The house is still for sale and people have started coming out of hibernation like sleepy squirrels to look around it, leaving their manners in their burrows.
One lot marched around as though they already lived here, striding into the waterlogged garden and then straight up the stairs, leaving mud prints all the way. Another lot seemed to be visiting the decor; yet another family has been back three times, and includes a cupboard-opening father who chats away in Greek to his wife, making comments about things that I can't understand.
The house is brutally clean and tidy and feels like a place for everyone else except me.
I reclaim it when they have gone by walking through all the rooms and then singing and filling it with sound.
I have been rehearsing some of the older songs for the Eyre Chapel gig tomorrow night, a gig that I'm really looking forward to.
I noticed that in every song there is something I am scared of, which is stupidly silly, since I wrote the things in the first place.
In Heaven Avenue, it's the first vocal line.
In Temptation, it's the frilly guitar bit in the middle
In Loverman, its the guitar bits in between the singing, which give me cramp in my fingers
In Autumn Love, it's the chorus
Each song has it's quirk, apart from Little England, which just seems to flow along whatever is happening in the world, probably because it began as a therapeutic doodle in the first place. I have a new one that does the same, Three Maple Men which I haven't recorded yout but I might play tomorrow if a music stand doesn't look out of place.
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