 “Aw, are you packing up?” she said. 

“I’m afraid so,” I replied, “I think two hours is probably long enough for the people round here to have to listen to me …

She made a noise as though to agree (rather too readily, I thought) and then said, “Never mind, take this pound coin anyway.”

She dropped a warm coin into my hand. I wondered how long she’d been holding on to it. 

The kindness and generosity of strangers never ceases to amaze me. As strangers do we fell to talking … about the weather, how the day had gone, the general state of “things”. She let slip that she was sixty. I was amazed because I really thought she looked a lot older. I guess that’s what a hard life and constant pain can do. She suffers with fibromyalgia and is expecting to die when she reaches sixty-five, as happened with her mother and her sister - at least that’s what I thought she said.

Today was my first busk out since January. Ignoring the sets I played on the European mainland in February this was my first opportunity. Much of January had been affected by very cold weather, I was out of the country in February, while March (up until now) was a non starter owing to the weather and the persistent cough and cold I’ve been fighting off since I returned to England. I had hoped to get out yesterday, but it was raining again. As I was heading towards Huntingdon today I drove through the light rain forecast as a forty percent probability. The sky brightened a little and then greyed over again. I found my favourite spot in the shopping precinct and set up. It was quite windy, but not specially cold. 

When I was in Venice I bought a selfie stick that screws on to a little tripod. I thought I would like to do some live filming. I recorded a little introduction. Then I recorded another segment showing what my spot looked like when I’d finished setting up. I thought I didn’t record any more - which was a pity because the first few songs went well - not well enough for anyone to drop a tip in the hat, but well enough to have been recorded. I was curious to see what the balance is like. Then, when I got home I discovered that my phone recorded everything from my pocket. The balance was all wrong, of course. I have a long way to go before I manage to video anything that looks as professional as fellow busker, August Radio Project. 

It’s funny how it goes with busking. I don’t do it for the money, but the tips are handy. I think I was on my fifth song before a woman dropped the first coin of the day in the hat. After that there was a steady flow. It’s not even as though the money is the most memorable part. I keep a record, because I declare all my earnings for tax purposes, but I’d never remember what I earn in each spot without referring to my diary. No, what is memorable are the characters. One young man came by. He was carrying a guitar slung on his back and a huge smile on his face. He asked about the Footdrums declaring he’d never seen anything like them before. Had I made them? I explained, probably for the hundredth time, that they were made by Pete Farmer in the USA. If I don’t get a commission, maybe I should get a discount when I eventually upgrade to a newer version with more pedals. We chatted for a while as he explained he was looking to start using foot percussion. I love that this particular message is being spread abroad. He dropped a fiver in the hat and my heart raced a little in excitement and then faster still as he started picking through the heavier coins. I thought he was picking out some change for his tip, but he was gathering coins to weigh down the five pound note so it wouldn’t blow away. I reached into my merch box and brought out an old cd of my ceilidh band. I’d normally give a Marshlander greeting card in return for a paper donation, but I’ve run out of stock. Still, I suppose this would be one way of running down the remaining stock of 700 or so CDs - not that they sound anything like Marshlander, although the tunes are all my compositions. Later I gave another CD to a woman who also put £5 in the hat. 

People walked by, some smiled as we made eye contact while others resolutely looked away. There were several people out with dogs yesterday too. One dog stopped and stared. It seemed to be listening to my music with great interest. Is that even possible? Maybe it was more interested in my scent … Another dog walked by with a notice strapped to its back that it was in training, though for what, I’d no idea. A gaunt and heavily tattooed man, dressed in black leather and wearing slicked back black hair approached. He dropped a few coins in the hat. My “thank you” was his cue for engagement. 

“You look very happy. You have a great aura,” he declared. “You live your own life and do just what you want. Good for you!”

I confirmed that I feel very fortunate and am pretty much my own master and that I love my life. He grinned and stretched out his arm. We bumped fists and he wandered off into the afternoon with a “Good for you, mate, good for you!”

A little girl of about two years turned to stare. This brought the accompanying grandparents and dog to a halt. Grandma fished something out of her purse and the girl approached cautiously as she held out a coin. I asked her to put it into the hat which she did. As I finished the second verse of “Be Home Soon” she stood still and stared at the drums. I stopped. “I have a special song if you have time to listen,” I offered, “You might know it.” I looked up at Grandad and he nodded his approval. “Why haven’t you got any shoes?” she asked, “Are you cold?”

“No I’m not cold, but you see these drums? They are very special. Most people play their drums wearing big shoes or boots. I love my drums and like to treat them kindly and with respect, so I always take off my shoes to play them.” She turned a very serious face to me. I changed to my C harmonica and played the first two bars of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star”, which I keep as a party piece for the very young. As I started singing she turned and ran back to bury her face in Grandma’s coat. I kept going and she didn’t join in the singing, but after a while she began to dance. Arms outstretched she spun in circles and then raced around me and my rig and the nearby street furniture. She leapt into the air and she cartwheeled as best as two year-olds can. “She’s a very good dancer,” said  Grandad. I couldn’t help but agree. Grandma gave her some more change to drop into the hat. She dropped 20p in and put the rest into her own pocket. That was hilarious. We waved our goodbyes as I changed harps again and picked up “Be Home Soon” where I’d left off. 

Apart from a misty drizzle for a few minutes the rain held off. By the time I’d finished my set the sun was out and shining in the periodically blue sky. I’d had a lovely time and it felt so good to be out in the street again after being otherwise occupied for the past six or seven weeks.

I continued packing up after the sixty year-old woman left. Another older woman who was wheeling a bicycle stopped. Like me her teeth had not seen a dentist for a long time. Her hair was greasy and lank while yellow may not have been the best colour to be wearing given the state of her clothes. “I heard you earlier,” she admitted. She’d come out on her bike because she was bored and lonely and didn’t know what else to do. She explained that she only eats one meal a day, usually fish in the evening. She comes out to catch the shops before they closed. She liked to buy her fish from Iceland because the fish from Waitrose don’t taste as fresh. I said, “That would make you a pescatarian then.” She looked puzzled, so I explained. “I often wake up at two in the morning and I can’t think what to do. I can’t go out on my bike at that time of night. During the day there’s nowhere else to go but round the shops. That gets boring.” I could see her point. She suddenly became conscious of the state of her clothes. “I really ought to put these in the washing machine,” she gestured to indicate her coat and skirt. A few days ago, while on her rounds, she bought a cake from Greggs and she fancied some ice cream for a change. She bought a pot and ate the lot before it melted. 

“Cake and ice cream when you normally prefer fish. How did you feel when you were finished?”

“Very, very sick,” she admitted. “It wasn’t as nice as I thought it would be.”