Of Busking Off The Pier

Tuning up those new strings

A few weeks ago I saw a post on Facebook that the folk festival fringe in Cromer - known this year as "Folk Off The Pier" - was going to have buskers in town for the first time. Having played sets for Richard Penguin's Teatime Assortment a couple of times in previous years I thought I would give it a go. It would give me something to aim for after my stroke. I'd had to miss another booking back in March because I hadn't recovered well enough to risk it. I sent some details to the organisers and was pleased to be accepted. They also offered me a fifty-minute set in one of the pubs in town. I don't make a secret of my feeling that pub audiences are not really interested in the kind of work I do, but this was a folk festival event, so what could possibly go wrong?

I had spent a lot of time building up my stamina in rehearsal at home and during the week before the festival I played a couple of short sets at different events. The first of these was at my regular Songwriters & Poets Night when I managed five songs. The second was in the garden of a friend with a lot of other folk musicians where I was allocated time for three songs. I had managed both sets without mishap, so I went to Huntingdon in the week before the festival to see how I got on with some actual  busking. It was a relief not to be carted off to hospital in an emergency vehicle, so that meant I felt ready to attempt the festival. I am pleased to say that it was mostly a very positive experience. I met lots of friends, often as we passed each other in the street or while performing in one venue of another and made a few new ones. I also met a few people I probably should have already known since we knew many of the same people without our paths actually having crossed before. 

My work was split into eight sets, including six busking spots, over the three days of the extended weekend with the festival kicking off on the Friday. My first busking spot was outside a café near the church in the town centre at mid-day. I rolled up in time for my hour-long slot and the owner was surprised to see me. He wasn’t expecting anyone till Saturday! Staff quickly moved a table to make some space for me. I do require four or five feet of depth to accommodate my folding stool and drum kit. That left just about enough space for mobility vehicles and pushchairs to pass. I was offered a coffee, but I usually just drink water which someone kindly brought out for me. The situation worked well. People sat on the wall across the street, in their cars in the disabled spaces or at the other table outside. Because I play without amplification my sound doesn’t carry far, but those who were interested enough seemed to be able to hear. We were far enough from the main street that the traffic didn’t affect things much except for the buses and motor-bikes. Although I played from 12-1 none of the promised food was offered. It seems I was not alone among the buskers who were expecting to be able to eat when playing at a café around meal times. This was very much to the dismay of the organisers who had arranged for food for buskers. Dismantling my rig and loading up the trolley to find the next space due to begin in an hour didn't leave much time for eating anyway. If music be the food ...?

The next spot was on the pier near some wooden shelters. It was a relief that the weather was good. A howling gale on Norfolk's north-east coast, suspended over the sea, would have been a bit of a challenge. As it was I was afraid of losing one of my expensive hardwood guitar picks between the wooden decking of the boardwalk. It was a nice spot, but not specially profitable. The main challenge here was getting down the very steep slopes from the town centre to the esplanade without my trolley running away from me and then getting back up again where I really had to rest halfway. It would have been a challenge had I been fully fit. One kind man offered to help me by pulling the front of the trolley, but I suspected this extra tension would have completed the separation of the handles from the base frame. I have only had eleven months use out of this trolley which was sold by a music equipment company on the basis of it being just the solution for carting heavy gear about. A polite and strategically targeted e-mail was forming itself in my head.

Early evening was time for my short set at the local Social Club, the scene of previous performances in pre-covid days. It was lovely being among friends and it was impeccably well-organised. The set up was painless and the sound engineer did a great job. Unlike a few people in previous years this audience really knew how to listen. It was great fun.

The following day the first of my three sets was due to begin once more at mid-day. It turned out to be a lovely spot by another café on the esplanade and another lovely day - apart from having to negotiate the cliff-face slope again with my trolley in its rapidly deteriorating condition. The very friendly shop staff offered me a coffee, but filled my mug with tap water on request. The 11am busker hadn’t shown up so when I arrived at 11.15 they thought I was him/her being late. I explained I was early and they asked me to play anyway, which I did. I played for about one hour and forty minutes. In addition to the usual parade of perambulating people there was a stationary audience queuing for coffee and cake or seated at tables a few yards away. It was possible to have a bit of banter with members of this audience at times, which made for a more personal performance and gave an occasional opportunity to explain a bit of the context of some of my songs. The sun appeared between the day’s two periods of fog and it felt quite special.

That bubble was burst during the afternoon, when my next spot was on the main road through the town outside a bank. When I arrived I found my space had been taken by a table of people collecting signatures for a petition. They offered to move round a raised planter surrounded by circular bench seating to give me space to set up more centrally. Unfortunately, although in sympathy with their cause, it was hard to concentrate with the arguments that ensued right next to me when some of the townsfolk didn’t want to Stop The War or offer any kind of welcome to refugees. The discussion got a bit too exciting at times and wasn't much masked by the noise of the traffic that roared by non-stop. It is certainly not a spot I would have chosen for myself as an unamplified performer even without the political differences being aired a metre from my left ear. Actually it was horrible.

That left the pub set to finish my working day. This was a fairly pointless experience and it confirmed the reason I don’t play pubs. Having been under the mistaken impression this was going to be a folk audience, most people were just there for their Saturday evening down the pub. It was loud with the sound of people drinking and socialising and very few could hear anything I was doing. I couldn’t even hear what I was doing and I wasn’t even sure if I was singing in tune. There was a P.A. but no one to drive it. Someone had shown one of the bar staff which two faders to push, but there was no chance of equalising the sound or even setting it up. I know the principles of how to work a P.A. but every desk is different and I did not have my glasses with me to find how to switch on phantom power for my microphone or which pots and buttons controlled which functions. I did take my own microphone, but left all my leads in the van, parked fifteen minutes walk away. The previous act was a hefty group of shanty singers who took a long time to clear off the small performing area, so I had to set up very quickly. I had had to wait in the street before I could even get my instruments into the building to set up. I was actually in the street because the pavement wasn’t wide enough. Given the fact I had no idea what was supposed to happen with the P.A. I sang a song acoustically and it was completely lost in the noise of the pub, so I set up my mic for the next song, but people couldn’t hear the guitar. There were a few people sitting nearby who wanted to listen, but the shouting and shrieking from the table closest to me made that impossible. I would have gone and sat very close to the would-be listeners, but that would have meant me blocking an entrance and people would be trying to get past me with drinks. I had a small amplification system in the van, but because I couldn’t park near to where I was playing there wasn’t time to go back and fetch it. Someone from a band due on later kindly went and fetched a guitar lead for me to borrow, but that took him about fifteen minutes. Even amplified a bit it was still an unedifying experience. If I turned the sound up, the shriekers shrieked louder. I think there might have been about a dozen people who would have liked to listen, but they couldn’t hear a thing. I was definitely the wrong act for that venue. A solo performer should not be expected to manage an unknown mixing desk and carry on with the performance. I could have been louder with my own little rig, maybe even loud enough, but the potential difficulties were not clear to me in advance. It was horrible (again) and I was very pleased when the horror show was over. 

The first set on Sunday was a nice setting outside yet another café, but there was not much room without moving some furniture about. The narrow street was good for the acoustics and for seeing lots of old friends who passed by. Most were on their way to somewhere, but some came back when they could. There was another venue just round the corner from where another set of buskers could be heard quite clearly thanks to their portable p.a. system. This was the first time I'd experienced audible crosstalk between buskers, so thanks to the organisers for choosing the venues which mainly avoided such a problem. 

The staff at the café were friendly and obliging. The owner gave me water and a 10% discount voucher for food. I decided to try and eat that day, but by the time I finished at mid-day they’d run out of all the vegan options on their menu. The food took a very long time to arrive. I noticed they sent a member of staff out; I assumed that was to go and pick up some supplies. Eventually someone turned up with a vegan burger and chips. However while here I had one of the strangest experiences of the weekend.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by anything, but this was a first. While I was playing a lady customer came out from inside the café and asked me to stop using my kick drum because it was hurting her husband's ears. They were sitting halfway down the room, which was already fairly busy, while I was outside.  I explained that what I do is a matter of whole body coordination which has taken a lot of rehearsal. I cannot just stop playing one part of one instrument. She was very insistent.  She did say she would give me a generous tip and that they wouldn’t be much longer. I threw a towel over the kick drum to muffle some of the resonance and played almost inaudibly. They took until the end of my penultimate song to emerge from the café and she didn’t tip anyway. I really don't understand why the poor man was suffering so much. I'm pretty certain the café noises reverberating around the hard walls and floor of the interior would have masked any noise I was making. Had it been me I think I would simply have turned my hearing aids off. He had that option, but apparently didn't think of it. Perhaps he experienced hyperacusis that responded dramatically to my kick drum frequencies.

My final busking set of the festival was back on the main road near to where I had been the previous day. Being a Sunday it was far less busy and there were no people arguing over their political differences. Once again the previous performer was a no show so I set my spot up early outside the parish hall. I started playing to keep some continuity going while being quite prepared to stop if he or she turned up. No one else appeared so I was playing there once again for about an hour and three-quarters. After the first forty-five minutes, when I was scheduled to start, the coffee shop next door closed and there was no reason for anyone to be on my side of the street. Because some shops and a café were open on the other side of the road that’s where people were. A few stopped to watch from the opposite pavement, but I don’t know what they heard. One or two even came over to listen for a bit. It was not very rewarding financially. After nearly two hours I'd earned just £2 in tips. As I was packing up two young girls appeared and each handed me a pound coin, which doubled the take. They assured me they'd heard some music while I was still playing. I would have counted that spot as perhaps not the best use of time had not two men come along near the end of my set and wanted to talk about the instruments and the music. I was able to play a song or two specially for them to highlight parts of my instruments they hadn’t yet heard. They were very interested in what I was doing and made that whole session worthwhile. Such chance opportunities for discussion and sharing is one of the most enriching things I enjoy about busking life.

Placing things in perspective some of my favourite musicians were playing in the main festival, but I didn't get to see any of them. Over the three days and after deducting money for parking at £7 a day, and an evening meal on two days I was left with just £21. I don't think that would have been enough for a ticket to any of the main festival events and it certainly didn't cover the cost of the fuel to get there and back again afterwards, although following the event the organiser of the fringe festival did send me some money towards travel. 

I enjoyed the busking and would have enjoyed it still more had I been able to select which spots I played. I'll come back to the town, but unless there are some changes it may not be as part of the festival. I'll keep flying the flag for independent music  😇

Of A Street Poet And A Prejudiced Music Fan

 We interrupt the catch-up to bring you this rant.

It's actually something I think I may have mentioned previously, but this recent experience upset me enough that I am still mulling it over several days later.

There is at least one band I have followed for the past fifty years or more. This is one of that rare breed of bands that are still working and putting out new music. I was in the queue to see them a few days ago. Although I am older than many of the fans, this band still attracts its fair share of grey haired people ... unlike the band itself who have never been seen without hair dye or (possibly?) a hair piece. The queue had been growing for several hours and I was sitting on the steps of the venue talking to people who, quite by chance, had turned out to have come from towns near me.

I became aware of a twenty or thirty-something woman making her way along the queue, stopping to talk to people. I saw several refusing to engage with her or shaking their heads and she walked on, getting closer to where I was sitting. I suspected I was about to be asked for money, sadly not unusual in London or any other town these days. I hadn't seen any buskers or people begging in two days and I still had some money I keep for such emergencies. The woman approached and explained that she was a poet and that she was homeless. She was trying to raise £16 to pay for a hostel bed for a week. This is the modest sum I've heard mentioned several times by many people in North London in recent years and I keep meaning to check whether such cheap accommodation really exists. I have never got round to doing it though.

She reached into her bag and almost pulled out some handwritten sheets of brightly coloured paper upon which were written her poems, before quickly stuffing them back in the bag and zipping it up again. I was impressed by a fellow creative spirit who, like me, was refusing to expect people to give her money in the street for nothing. She was articulate and polite, but looked as though she could be having a hard time. I had no idea what her challenges were, although were I to judge purely by appearance I could have hazarded a guess, but I was willing to accept that the need for safe accommodation might be one of them. I happened to have money on me and handed her a ten pound note. I could see she already had some money and I knew my offering would make it up to the amount she said she needed. I'm not entirely naive and realised that it was completely possible that I was not being told the entire, or even a partial, truth. I know I've been scammed out of money on the streets before, but if someone is so needing cash they have to ask a stranger for it, I'm usually willing to share if I have something to spare. She thanked me and remembered to ask,

"Do you want a poem?"

"Of course," I replied, "that's what I'm paying for."

I couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed that I was taking some of her modest stock of poems. There didn't seem to be many left in her bag. She had gone to some effort to write them all by hand in a mixture of colours on A4 card and put them in protective plastic pockets. None of this was an easy or a cheap option. She could more easily and more profitably have rattled off a few printouts on a library or hostel computer, but she had chosen not to. Given the effort to which she had gone to use what talent she had to produce something she could sell I was happy with the exchange. 

When she had moved on a man closer to the head of the queue came back to squat by me to share his assessment of what he had just observed,

"I don't mean to burst your bubble, but you have just funded her drug habit ..." 

At first I thought I had misheard him, but he smirked and nodded in the supercilious way that people reserve for the ingenuous. He got up and went back to his place in the queue, which was a pity because I would have liked to explore his intervention with him. I found his comment gratuitous and insulting.

In no particular order of priority I want to make a list to work out why I felt so irritated by what he thought it was okay to share. 

• He had no idea of what conversation had actually passed between myself and this woman and it was none of his business anyway.
• He wasn't interested in finding out whether I had a motive for offering this street poet some money.
• I was prepared to give her something for her work and creativity in the same way I hope people will offer me something as a tip or buy a CD when I am busking.
• She and I had a business transaction. She offered poems for sale. I bought two.
• I could see there was a problem. I didn't know how much was to do with a need for accommodation, but if I could offer her enough to make sure she had a bed to sleep in that was safer than being on the street or sleeping in a shop doorway it was a reasonable act of humanity.
• Buying her poems meant I was acknowledging there was a value in the product of her creativity regardless of the quality of the work. On some level I was hoping  that my action would reinforce that this was a safer and more acceptable means of raising funds than stealing or performing some other criminal or anti-social act should they be her alternatives.
• I remember how I felt when a woman paused from tipping me whilst I was busking last summer to ask whether I were "on drugs. I can't give you any money if you are," she had said. Either she had enjoyed the song I had sung specially for her after we'd had an interesting discussion or she didn't. To assume some morally superior stance because she had a problem with any choices I made in my life was demeaning to both of us. By that reasoning we would have to choose not to buy the work of Schubert or Shelley among many creative artists.
• Withholding payment for work done or goods sold because I could make some kind of judgement about how she spent money honestly earned infantilises a grown adult. I don't drink alcohol or eat meat. Should I, therefore, withhold money from others because they look likely to do either of those things? How an adult spends their money is a decision that only they should need to make.

I could go on listing my arguments. The more I thought about the music fan's intervention the more incensed I became. I tried to find him again later on in the evening to challenge his attitude. Forming a judgement of my own I assumed he must have been a Daily Mail reader to have been able to have done what he did based on no information other than his own ill-informed preconceptions. I didn't find him and decided I would try and work out why I felt his intervention was so insulting rather than risk my blood pressure reaching dangerous levels. In the meantime here is a poem by Alexandra Hewitt, who has clearly experienced the loss of someone important in her life, just as I have in recent months. I wish her well. 

"Peace Be With You" by Alexandra Hewitt

Of Strokes Of Ill Fortune (part 2)

I said I'd tell you about the police van.

Les, the friend who saw me looking unwell in the street, phoned for an ambulance, but the emergency services could not predict when one would become available. They told him it would be at least two hours. We both understood that getting quick attention in the case of a suspected stroke was important, so he was going to try and get me to the nearest Accident and Emergency Department as soon as he could. A crowd was beginning to gather. I suppose I'd been recognised by some as that monoband hippy who plays by the bus station. One of the pharmacists from Boots emerged and offered words of advice and help. Then Jody from Holland & Barrett came out and almost burst into tears to see the state I was in. Clearly I was not going to busking outside the shop anytime soon. A group of lads on bikes slowed to take in the scene as they cycled illegally through the precinct. I'd seen them many times over the months when I'd been busking in my usual place. I guess I had come to be on smiling and nodding terms with some of them over that period. One of them, in full view of his mates jumped off his bike and asked if I were okay. It was such a simple act of humanity and concern, but it meant the world to me. Youngsters in Wisbech don't popularly have a good reputation, but this young man was an example to everyone, even though he could do little more than ask after my health.

Then Les saw two policemen. They had received a call out in Wisbech and they recognised Les. He's that kind of man ... He knew the police sometimes had ways through red tape so he asked if they could help. Unfortunately the calls they put through could not get an ambulance to me any faster, so one of the police officers said he could manage the job on his own if the other could take me to hospital in King's Lynn. I was very carefully helped into the back of the van, the bit where they store prisoners or my friends from XR and I was locked in. Off we sped with blues a-blazing and twos a-blaring. It was quite exciting for the first minute and a half. Then I remembered I am a lousy passenger at the best of times and this was pretty awful. There are no seat belts in the cage at the back of a police van and everything was made of easy clean material, so I was slipping, sliding and crashing against the sides of the van with every change of direction. At times I felt sure I was going to be thrown off the seat altogether and for the next fifteen miles it was all I could do to keep that day's food on the inside. I had not experienced anything quite so bad since I'd ridden the corkscrew at Parc Astérix with its six consecutive loop-the-loops (or the trip to play a gig in Brixton in the back of A's car) and by the time we arrived at the hospital I was feeling at lot worse and probably looked it.

I estimate that I probably had the stroke at about 1.30pm and we arrived at A&E at around 4pm. I assume I was still alive, but I was feeling quite rough by this time. The policeman retrieved a wheelchair and carefully helped me into it. He handed me over to the hospital staff. Then he sped off into the fading afternoon to continue with his policemanly duties. He was incredibly kind, helpful and professional. I've had many dealings with the police and not all of them have been happy ones. It would be churlish of me to fail to recognise and to thank this particular officer for his help in February. 

Hospital admin took my details and I embarked upon what I found out was a "patient journey". The ironically named "patient journey" is also metaphorical. I didn't actually go anywhere for the first couple of hours and the whole process required a lot of patience. Over the next fourteen hours (the first twelve of those in the same wheelchair into which the policeman had deposited me) in A&E I was interviewed by the triage nurse, given a CT scan, had bloods, temperature and blood pressure taken (several times)  and of course given a covid test which was still showing positive. That panicked people for a bit and I don't know if they believed me when I told them the dates of infection and confinement. My illness had been very recent. After each segment of my "journey" I was returned to the waiting area to wait for more hours until the next temporary change of scenery. 

More patients came and went. Some were obviously very unwell, some less obviously so. One or two were very loud and their moods were at the mercy of substance indulgence or mental health issues. After twelve hours a nurse pointed out to her colleagues that I had been in the wheelchair for a very long time. She sent out to try and find a bed even though there was nowhere to put it and no bed-space in the stroke ward. Fourteen hours after arriving at the hospital I was wheeled in my bed along corridors to the stroke ward at 6.30 the following morning. I assumed this was to be my home. I was interviewed and inducted into my new surroundings. I tried to sleep after such a long and sleepless night, but I did not have my CPAP machine to hand and it was hard to adjust to the noise of my new surroundings. One man was calling out in great distress and another was attached to a device that set off an ear-shattering alarm every time he turned over and disconnected the device, which was designed to alert staff in case he went a-wandering. No one was well enough to be able to carry out a conversation and some appeared barely conscious. I did feel like a fraud. Every time I needed to use the toilet I was not allowed to attempt the journey unaccompanied. I asked for a stick, but instead had to wait for a nurse or other qualified member of staff to take me across the corridor to the nearest bathroom. I was sure I could have managed with a stick, but the male member of staff who attended me was very conscientious. I guess he was more used to patients who would need him to remove their clothes and sit them on the toilet or wash and shower them. I felt very uncomfortable about the whole undignified procedure. It was definitely an insight into a possible future existence and I'm not looking forward to it. The noise of the shared bay was horrendous and, while I tried to feel compassion towards those very unwell men, I didn't see how I was going to get any sleep at all and my patience was nearing the end of my resources.

When evening came there was a change of staff. A very strict ward sister would not allow me to use my breathing apparatus - which had by now been brought in with some clothes and washing tackle by my daughter - for fear of spreading aerosols. I was preparing for yet another night of trying to sleep sitting up. What I didn't know was that a side room was being carefully cleaned and prepared for me, but what joy when I was moved into my own space with its own toilet and shower and the freedom to use my CPAP device. The heavy duty door kept out the bustle and noises of the the shared bays and I slept really well for the first time in what was probably several months.

Of Strokes Of Ill Fortune

18th February 2022
This will not be my usual kind of post, but since some people were expecting me to play in Stoke Ferry tomorrow night I thought I would broadcast my news. 

I did get out to Wisbech for the busking session I promised myself a couple of days ago, but when I arrived it was full of noise. I couldn't set up in my favourite spot near the bus station because of the sound emanating from a new busker in town. He was using a Street Cube to amplify his lovely singing and excellent guitar playing ... though I noticed that all the shop doors that are normally held open to welcome customers were closed. He was very loud. He finished with a beautiful rendition of Richard Thompson's "Beeswing", but he was very loud!

I could not even set up outside the shop that has frequently asked me to play there, because that would have put me even closer to New Busker. Unfortunately his art had attracted the attention of a man in a hi-vis jacket who was bearing a clipboard. I suspected NB had queered the pitch for all of us. A quick word with the Hi-Vis Clipboard Man confirmed that he was now required to enforce the rules that prohibit busking in this part of town without the aspiring street performer first gaining permission from a "precinct manager", something I've never before had to do. When I asked where I could find said manager and I was pointed towards a tiny office near the car park. ... "But he's not there today," informed H-V C Man. So it turns out I was not allowed to busk and nor was I able to ask permission. This would prove to be a recurring theme for Wisbech. Many thanks to NB - not!!

There was a second busker, an acoustically powered one this time, a bit further along the street, so I couldn't set up there either. Therefore I had to move into the Market Square out of earshot of the second busker. It not being a market day there was no one in the square and it had reverted to its normal function of car park. I set up anyway and began to play. Hardly anyone came near. I played for about an hour, but felt a little out of sorts. It wasn't going well so I assumed this was a post-covid thing. Then it happened. My right leg went numb and my strumming hand stopped working. Having experienced the TIA six months earlier I suspected a second transient ischaemic attack. I could not stand up, but somehow I managed to pack my instruments away and strap them to the trolley. Busking for today was over.

Leaning heavily on my trolley and dragging my uncooperative foot behind me I headed back towards the van. I had no idea what I was going to do after that, but I wanted to get the instruments into a place of safety. As I approached the shop that wanted me to play I saw a friend approaching. He saw immediately that something was wrong and made me sit down. He phoned for an ambulance and while he was waiting for a response instructed me to hold up my arms, to smile, to count how many fingers he was holding up and tell him where I was. No ambulance was going to be available for at least two hours.

I have had a second stroke and this one was neither mini nor transient. The effects of this one are a bit more serious and have lasted longer than 24 hours. However the good news is that I’m feeling much better and I’m now allowed to walk independently. I’m expecting to make a full recovery even if I have to simplify some of the drum parts when I start playing again. I’m not looking for sympathy, but sharing this so people know and understand why I’m not where they might expect. At the moment I’m still in hospital and being treated by amazing NHS staff who are undoubtedly battling serious challenges themselves. Thanks for your patience and understanding. I am surrounded by love and good wishes and I look forward to seeing you soon.

I may get round to filling in more details for any readers who like the gory stuff. I'll have to tell you about the police van.

Of Covid (and other stuff) ... Or A Further Attempt To Catch Up With Myself

27th January 2022
The plan was to make some use of the beautiful break we had in the recent unbuskerly weather to get back out into the street. Inconveniently, someone I sat next to at a meal a couple of nights ago tested Covid +ve yesterday afternoon. Consequently I’m being antisocial for a few days. So far, so good and I hope to get out again soon. I was, however, delighted to play a living room concert yesterday morning, before we were sent the news of the test result, for the dear friends who hosted the meal.

In other news I’ve been taking the opportunity to work on songs that will hopefully make it on to the next album. Do people still append advisory stickers concerning warnings about lyrical content?

28th January 2022

Okay, it was too good to last. There were seven round the table for the delicious Burns' Night meal on Tuesday. One was a carrier and tested positive the following afternoon. By Friday I felt the cough and cold symptoms coming on, but still tested negative. By Saturday I was positive and so were three others from around that meal table. Take care out there, folks.

2nd February 2022

Apologies for the lack of news. I’m now on “day 6” of my covid isolation and am still testing positive. This hiatus has played havoc with my rehearsal schedule for a solo gig at the end of March and, of course, I’ve been unable to get out busking for the past week of lovely weather. I am really looking forward to getting back on to the guitar stool as soon as I feel up to it! Progress does not, though, appear to be completely linear, so I’m not sure at present when that will be. On the creative front I have managed some snatches of various melodies on the occasional 3am insomnia shift, which may find their way into a song from my manuscript book at some point. I appear to be dreaming in D minor … which, I am informed, is the saddest of all keys.

4th February 2022

Day 8 and beginning to feel more human at last. The instruments are out and it’s time to get back to practising. There’s a whole week to make up, so to get on with it!

11th February 2022

Though still testing positive on Day 13 the GP tells me I'm a free man if I feel up to it. It seems I am "COVID Resolved". It's A Beautiful Day - wouldn't that be a great name for a band - I'm feeling well, the instruments are loaded, next stop Ely.

It is really cool to be back out on the street. Thank you, good people of Ely.

14th February 2022

Happy Valentine's Day to my much missed partner, P.

I nearly managed to get into Wisbech today, but I’d forgotten my trolley needed some maintenance after Friday. It took me an hour to fix it - you know that thing where you have to keep going back to the boat to fetch the right spanner? I loaded up the instruments, but by the time I arrived on the outskirts of Wisbech the rain had started and I had no wish to give the gear another soaking. Oh well, I’ll see if I can find a gap in the clouds later on in the week. I hope everyone is having a grand day. I’m going to try and get along to The Limes in Fakenham on Wednesday evening. I have a song or two that don’t fit into the busking set I’d like to sing.