I allow myself an extra hour in bed. Because I’m weak. This means I miss out on Tai Chi and Sitting and it means that as I am emerging from the shower I miss the smell of coffee because it isn’t there.
Let that be a lesson to me. Or something.
Thence to the world of That Mouse for a day, chatting with Ben at lunchtime about things to do to the CA site, and letting him into the Mysql page at Dreamhost.
After work I jet (!) up to Walthamstowe, where I am to perform at the new VAC night for Mr Sherwood. I get to Walthamstowe station and realise that I would be safer walking around than waiting for a train to Wood Street, where the gig is. At least two wags are letting off fireworks. I fantasise that it’s Blitz Night – the Old Folks drag out the blackout curtains and dust off the Lord Haw Haw CDs and pretend it’s 1940 all over again.
There are a bunch of floor spots before (and after) me. I sit and put a part of my attention into my left hand and into various parts of my body that might have an interest in functioning properly in the next couple of hours.
One of the spots is a fabulous performer called Lea, who has arrived in London with a friend and her small daughter and is spending her first night in Walthamstow. This may have been a strategic error on her part, but I buy her CD. I hope she finds cool stuff in the UK somewhere. Not that there’s anything wrong with Walthamstow, per se, I’m not sure that it justifies a transatlantic crossing on its own, that’s all.
The gig itself is nice, although I find myself playing all the songs at the end much faster than I started them. Also, River Rise was a mistake. Playing it, not writing it.
I leave at 10:30, walk back to the Tube station (Walthamstowe village is quite nice when it’s not raining. I pass an inexplicable plinth/column thing), and then go home. Drunken revellers get on and one of them, the life and soul of the party type, touches me when I close my eyes and then gasp! pretends it wasn’t him. It appears that moving into adolescence and beyond held no charms for this wacky fortysomething. Or thirtysomething, perhaps. I think he thinks he’s a character from Cold Feet but is in fact Colin Hunt from The Fast Show
I’m listening to Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on the Palm. It’s wonderful, constantly diverting and imaginative. I must do that some more.
Home late. Obviously. What time will I get up tomorrow, I wonder.