When the alarm goes off I decide that since I’m in a particularly good dream I shan’t wake up, electing to stay in the dream, about which I can now remember nothing.
Let that be a lesson to us all.
So much of the daytime is spent dithering, as is often the way. Sitting successfully completed (at 9:30) and practice (at 5:30) and in between I download Max/MSP for a look (although it seems fearsome complicated) and make my first journey to the gym in a while. So I try not to overdo it, although the risk of me overdoing anything is micron-slender.
It does give me the opportunity to check out the current state of the pop scene on MTV Hits (surely an anagram that last word?) which is much as the state of the pop scene the last time I went to the gym.
But the sauna is good. I get very clean indeed, removing the grime and (probably) skin that even regular baths cannot. Hurrah.
On my return to the homestead I do the practice and get ready to go to the gig tonight. In one of those displacement activities I often throw at myself before I leave the house, I ascertain that the classical guitar’s guitar case is just the right size for the NST guitar.
Hell at least resembles the Piccadilly Circus area on a Saturday night. I have to stop for money and am immediately accosted by people asking for change. One comes up and tells me in a pervasive alcohol-breath: “You’re good, but you’re not Jimi Hendrix”. Which is slightly true. For a start Jimi is dead.
Then I go to the gig.
Afterwards I have to push through a screaming throng to get to the tube station – evidently some major celebrity came out of somewhere and got into a car. People are flocking round the car taking photographs. It interests me that who is in the car (I have no idea and do not ask) is irrelevant, simply a convenient face to slip into the Celebrity Frame. Or something.
Back very late, again. To bed even later. Again.