We've done four solid hours of rehearsal for next Sunday's gig at The Whitley Bay Carnival. We are including a couple of solo songs each, augmented by some playing or backing vocals. I've lost my voice, just like Fiona Bruce the new reader on the six o'clock bulletin.
She's lost hers because I've turned the sound down, since she's a dastardly Tory and I don't need any more right-wing punishment than that meted out by everyday life in UK PLC. Is it just me, or does she actually sound pleased by the bad news that she's delivering?
Speaking of delivering, I sent a framed embroidery to a gallery in Bath yesterday, and a print to an ex-colleague who ordered one of a limited edition that I had printed of the garden snail. I'm hoping the Post Office does its stuff and delivers everything safely.
It's complicated living a guitartist's life: booking travel, dodging rail strikes (yes, I still support them), booking accommodation, making sure that I don't forget my guitar, that I have clean clothes and a toothbrush, that people know I'll be playing where I'm playing, and remembering to eat.
Which reminds me...
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