Back to the dentist for a scrape, and also a long lesson in cleaning my teeth, which these days is mainly cleaning the gums – it’s a lot more involved than the simple up-‘n’down movements that they instilled us with in childhood. There must be research teams and journals dedicated exclusively to brushing techniques. Memo to self: wherever possible avoid scraping.
At home I catch up with bits and pieces and then wander over to Walkers to deliver the Hares stuff. My left foot is hurting quite a bit now. I mention this to Amanda on reception who, in her line of work, sees a lot of ill people. She suggests that it might be a trapped nerve, and I’ll go with that until corrected by someone with more traditional medical qualifications. I also travel on the shiny new 360, which goes up Black Prince Road and is a major contribution to public transport in the area. Now there are two buses to wait forlornly for in hopes that one will carry me to Walker.
When I get home the pain is actually quite bad, so I take some pills and lie on the sofa, then do some more bits.
After that it’s jazz jam night, and there’s no ringer tonight, although there is someone who borrows my bass and plays a bassline interminably and eventually intones something incomprehensible while other people noodle tentatively around him. It sounds like Malcolm Mooney-era Can, and I ought to enjoy it more than I in fact do.
Roland requires more general on-the-toes-ness as usual, which has to be a good thing. I try to keep my eyes on him rather than the score. There is one moment when my concentration slips – a song has been jumping between slow ballad and double time and I drift off and stay in double time when it goes back to slow and come to with Roland stabbing the air in an attempt to get me to slow down. I feel chastened.
I’m winging it more than at other times. I’m not sure what my strike rate is – not that many really bum notes, perhaps not getting the optimum number of roots in.
My solos are good, though.