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.

A Sprint Through More Days Of Busking ... Or Another Attempt To Catch Up With Myself

Following my trip to and from Ramsey by boat and the adventures that surrounded the journey I'm drawing close to revealing why I had so much reporting back to do. I am hoping I shall be able to remove the placeholder warning soon and let people know I'm up to date!

A few days after returning the boat to my home mooring the weather calmed down enough to go out busking again. Hooray!

5th November 2021
I ordered some guitar accessories from the excellent Music Street in Huntingdon earlier this week. While I was picking them up today it was only right to do a bit of busking. At a couple of points I had quite a semi-circle of listeners, some of whom hung around for several songs. Thank you Huntingdon people for listening, dancing and for your generous tips. I never thought I was writing songs for people to dance to. My dance compositions have always been written for the ceilidh projects, but it’s such a lot of fun to see people engage with the music however they choose to express themselves. I’m loving the busking experience. If the weather’s okay I’ll be looking for a spot in Diss soon.

7th November 2021
Since I was going to a concert near Diss tonight I went early and found a good spot in the town centre to busk for a couple of hours. It was worth the effort. Before going to a place for the first time I try to find out if there are any rules. Typing the key words “busking in Diss” into the search engine brought up what appeared to be a bit of a saga in the local press. It appears buskers have been causing annoyance. “One man turns up every day. He always stands in the same place outside a particular shop. He always sings the same songs.” The local council website suggests that buskers work on learning a broad repertoire … As I wandered round the town looking for my spot I didn’t see any other buskers. That’s good because I forgot the measuring tape although I’ve never worked out how to measure to ensure I can’t be heard from 30 metres away ...

15th November 2021
Setting up for busking in Ely this afternoon. I had to look for a different spot because there were street people near where I’ve busked previously and I didn’t want to interfere with their trade. I wondered if I were too close to shops and too tucked away to be seen. People still dropped money in the hat including the shopkeepers either side while many compliments about the music were forthcoming. One shopkeeper tipped after the first song and came out to tip again near the end. Thank you Ely!!

22nd November 2021
I knew Huntingdon was a good place. A return visit to Music Street for some new music gear meant more busking further along the road. A kind lady walking by thought my feet looked cold, bought me some socks and dropped them in the hat.

As it happens I hadn’t planned on looking for more socks. My sock locker on the boat is rather full, but that may be because I haven’t worn socks for most of this year. As I was coming to the end of today’s set three men turned up. I’d seen a couple of them before when I’ve been to the town. I overheard one of them explaining to the others that the tent he lives in had been damaged. He mentioned the location and he’s camping wild. I felt his need of socks was greater than mine so I asked him if he could use them. He was so grateful he said he was going to wear both pairs tonight. I’d cut my set short because I was getting cold. At least I can stoke up the stove on the boat and get warm. I can only imagine how difficult the nights are for him now the weather has taken a turn for the colder.

13th December 2021
I’ve been spending the evening drying out my guitar and drums after a wet afternoon busking in Wisbech. Slowly and gently does it!

15th December 2021

I only came to King's Lynn for a solo busking session once, many months ago. I ended up making a loss after paying for parking, so I thought I'd give Lynn another go and see if my prospects were any better nearer Christmas. As it happens, King's Lynn seems to be quite popular with buskers. I think the pedestrianised town centre and relaxed rules help. Lynn has its regulars, including Graham who sings popular songs from the pop music decades and Jane (I think ...?) who sits on a blanket on the ground to play her recorder. Sometimes there is a young man who rocks up with a keyboard and plays under the overpass near the betting shop. Today there were some musicians from out of town playing some rather listenable Western European and South American tunes. By the look of their guitar case the locals had been very generous indeed. I set up and the south end of the High Street, where covid has ravaged the independent traders, and where I didn't interfere with anyone else and played for about an hour. By that time I still hadn't earned back the car park fee that set me out of pocket from my previous visit. I reckoned anyway that, according to the rules for buskers, I'd reached my time limit and was obliged to move. I pack the gear away, strapped it on to the trolley and shuffled further along the High Street to set up outside an empty telephone shop. Many more people stopped to listen, to talk, to nod, to smile and I am no longer out of pocket. 

South end of the High Street where it is VERY quiet.

18th December 2021

Thank you to the good people of Downham. Today was my third busking town this week. I set up in the town square to start with, but although it’s one of my favourite spots it was a bit too quiet, even after more than an hour playing there. 

When I spoke to the man from the council a couple of days ago he asked me to make sure I didn’t get in the way of people who would be queuing for vaccinations. I took that to mean there would be no objection to me playing on the market place side of the town hall, so I decided to move and set up alongside Groovy Sue’s ethnic clothes and artefacts stall, specially since she had already asked if I would. 

I spent a couple of hours there in addition to the hour at the first spot. By that time I was feeling the cold, so I packed up alongside the market traders. Nice to see several friends who stopped for a brief chat at various times of the afternoon too.

About to head into town and outside the od fire station that will become our future
venue for the reconvened Songwriters & Poets nights

Of Another Scary Journey

 I'd survived so far, but still needed fuel. It was just over an hour to get to the boat yard where I could fill up. The journey was pretty uneventful after Benwick. There is one notoriously low bridge at White Fen Farm, but even with a breeze it wasn't much of a concern.

I pulled into the marina and headed for the diesel pump. I was again pleased to see that there was nothing already on the mooring by the pump. I don't much like tying up to someone else's boat, specially if I can't speak to the owner to ask if they mind, and it's a relief not having to bother. 

The wind seemed to be picking up as I left the mooring to wind round in the residential part of the marina. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before how this marina appears to develop its own micro-weather systems. This is usually in the form of a wind strong enough to blow the boat against the homes of the residents. I've got myself into trouble on several occasions over the years. The slightest imprecision is mocked mercilessly and rewarded with the fear that sweeps in quickly when an impending disaster is looming. As I've gained experience I'm not so much worried about hitting other boats as I am crashing into the sides of the narrow channel under a footbridge across the marina. I like to line myself up to do it in one manoeuvre, but sometimes the wind pushes me too far in one direction and I have to reverse and take another run at it. Reversing exposes me to the whims of the wind and there is often one boat moored very close to the bridge and the panic begins to stir again. This was one of those times and evidence that the wind was revving up for another bit of fun. The turn out of the marina is a sharp one and with the line of boats moored up outside reducing visibility one has to edge out in hope that nothing is coming along the river too quickly to evade collision. I've never hit anyone at that point, but it has been close at times. It being the end of October, there was little likelihood of that happening. I'd been out on the river for three or four days and hadn't actually seen another vessel moving during that time. 

Under the road bridge and I'm on to the stretch of river through the centre of March that is protected from the wind on both sides. I pulled up on to the town mooring for a comfort break, to check the boat over, head into town for a few provisions, to prepare some food to nibble for the next part of the journey and fill a bottle with water to sip. I thought it would be pleasant while the going is good to get as far as Outwell Basin. From there I could call in and visit a friend. I could decide whether to take a further trip down to the edge of the Middle Level navigation at Salters Lode. This would add at least another couple of days on to my journey and turn it into a reasonable few days away, albeit one that had not been without event.

Heading towards the railway bridge over the river that marks the edge of the town I was reminded of the year before when I had made this journey. During covid lockdowns in 2020 the reeds and weeds had been allowed to take over. I had to free the prop several times on the stretch of water as I approached the bridge. I hoped the weedcutters had been out and made the river more boat friendly.

Approaching last year's disaster area

As it happened I need not have been anxious. I cruised through without any issues and was soon past the last of the moored boats and back on to open river. Of course, open river, means open to the weather and what I had not realised was that the wind had indeed picked up a lot more than I thought. I should have thought to consult the weather charts before setting off. An extra night in March, or even Benwick, would not have caused me any problem. Had I consulted the forecasts I might have noticed that winds gusting up to 50mph were a possibility.

Captain Marsh on open water at last

Now the wind was really picking up again

Euphoria, over-confidence, relief and stupidity make for a a heady mixture. I cruised past my home mooring determined to get to Outwell and some friendly company. I arrived at Marmont Priory Lock and it was, as usual, set against me. I chugged up against the lower lock landing with the centre rope in hand. I've performed this manoeuvre many times and didn't foresee any likely problems. However, even though I knew the little basin at the lower entrance to the lock often has its own wind system too, I had not anticipated that stepping off the boat would see the wind gust so hard as to threaten to tug the boat out and across the river before I could tie it up at either end. Simply put I could not hang on to it at all. I was being dragged towards the river. I had to get back on to the boat at all costs. I grabbed at the stern rope and pulled the back end in far enough so that I could at least get back on board. In the meantime the wind had pushed the bow right out across the river and into a shallow zone where I knew I could be grounded. I could not steer the boat in reverse, the wind does that! The intentions of myself and the wind were often at odds. My only choice was to reverse the boat away from the bank. The further I got the stern end out into the river the harder the wind blew the bow round the wrong way. At this rate I was going to end up jammed between the two banks. I had to bring the stern back into shallow water and try not to ground the boat along its entire length. Eventually I was stuck against the far bank. There was no prospect of getting to Outwell. The wind would undoubtedly be even fiercer if I tried to tie up at the upper lock landing. I needed to get to a place where the river was wide enough for me to wind the boat round. I had to pole myself away from the bank and in a moment of reprise from the worst of the wind refloat the boat. From there by shunting in reverse for a couple of metres and correcting the heading with a burst of forward gear and back into reverse again before I lost too much of the distance I had gained I gradually reached a spot where I judged the river to be slightly more than the 15.3 metres I needed to swing the boat round. That whole manoeuvre took me about two and a half hours and I was exhausted by the time I had turned the boat round. I headed back for my home mooring and hoped I would be able to tie the boat up without further incident.

Of Stormy Passages And Abandoned Voyages

I should have stayed in Ramsey overnight. At least I was moored safely. I looked at the position of the sun in the sky and decided to take a chance on trying to get to Benwick. This was one of my more optimistic and stupid ideas. I was losing the light and had no prospect of reaching the public mooring at Benwick before dark, so I began to search out a wild mooring spot. I had passed several potential places on the way, but this was becoming a matter of considerable urgency. The wind was also picking up, which is never a good thing. Given a choice and wind direction I’d have probably moored with the port side of the boat to the bank, but the reeds were too dense and the bank of the Old Nene was dangerously steep. I found a place that looked a bit safer on my side of the river and thought I’d be able to pull in close enough to disembark. Unfortunately I couldn’t get as close as I would have liked. The wind was also blowing me away from the bank, so if I was going to moor I'd have to do it quickly. I threw ropes, club hammer and mooring pins on to the bank and, having committed myself to the enterprise I had to go through with it. It felt dangerous, actually it was dangerous, and I restated my promise to myself to give up wild mooring. I used my rapidly diminishing energy to pull the boat in as tight to the bank as I could and staked the centre rope high up on the bank. It had to be the centre line, because had I staked the bow or stern lines first the boat would definitely have been torn away and swung across the river at the opposite end. Having secured the centre as best I could I pulled the stern in as far as possible, because this looked like the position that would get closest to the bank. Then I just pulled the bow rope in tightly  and hammered in the stake. With the boat staked fore, centre and aft I felt that was the best I could achieve under these conditions. I was not confident the pins would hold, but I had to get back on to the boat. Feeling very carefully with one foot at a time I edged my way down the bank trying to avoid sliding into the water and finding another submerged stake to embed into my leg. I still bear the scars and some residual soreness from where I'd slipped off the gangplank at Stonea two or three years ago and had no wish to repeat that experience. There were still too many reeds and nettles obscuring the land or water that lay beneath, but my shuffling found what felt like the edge of the bank at a point where the boat was closest to the bank. There was still far too much water between the bank and my boat for my liking, but for the second time on this trip I had to employ a leap of faith and try to get one foot on the narrow gunwale while I scrabbled to grab the tiny edge where the side of the cabin meet the roof. I have regretted many times the lack of a grab rail on my boat and this was certainly one of them. The gunwale was above my starting point on the bank so I was actually leaping out and upwards. I launched myself at the boat and it was scary for sure. I don’t quite know how I made it back on to boat and remained dry and kept my leg bones and ribs intact. I’m just relieved my legs are long. I edged my way along the gunwale to the stern end, which was the closest end, negotiating the ropes that formed an obstacle, but which were the only things stopping me being blown out into the river. Exhausted, I closed the stern doors against the wind. I really should have stayed the night at Ramsey. 

Supper that night was simple and quick. I climbed into bed under two duvets and slept for a couple of hours. After that I had very little sleep going over the options and likely consequences of making a wrong decision. When dawn began to light up the sky I found myself avoiding going back outside to assess how I’m going to retrieve my ropes, pins and club hammer without falling in or losing the pins and/or hammer and/or boat. Breakfast first I decided. That was just a banana, some orange juice and my morning dose of tablets. 

It was difficult to tell where the bank started under these reeds

Fortunately the wind had dropped a bit by the morning and daylight made the whole proposition look a lot less frightening. I released the mooring ropes, starting at the bow and threw the first two mooring pins and club hammer into the well deck. The boat was staying put, but would move the moment I repeated the leap of faith, which this time I had to do with the final mooring pin in my hand. Once again I made it and thanked my parents for bequeathing me long legs. At least now I was back on the boat I could crawl along the roof to put the ropes where I needed them to be. 

I decided to get to Benwick and, hoping no one else was already there, was going to moor securely and take my time over a very leisurely breakfast, sitting on the bench on solid ground at the village mooring with the boat tied securely and tightly to the mooring. About five minutes after setting off I passed a tree on the opposite bank. Had I known it would have been a safer anchorage than leaping on and off the boat in twilight. Tying up to the tree would have been easier given that the wind would also be holding me in place - oh well. Fortunately the mooring at Benwick was indeed unoccupied and I was at last able to breathe properly and release all the tension that had built up over the preceding twelve hours.

This is what a proper mooring looks like!

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 9 (Ramsey By Boat part 2)

Do the locals like buskers? 

It’s difficult to say. Having got the gear off the boat, a task in itself given the narrow ledge at the mooring, I wheeled my trolley along Great Whyte (a street, not a whale) until I found a space just past the bus stop where the pavement widens. Three older people were occupying one of the nearby seats and I checked whether they would be disturbed if I played some music. They welcomed the prospect with enthusiasm, although I wondered how much of that was fuelled by the open cans they were nursing. 

They were actually interested in the songs and not just the instruments. One, whom I somewhat meanly identified as Ciderman, told me he had lost his wife of twenty-five years in the summer and the experience was clearly still very painful. As I played, he danced, sometimes wobbling worryingly close to the busy road. After the first song he offered a critique on my delivery (“what you should do is … “) and invited me to his birthday celebration this weekend. He refuelled at the B&M across the road and when he returned he crawled round the pavement examining at very close quarters the internal mechanism of the drum kit while I was playing. Small children had done that, but never before had a fifty-nine year-old man! He was also intrigued by the guitar with its internal effects. He was open, interested, very complimentary about my work, but nevertheless not quite in control. Curious locals watched this unfolding pageant from the other side of the street, from their parked cars and from behind shop window glass, but none came close enough to drop a coin in the hat. Sadly they refused Ciderman’s  marginally coherent exhortations to come closer and listen to “this great songwriter”! 

The reality of busking: earnings = 99p

Towards the end of my set I realised my audience was probably keeping others (the ones who may have had some coins to throw in the hat) away, although by this time the crowd had grown to include a number of young women. One seemed to know one of the original trio and she had been joined by friends who had been joined by their friends - you know how it goes. One of the girls asked if she could take a selfie with her friends and me. Then she was distracted by something else. Like on so many other occasions, singing in the street drew in many people I would generally never encounter otherwise and they thanked me for the best afternoon they’d had in ages. Ciderman apologised for being so drunk, but even through his filter of alcohol he got what I was singing about, particularly when I sang “Damn You, Enchiladas”. He almost told me the story behind it and listened while I filled in the specifics. He was very quiet after I sang “In Your Place”, which I was secretly dedicating to him. Somewhere behind the outward appearance was a fascinating, intelligent and well-read mind and another lesson to me in not judging by appearances.

High Lode