There is sometimes a plan. It happens occasionally. I have already made a plan to busk in Thetford on Thursday assuming the weather does not prove detrimental to the instruments. I told my Facebook followers that I'd try to remember to give an estimated time of arrival once I have an idea how the day was going. “It's Tuesday and the river is still iced over. I haven't decided where I'm aiming for later today ... possibly Wisbech, possibly even Lynn. That doesn't help does it?!
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I make a lot of typing errors. Why do ty think that is?
a) I can't type
b) I can't spell
c) the letters are so worn on my keyboard that my version of touch-typing is actually typing by guesswork.”
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I made a decision. King’s Lynn it is …
I’ve lived in the area around King’s Lynn, known locally as just “Lynn” since the mid-80s. For the thirteen years I last had a “proper job” I was based in Lynn. That came to a stop a couple of years ahead of the last century following redundancy. The precarious joy of self-employment was something I discovered in 1998. I guess for a number of reasons my relationship with the town has had its complications. Since taking up busking I’ve tried my luck twice. The first time was costly, the second not so much. Since I’d not busked in Lynn for about thirteen months a visit was overdue. I wasn’t going to risk paying for parking the van in case I had a repeat of the first visit when, after playing for two hours I had no tips to show for it and a £4.00 parking fee to pay. This time I thought I would park by the municipal recreation park area known as “The Walks” where I remembered there was three hours of free parking. Three hours is normally perfect for me. It allows for up to two hours of earning time and up to ninety minutes to get to and from my spot with setting up time. Unfortunately I’d made an error. Free parking was limited to two hours. This was going to be a slightly rushed job.
As I was in full roll with my trolley of instruments some dear friends approached. They’d been to the library to visit an exhibition that turned out to be in a different library across town. They are two of my very creative friends - poet and playwright - and they introduced me to the people who were accompanying them. I think one was a dancer and the other a theatre director. We always have a lot of news for each other, but my stopwatch was running so I had to excuse myself. The High Street in Lynn is fully pedestrianised and I chose a spot on the sunny side of the street. By this time I fancied I had left myself only an hour for performing before I had to get back to the van. I wondered whether I’d earn anything at all given my previous experiences.
I swung into “For Pete’s Sake” and felt I was sending out appropriately positive vibes. Some days one feels it more than others. Before long I’d attracted the attention of a couple of men I judged (and I am really bad at this!) to be somewhere in their twenties or thirties. One was wheeling a bike, the other was wielding a very full-looking rucksack. I wondered if either or neither had a home. One could have been the minder of the other, I suppose. They stood close and stayed for a few songs. We chatted between songs. They were interested in the songs and, of course, the footdrums. They both apologised for having no money to drop into the hat. Then they wandered away, but not before bikeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers and small silver, which he kindly dropped into the hat. Later I noticed that he had also donated an old cup hook. I hope he didn’t need that for something. After they’d gone a young woman came over. She’d been standing across the street outside Starbucks while the men were there. She stood beside me and listened really intently for most of the rest of my set. We talked about the songs, their origins and meanings. I love it when people listen and respond so positively. I like to think that my songs do have a point.
Becoming concerned about the time I wound up my set and a glance in the hat confirmed it had been worthwhile financially too. As I was packing up the rucksack man returned. He asked for my telephone number … caution kicked in. I don’t give my contact details out to people unless there is good reason. He was very personable and had a nice smile and there was something about his eyes ... When I asked why he wanted to know he said that he liked my music and wanted to listen to me again. He doesn’t use social media so he would be able to find out when and where I’m playing. He also thought I should get work singing in pubs and churches. I pointed out that I enjoyed singing in the street, specially when it gave me the opportunity to meet interesting people. I asked him if he lived locally and he named a village. I’d been considering returning to a neighbouring village later in the week and told him he could catch me there if he wanted. Then I was very grateful for my earlier caution,
“I can’t wait for God to come back and destroy all the sinners,” he said with conviction. Then I recognised that look I’d seen in his eyes. The eyes truly are a window into the inner workings, perhaps what some would call the soul.
“Where would that leave you?” I pondered. I may even have said it out loud. We parted with a handshake and a fist bump. He’d see me again on Friday.
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