the last refuge of a scoundrel with a Pink Floyd fixation

The day begins with a sitting, and then I check the Guitar Craft site, since today is the first day of AAD6. This will mean nothing to you: I suggeset you just smile and nod. It will mean me doing more practise, which is a good thing. I log on to the GC site to see if there are any specific instructions, but not yet.

I leave to go to the Joan rehearsal late, managing to miss Jeanette’s penetrating report into the smoky world of Tango and Greek food on the Bob Mills show. Darn!

Saturday morning is not a natural rehearsal time and it’s interesting to see that all the reooms are taken. It must be a mass of hangovers in there. There is a thrash metal bands in one of the rooms: how do they know when someone’s doing it wrong?

“You should have been playing an F Sharp there, Bob. When Mick sang Argle-grrrgle ach GRAAH!

“I though it was when he sang Grrrt gachhachh nurgg gllarkk!

“No. It’s not.”

Joan produces a new song, or at least a song new to this particular grouping of the band. I struggle to keep up and decide to put a Dave Gilmour chucka-chucka delay on it: the last refuge of a scoundrel with a Pink Floyd fixation. It goes down quite well, so I add a whooshy phaser. We go through it a few times, then the other songs (which I play spectacularly badly), then finish up at 2:00. I’m going to have to have a look at it all before Monday night.

On getting home, I have lunch and then pass out for two hours, waking up with enough time to get ready to go up to the Poetry Cafe for the first appearance of the New Look Breathing Space.





I’ve taken Phil’s Ovation guitar, that I borrowed for GCL1 almost two years ago. The woman in charge looks at me with a panic/disdain cocktail: “You didn’t want to play a song, did you?” No, that’s all right, I don’t want to play a song.

I manage to get the last seat, and then have to give it up when a woman laboriously descends the stairs on a walking stick. So I lurk for the N.L.B.S. set, and then get to sit on the sofa at the side of the “stage” for the floor poets and the first featured reader.

In the break I get caught upstairs, so don’t make it down for the second half, or at least miss the readers. I lurk at the top of the stairs, hearing a murmuring from below, a semi-hushed chatter from the cafe and muffled shouting from upstairs, where they are having a Poetry Slam (Poetry Slam: put poem in glass and top up with lemonade. Cover top of glass, slam hard against counter and down in one. The bubbles in the lemonade get the poetry into the bloodstream more quickly).

When the featured poets are finished I get the opportunity to slip downstairs and find a lurking space at the back of the room for the second N.L.B.S. set. It’s packed. I wonder whether it’s like this every week, and doubt it, but don’t have any data other than my own bad temperament to base that on.

Laura gives me a lift home, which is nice, not sure I’d want to wait for a bus.

It takes a long time to get to sleep – not uncomfortably so. Probably the nap I had this afternoon. Perhaps the bowl of cereal I had before going to bed. Possibly some GC influence.