It is done and I am free. Time to stop this crap now. No more. No more. No more. I ran myself into the ground again for something that doesn’t fill me with passion. My habit to always commit myself and to work as hard as possible caused me a great deal of actual physical pain with this rib. I’m an idiot.
Today has been a glorious day. I got up late and escaped from Pontins (god it’s horrible there. All those squat concrete “chalets” louring by the seaside.) I dropped off the team at the station, and then went back for Tristan and we found the best breakfast possible at Remedy in Southport. Tristan had Gin for breakfast. I had one too. Perhaps that was foolish, but at the time I was feeling great, with my morning solpadeine bubbling away inside me. That done, Tristan and I embarked on a seaside funday. We played the penny pushers and the shooty game. We even ventured into a casino and came out with roughly the same amount we went in with, which is essentially a win. We walked down to the end of Southport pier and contemplated the sand flats. Then, following the advice of an old friend of my dad’s, we went for tea on Lords Lane. Afternoon tea.
A lot better than the one we had to rush out to the buffet stands. An Edwardian tea room with ticking clocks and wood paneling. “Mrs Blennerhasset, we want cake, and fine wine.” Cash or cheque only and everything comes out in sterling silver. We felt a little like Withnail and I although there might be a problem determining which of us is Withnail. Either one of us might end up reciting Hamlet to the wolves in the park. Either one of us might get that changing job.
Then we drove into Liverpool and caught The Cavern Club.
Here we are with Cilla. A guy was refreshing old songs with a good level of call and response, a strong voice and an excellent understanding of how to get his crowd to sing bits of his familiar songs. Considering he was early evening Monday, I respected his competence even if he couldn’t use his own material for whatever reason. It made me think of my old mate John Holt Roberts who busks in York. John was my Marley for my first year on Christmas Carol. His work is electric. He plays with his whole body, and he attacks his guitar. He would be awesome in that venue. But he’s Yorkshire through and through.
Now I’m in North Wales and the drive almost killed me. Ugh. Massive pain half of the journey, before I stopped and got some experimental cocodamol. Then I realised that I shouldn’t drive on cocodamol. I was driving through a painless fog but with zero reaction speed, for 20 minutes. It was terrifying. But I made it.
Now Tristan and I are staying together with an old mate in Wales. If one or the other of us gets an audition we’ll rush back. But if not we will puddleduck and hang out with old friends. A lovely way to spend a quiet week.