Not much to report from the whole day. No catastrophes (I have a vision of the whole front side of the building falling into the street and passers-by staring up at me as I have a shower. Which is why I don’t get the shower fixed and have baths), nothing works noticeably less well than previously. The bucket fills itself surreptitiously while I’m not watching.
I am finding the getting up thing very difficult – I do manage it, but then go back to sleep. Why am I so bushed? Lack of sleep? Shallowness of sleep? Lack of exercise? Lurginess overhang? General crapness? Or perhaps I’m being drugged by foreign agents.
In the evening there’s a rehearsal of the sextet at the Three Stags, actually today a quintet, since we are without Glyn. The upstairs room has had some of the old furniture from downstairs moved into it, including a large table. I suggest that we all sit around the table and if anyone walks in tell them we’re in a board meeting, “And if you want to say anything kindly address the drummer”. The things that go best for me are the ones that I’ve never played before, the things that go worst are the ones I’m supposed to have practised. Softly As in a Morning Sunrise. I also am required to sing My Funny Valentine and How Insensitive, but only do so very badly. For some reason they seem very difficult and I can feel my voice straining on the higher register.
I get home at half eleven and stay up too late.