Monday, July 31, 2017
An Announcement From The Death Metal Zebra
Disorientation
It's disorientating being home. I have drunk far too much tea, watched too much Columbo and washed too many clothes. The place is festooned with post-it notes, half of which are covered in scribbled-out instructions. Barnet is still weird. A Chap was wandering around yesterday, and so were two Japanese Buddhists who came to the door like Jehova's Witnesses and tried to invite me to become a Buddhist. The Post Office had to close this morning because the network computer broke down, and Fleas4U was in sitting on the sofa with Offsprog One a couple of days ago: while the cat's away, the cats will play.
A spell in the Highland mountains has put a whole lot of things into perspective: giant problems have turned into little shrivelled worms, and London itself seems like an overblown rose. I said 'tapadh liebh' to BBC Radio nan Gaidheal for playing Summer Days.
McDad tried and tried to learn Gaelic, but couldn't get his head around it. This is such a lovely song, which he had a recording of, and which was John Smith's favourite song (leader of the Labour Party in the 1990s). It is interesting to see that it originated in Ullapool; I didn't know that.
A spell in the Highland mountains has put a whole lot of things into perspective: giant problems have turned into little shrivelled worms, and London itself seems like an overblown rose. I said 'tapadh liebh' to BBC Radio nan Gaidheal for playing Summer Days.
McDad tried and tried to learn Gaelic, but couldn't get his head around it. This is such a lovely song, which he had a recording of, and which was John Smith's favourite song (leader of the Labour Party in the 1990s). It is interesting to see that it originated in Ullapool; I didn't know that.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Travels
Travel light, said McMum, and she was right. Who wants to be weaving in and out between wheelie suitcases of station platforms with bobbly bits on the concrete to stop people from slipping? Not I, said the fly, especially with the Green Goddess on my back.
Serendipitous timing meant that I was travelling to Inverness First Class, which was luxury apart from listening in to conversations between some seriously snobby people; I thought that I would sleep but the view from the window was so fabulous that there was no way that was going to happen.
The East Coast Line (can't bear to mention that horrible man's brand) takes in one view after the other, from the southern flatlands, through Yorkshire, past Durham City with its cathedral and castle and deep well of red brick terraces; crossing the Tyne over the bridge with the view of more bridges to dear old Newcastle Central Station (there used to be a recording booth on the concourse where you could record a vinyl flexi-disk for five shillings). Then the train glided up to Berwick, past Alnmouth and Holy Island in the distance, over the Tweed where you can spot swans as little specks of white, far down below. It is still a beautiful stone-built town clasping the cliffs and looking eastwards towards the North Sea and it twinkled in the afternoon sunshine. Suddenly, we stopped and the burnt smell of emergency brakes filled the carriage.
Four young ginger cows with blunt juicy noses watched us from their field. A train had broken down ahead, and we had to go backwards to a part of the rails where the points could be changed so we could overtake it. The cows watched, not even chewing; the train reversed, and then moved forwards again. The cows were entranced. Reality agri-TV had finally arrived in the borders, and they were the first to enjoy it.
We slid into Edinburgh Waverley and I remembered the many times we'd disembarked there with the Offsprogs, first as babbies, then as toddlers, then eventually teenagers, to visit McMum and McDad. It's so peculiar no longer to have that base in Scotland; at one point we all knew Edinburgh as well as we knew London. The train headed north, and further north, through Pitlochry where McMum and McDad used to come and pick us up (often sloshed), off the train with the empty Thermos that had been filled with Gluhwein. Up through the mountains, where the glaciers have carved the landscape into drama after drama, the sky providing the lights and the reflections in the lakes, the footlights; rainbows, half rainbows, tumbling, surly clouds. Spotlit mountain tops and dark valleys provided camouflage for deer and electricity pylons defiantly carried cables across the most hostile-looking landscapes (the fallen pylon is particularly evocative of some industrial metal animal skeleton that has been left to rot in nature's time).
The train was an hour late into Inverness but luckily the hostel was close by.
As I was getting ready to sleep, a young male French cyclist came into the room and I suddenly realised that I was sharing with three blokes! You see, I've never had the luxury of being a backpacker; I never had a job where you could save up for anything when I was younger, so punk rock had to do that stuff for me. I stopped breathing for an hour, especially when the last one in came in with his infra-red head-lamp and started shining it around the room. Suddenly the night turned into a horror movie as the red spotlight silently travelled across the walls and ceiling. Luckily I was sleeping with the Green Goddess and I held on to her neck tightly for protection. Next morning though, we got chatting and they told me that they were terrified of midgies; one of the Offsprogs used to attract them like, well, flies: and on the Isle of Skye her ears filled up with them until we remembered McDad saying that Bog Myrtle would repel them. So I told the French cyclists. 'Boj Myrtle', one of them typed into his phone.
The bus journey from Inverness to Ullapool went through more gorgeous mountain terrain. I have driven that journey many times but you don't see as much with your eyes on the road. The sick bag detail on the bus was a comical touch.
In the main street, a little wispy Nordic-looking girl was busking with a fiddle. She looked as though she was going to be blown away by the wind and indeed she disappeared for a while, only to reappear in an alleyway somewhere else ten minutes later. A convoy of six brand-new tractors roared past, bound for the ferry terminal. Ullapool harbour is industrial-vehicle heaven.
Anne Wood had offered a room to stay, and later Sot Otter (who organised the gig), came by and we headed for the rehearsal of the choir she has set up, Three Sheets to the Wind. It's impossible to describe the wonderful feeling of listening to a choir rehearsal where everybody wants to be there, everyone wants to sing their best and everyone trusts the choir leader. Being immersed in that lovely sound of human voices interacting with each other, it's a luscious experience. It's a large group (yet not everyone was there) but they are also disciplined and so committed yet so relaxed at the same time. They are pitch-perfect and hold their harmonies simultaneously as solidly as rock, but as lightly as feathers. I think that experience has been one of the highlights of the year!
So we went round to the Argyll Hotel, and after a quick sound check, the choir sang their four numbers, finishing with a really rousing version of Oh Happy Day that gave the western winds a run for their money. They got a massive round of applause and I reckon they will have a bunch of new people joining them after that performance, including the barman!
Sot had taught them the backing vocals of Women of the World, and from their seats they sang the choruses (I'm sorry I played it a bit too fast!) and also the 'She's a Femme Fatale' bits of Femme Fatale which Karen led from the sofa after making a long journey, I hope the first of many adventures for her. They also joined in singing The Sea, and made it a very special night. Thank you so much to Sot, and to the choir who deserve to be heard far beyond the walls of the Argyll Hotel. What a complete privilege!
It was great to see Robbie there, where he's working on the campsite, and also great on the way back to catch up with a few people over coffee, here and there.
I reckon I've travelled around 3000 miles so far on this tour by car, bus and train and of course on foot. Big thanks to everyone who came to the gig, massive thanks to Sot, and I am happy to say that all the Femme Fatale CDs were sold, which means more money for Refugee Action. It can still be downloaded from here, or bought from either me or the Charlie Tipper Conspiracy at gigs:
https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/album/femme-fatale
Serendipitous timing meant that I was travelling to Inverness First Class, which was luxury apart from listening in to conversations between some seriously snobby people; I thought that I would sleep but the view from the window was so fabulous that there was no way that was going to happen.
The East Coast Line (can't bear to mention that horrible man's brand) takes in one view after the other, from the southern flatlands, through Yorkshire, past Durham City with its cathedral and castle and deep well of red brick terraces; crossing the Tyne over the bridge with the view of more bridges to dear old Newcastle Central Station (there used to be a recording booth on the concourse where you could record a vinyl flexi-disk for five shillings). Then the train glided up to Berwick, past Alnmouth and Holy Island in the distance, over the Tweed where you can spot swans as little specks of white, far down below. It is still a beautiful stone-built town clasping the cliffs and looking eastwards towards the North Sea and it twinkled in the afternoon sunshine. Suddenly, we stopped and the burnt smell of emergency brakes filled the carriage.
Four young ginger cows with blunt juicy noses watched us from their field. A train had broken down ahead, and we had to go backwards to a part of the rails where the points could be changed so we could overtake it. The cows watched, not even chewing; the train reversed, and then moved forwards again. The cows were entranced. Reality agri-TV had finally arrived in the borders, and they were the first to enjoy it.
We slid into Edinburgh Waverley and I remembered the many times we'd disembarked there with the Offsprogs, first as babbies, then as toddlers, then eventually teenagers, to visit McMum and McDad. It's so peculiar no longer to have that base in Scotland; at one point we all knew Edinburgh as well as we knew London. The train headed north, and further north, through Pitlochry where McMum and McDad used to come and pick us up (often sloshed), off the train with the empty Thermos that had been filled with Gluhwein. Up through the mountains, where the glaciers have carved the landscape into drama after drama, the sky providing the lights and the reflections in the lakes, the footlights; rainbows, half rainbows, tumbling, surly clouds. Spotlit mountain tops and dark valleys provided camouflage for deer and electricity pylons defiantly carried cables across the most hostile-looking landscapes (the fallen pylon is particularly evocative of some industrial metal animal skeleton that has been left to rot in nature's time).The train was an hour late into Inverness but luckily the hostel was close by.
The bus journey from Inverness to Ullapool went through more gorgeous mountain terrain. I have driven that journey many times but you don't see as much with your eyes on the road. The sick bag detail on the bus was a comical touch.
In the main street, a little wispy Nordic-looking girl was busking with a fiddle. She looked as though she was going to be blown away by the wind and indeed she disappeared for a while, only to reappear in an alleyway somewhere else ten minutes later. A convoy of six brand-new tractors roared past, bound for the ferry terminal. Ullapool harbour is industrial-vehicle heaven.
Anne Wood had offered a room to stay, and later Sot Otter (who organised the gig), came by and we headed for the rehearsal of the choir she has set up, Three Sheets to the Wind. It's impossible to describe the wonderful feeling of listening to a choir rehearsal where everybody wants to be there, everyone wants to sing their best and everyone trusts the choir leader. Being immersed in that lovely sound of human voices interacting with each other, it's a luscious experience. It's a large group (yet not everyone was there) but they are also disciplined and so committed yet so relaxed at the same time. They are pitch-perfect and hold their harmonies simultaneously as solidly as rock, but as lightly as feathers. I think that experience has been one of the highlights of the year!
So we went round to the Argyll Hotel, and after a quick sound check, the choir sang their four numbers, finishing with a really rousing version of Oh Happy Day that gave the western winds a run for their money. They got a massive round of applause and I reckon they will have a bunch of new people joining them after that performance, including the barman!
Sot had taught them the backing vocals of Women of the World, and from their seats they sang the choruses (I'm sorry I played it a bit too fast!) and also the 'She's a Femme Fatale' bits of Femme Fatale which Karen led from the sofa after making a long journey, I hope the first of many adventures for her. They also joined in singing The Sea, and made it a very special night. Thank you so much to Sot, and to the choir who deserve to be heard far beyond the walls of the Argyll Hotel. What a complete privilege!
It was great to see Robbie there, where he's working on the campsite, and also great on the way back to catch up with a few people over coffee, here and there.
I reckon I've travelled around 3000 miles so far on this tour by car, bus and train and of course on foot. Big thanks to everyone who came to the gig, massive thanks to Sot, and I am happy to say that all the Femme Fatale CDs were sold, which means more money for Refugee Action. It can still be downloaded from here, or bought from either me or the Charlie Tipper Conspiracy at gigs:
https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/album/femme-fatale
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Asbo Derek Ulysses Twin Album Review
I’m waiting for the postman, because I’ve ordered a hat off the internet to keep dry when I go to Ullapool tomorrow, so let’s listen together (you mean you haven’t bought it yet?).
The tracks on this album are the perfect length- mostly less than two minutes, or ballad length (less that three). I'll pick out my faves although I've listened to the lot:
Investors in People: a song that ridicules workplace insincerity by reducing it to essential items of clothing. Work is quite literally, pants. Many people will feel this song deeply in their souls, but with a bit of blue sky thinking, we will get through it together, I'm sure.
‘My name is Lydia, and I am in media’ the first line of Bus Passes (for the middle classes) starts the song as it means to go on. This is my favourite track; Alan and Fran in the samba band. Ouch! How to get rid of your smug friends in one fell swoop; it made me laugh out loud at 10.46 a.m. just as I did at 9.47 p.m. on Saturday when they played it live. Bus stop!
Lotus Birth: Oh, horrible! This song pinpoints the disgustingness of hippy childbirth. I have been to look for the placenta that they chucked off the pier bobbing about in the English Channel, but I couldn’t see it. It must have sunk.
Latte: This one reveals a stark hatred of the ‘Can I get…’ culture, with as many offensive phrases as possible crammed into one song, none of which are as offensive as ‘Can I get a latte’, sung in a suitably irritated tone through gritted teeth. Brilliant.
Canary Wharf: ‘I’ll wear an Edinburgh Woollen Mills Scarf’; I wonder if they could flog this to the company as an advertising jingle? Possibly not, as so many potential customers are instructed to fuck off back to where they came from. Has Jem not heard of upward mobility? Essential listening on the DLR at maximum volume with a ghettoblaster, please.
Oh, yes.
Larry Hagman: ‘Didn’t speak on Sundays’, says the guitar, because Larry Hagman didn’t speak on Sundays. Sounds like a good idea to me.
Pickles: ‘Eric Pickles: what a twat’. Quite agree. Why has nobody said this before? And they take the Mickey out of Boris too (see what I did just there?). This should be sent to the Houses of Parliament immediately for their edification. Lester Square used to send all his songs to The Queen at Buckingham Palace (the female one), so why not?
Crook of the Elbow has an insouciant rhythm and homes in on that Beckham thing of, well, hanging the bag on the crook of the elbow. In London you can tell who reads Hello magazine because they walk through the most uncool streets with their fake Gucci bags hanging down, except in this song it’s a supermarket bag with a jar of onion gravy in it. Delish!
Shining Light: Aww, SuBo, aww.
The production is fab (if you notice things like that, and even if you don't, you do). I love the grumpy bass sound, rasping guitar sound (there is a particularly good guitar riff in Backstairs Billy), crisp drum sound, and of course the icing on the cake: Jem's powerful and authoritative voice singing complete nonsense.
Crimp it, baby!
Buy it here: https://asboderek.bandcamp.com/releases
(the postman never came)
Monday, July 24, 2017
Ullapool On Thursday
Big travelz! Exciting! Songs from The Sea album, Femme Fatale, albums and books for sale. And a wonderful choir singing too.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Blank It Out, The Asbo Derek Gig And More
Apologies for this review being a bit fragmented- I started it, added to it and then whizzed off to do something else. The video above was made by Tracey Holloway, of the first song that Vic and me did, Blank It Out. Lee McFadden is playing acoustic guitar, because the song was originally performed by his band The Long Decline.
Our set list:
Blank It Out
Saturday Night With The London Set
Stamp Of A Vamp
Femme Fatale
Temptation
Brother Can You Spare A Dime
Autumn Rendezvous
Back Street Luv
The next photo (below) is of Asbo Derek singing, with Vic on stage with them. I have been roaring with laughter describing their songs to Offsprog One: the song about the middle classes and their bus passes, a couple of songs too rude to mention, and the reason for the name of the album which is possibly too disgusting to mention, but which I may over-ride my sense of decorum to write about. Maybe. Their guitarist is brilliant. And their drummer is called SuBo because of his resemblance to Susan Boyle, I believe; it's a very chantable nickname. The inter-song bantz was hilarious, and although I had been led to believe that the audience would consist of fat old men (I had asked a neutral observer what to expect), there were a lot of very glamorous women there, across the age spectrum, and plenty of skinny young men. The one thing that everyone had in common was extremely loud voices and extreme determination to have fun. Hats off to Steve behind the sound desk, too. It's always a good gig when he's there and he deserves a medal for remaining good natured when challenged by extreme noise, fumbling musicians, and an eccentric approach to what a gig actually consists of.
Second photo by Peter Tainsh.
Then Jane Barnes' photo of us tuning Lee's guitar (see guitar tuners posting a few days ago for a description of the general rigmarole around these annoying contraptions). Then one of Bongo Pete's photographs. I'm not sure what we were laughing at; possibly an act of extreme musical incompetence, possibly not.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Larfing at Dream Themes
I went into work to print out the work so far on the book that I am writing, so that I can have something to read on the long journey to Inverness next week, en route to Ullapool. For once, the printer at work was fully-functioning, which was absolutely extraordinary (I'd factored in frustration time). The machine hummed and the paper glided into a stack with a slightly facetious air of efficiency. So how come in times of maximum stress with ten minutes to go before a three hour lecture with 50 students, the machine says no?
Karina was in, and we got the train to Caledonian Road and walked down to Granary Square through the slightly muggy, slightly polluted London air, past all its multicultural and soon-to-be-gentrified splendour: shops selling this, shops selling that, the occasional 'artisanal coffee shop'. London can be a fabulous gem, under the grime.
I ordered a very expensive crisp sandwich, bits of which blew away in the urban breeze. We tried to locate Shanne, and then went to the supermarket to stock up on either tea, booze or baklava, depending on what we wanted and needed.
Members of Dream Themes were wandering around in their logo'd navy boiler suits; they drifted on to the stage and the bass player, the man with the slightly terrifying eyes and the Merrythought-Teddy hair, introduced their soundcheck. They charged into their first theme, charged into the second, third, fourth; themes came thick and fast. They patted themselves on the back in frequent announcements over the PA; 'Well done us!'. We witnessed Dickie's dance through the crowd (by this time they had stripped to red t-shirts and shorts), of which all I could see was the occasional pink arm and bearded head bobbing up and down. The Good Life sounded like a horse falling downstairs. Me and Karina hooted our way through Star Trek. The 'Winking or Blinking' quiz show promised a prize of tickets to their pantomime, only available at the end of the show, so the poor winner had to stay the course. Thunderbirds was oddly moving. Large sections of the audience revealed themselves to be watchers of children's TV shows (after all, Tellytubbies' main audience was students, I believe). Finally, after they had finished their set, they exhorted us to join in a dance with them as the DJ equipment was moved back on the the stage. They stood in a line, saluted-along-to-the-instructions, and gradually, one by one, we felt compelled to join in.
'Stick your arms out! Stick your arms out, thumbs up! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up, head back! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up, head back, tail out!'.
No, no, no, nothing was going to make me poke my bum out in Granary Square, but almost everybody else did.
I laughed so much I almost threw up; it was impossible to keep a straight face, even though a steady stream of po-faced bearded cyclists constantly pushed past trying to get to the Regents Canal towpath to mow down a few pedestrians.
Halfway through, Vic phoned to ask what the last chord of the second chorus of one of the songs we're doing tonight was. It was rather difficult to change gear mentally. I left the crowd briefly and twisted my fingers into a chord shape, but alas, my mind was still singing along to the sting from News At Ten, a track so short that it ends before the iTunes preview does. Thankfully, he guessed from my vague ramblings what it was. I think.
See you in Brighton, folks!
I got it a bit wrong, but do feel free to dance along if bored:
Karina was in, and we got the train to Caledonian Road and walked down to Granary Square through the slightly muggy, slightly polluted London air, past all its multicultural and soon-to-be-gentrified splendour: shops selling this, shops selling that, the occasional 'artisanal coffee shop'. London can be a fabulous gem, under the grime.
I ordered a very expensive crisp sandwich, bits of which blew away in the urban breeze. We tried to locate Shanne, and then went to the supermarket to stock up on either tea, booze or baklava, depending on what we wanted and needed.
Members of Dream Themes were wandering around in their logo'd navy boiler suits; they drifted on to the stage and the bass player, the man with the slightly terrifying eyes and the Merrythought-Teddy hair, introduced their soundcheck. They charged into their first theme, charged into the second, third, fourth; themes came thick and fast. They patted themselves on the back in frequent announcements over the PA; 'Well done us!'. We witnessed Dickie's dance through the crowd (by this time they had stripped to red t-shirts and shorts), of which all I could see was the occasional pink arm and bearded head bobbing up and down. The Good Life sounded like a horse falling downstairs. Me and Karina hooted our way through Star Trek. The 'Winking or Blinking' quiz show promised a prize of tickets to their pantomime, only available at the end of the show, so the poor winner had to stay the course. Thunderbirds was oddly moving. Large sections of the audience revealed themselves to be watchers of children's TV shows (after all, Tellytubbies' main audience was students, I believe). Finally, after they had finished their set, they exhorted us to join in a dance with them as the DJ equipment was moved back on the the stage. They stood in a line, saluted-along-to-the-instructions, and gradually, one by one, we felt compelled to join in.
'Stick your arms out! Stick your arms out, thumbs up! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up, head back! Stick your arms out, thumbs up, shoulders up, head back, tail out!'.
No, no, no, nothing was going to make me poke my bum out in Granary Square, but almost everybody else did.
I laughed so much I almost threw up; it was impossible to keep a straight face, even though a steady stream of po-faced bearded cyclists constantly pushed past trying to get to the Regents Canal towpath to mow down a few pedestrians.
Halfway through, Vic phoned to ask what the last chord of the second chorus of one of the songs we're doing tonight was. It was rather difficult to change gear mentally. I left the crowd briefly and twisted my fingers into a chord shape, but alas, my mind was still singing along to the sting from News At Ten, a track so short that it ends before the iTunes preview does. Thankfully, he guessed from my vague ramblings what it was. I think.
See you in Brighton, folks!
I got it a bit wrong, but do feel free to dance along if bored:
Friday, July 21, 2017
Going Into Reverse
I have been trying so hard to learn all of the lyrics and chords for tomorrow's gig with Vic Godard for the Asbo Derek launch of their album Ulysses Twin, that my brain has gone into reverse and not only can I not remember the new things I've learned this week, but I've also forgotten the things that I already knew, apart from when I'm just dropping off to sleep and the whole lot comes thundering into my brain at maximum volume.
How did I ever manage to pass exams at school?
Actually I can remember that. I used to sleep with my exercise book under the pillow the night before the exam.
I'll try that, with the written-out lyrics and chords.
How did I ever manage to pass exams at school?
Actually I can remember that. I used to sleep with my exercise book under the pillow the night before the exam.
I'll try that, with the written-out lyrics and chords.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Gah. Guitar Tuners.
What's that rattling sound? That's the sound of my feet wading through hundreds of broken guitar tuners, scattered through the house like giant cockroaches, peering up at me through lit-up faces that make it seem as though they are working: but they're not.
You only have to look at them a bit funny and they stop; their dials freeze, their lights wink, they invent new tones that mankind has never heard before- the sounds of the Universe- and attune to those but completely ignore your guitar. They snap in half and pretend to be fixed, only to sulk as soon as you clip them on the the headstock of the guitar. They yearn for a new battery, weeping, crying, begging: you replace the battery. 'Hah hah! Fooled you!', they taunt. They were broken anyway.
They come in all colours, shapes and sizes. Inventors have invented the perfect tuner. It works perfectly until it doesn't work any more, just when you most need it to.
You might think 'tuning fork', and laugh at the poor grasp of music that us electric guitarists have. But have you ever tried to tune a guitar to a fork in noisy venue? Not only do you look like a complete prat but you can't hear the bloody thing anyway.
So off I go to the music shop, to try to find a brand that I haven't bought yet so I can hope that it won't break after being used three times. I'll bring the little Spork, Crunk, or Flibbetigibbet home with me, fumble it out of it's fiddly box that probably cost more than the tuner itself, and prepare to be disappointed yet again.
And you thought it was so easy being a musician.
You only have to look at them a bit funny and they stop; their dials freeze, their lights wink, they invent new tones that mankind has never heard before- the sounds of the Universe- and attune to those but completely ignore your guitar. They snap in half and pretend to be fixed, only to sulk as soon as you clip them on the the headstock of the guitar. They yearn for a new battery, weeping, crying, begging: you replace the battery. 'Hah hah! Fooled you!', they taunt. They were broken anyway.
They come in all colours, shapes and sizes. Inventors have invented the perfect tuner. It works perfectly until it doesn't work any more, just when you most need it to.
You might think 'tuning fork', and laugh at the poor grasp of music that us electric guitarists have. But have you ever tried to tune a guitar to a fork in noisy venue? Not only do you look like a complete prat but you can't hear the bloody thing anyway.
So off I go to the music shop, to try to find a brand that I haven't bought yet so I can hope that it won't break after being used three times. I'll bring the little Spork, Crunk, or Flibbetigibbet home with me, fumble it out of it's fiddly box that probably cost more than the tuner itself, and prepare to be disappointed yet again.
And you thought it was so easy being a musician.
Fleas4U Makes A Fleeting Appearance
What a humdinger of a storm. Offpsprog One went into the yard with her camera, and I hung out of the bedroom window to watch the lightning.
A furry, shadowy shape slithered along the top of the new fence and down into next door's garden. I head a 'meep' and the door opened. You lazy, greedy thing, Fleas4U. Can't be bothered with us because we don't feed him. It's only a little jump!
A furry, shadowy shape slithered along the top of the new fence and down into next door's garden. I head a 'meep' and the door opened. You lazy, greedy thing, Fleas4U. Can't be bothered with us because we don't feed him. It's only a little jump!
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