Rain Music

I've got a lovely picture of red and white spotty trees that I took down the South Bank this morning, but my Sony Erikson crapophone has refused to bluetooth it to my computer: soon it won't be a phone any more, as it refuses to text, saving the messages in the outbox for two days later when they don't make sense to the recipient; and the signal dips and cuts off too.
It will merely be a small heavyish object with alphabetical buttons. Perhaps I could use it as a doorstop?

Last night was a night from Mars, my favourite sort. It was raining heavily as I got there a bit early, cos Acton Belle had asked me to sing backing vocals on Runaround Sue and Why Muat I Be (a Teenager in Love). I remembered Joby teaching me the backing vocals to the first one and Acton Belle was impressed. I felt worthwhile and stopped feeling silly that I had eaten some oven-bake haddock about an hour before I did a gig next to the best chip shop in town (well, I was hungry).
I got the Las Vegas rope lights out of my car and we all did soundchecks as the motley audience drifted in. The night was mad, as usual: Lucy's contribution was a dramatised poem that featured the quiet little man who'd been sitting next to me suddenly leaping to his feet and tap dancing. There was a very energetic poet called Razz who did a funny poem about God; Ingrid's band Heartssong was augmented by a bodhran player, Mickey Bleach, who had sung a couple of songs earlier with what looked like a tenor ukelele (they were good songs, actually). I made the mistake of sitting on a slippery giant stool while I played and had trouble anchoring myself the whole way through as I slid this way and that, with my guitar sliding in the opposite direction. At least I didn't dribble, which I have been know to do on occasion.
Acton Belle was delighted that everybody sang along so the backing vocals had several harmonies, more perhaps than the original Belmonts had provided!
Foolish Girl came, and had to keep peeking out of the window to make sure her motorbike wasn't getting a ticket, bless her.
80 quid last time, very mean and greedy of Westminster Council.
As at all of the 'Voices' gigs, it wasn't clear who was the audience and who were the performers, which i thought was rather nice. The last act was a rock act called 'Us' who got a lot of people up dancing, but not me, I'm afraid, as I was enjoting sitting down after my earlier slithering activities.
Acton Belle told me she'd had her birthday party in the Perseverance, and her dad had brought lots of pies down from Bolton, which they had piled in a pyramid on the side.
And afterwards as i drove back home through the rain and red traffic lights with posh men in expensive cars honking their horns at each other as they competed to be first, I thought that it's much better to know how to be happy with a night out than to get your satisfaction from nastiness as you force an oversized car about the place in the metropolitan night.

Fact: on the way back from town this morning, a butterfly flew in through the tube doors, took a look around and flew out again, just before they closed and it started off for the next station.