Orange Gaffa Tape
Diana had orange gaffa tape the other night.
Where did she get it from? She wouldn't say. It was excruciatingly funky. I want some.
Last night at the Green Note was a sweet gig. People had braved the elements and we sat cosily secluded in the back room, paying a fortune for our drinks (£1.85 for half a coke?) and made some lovely music. Paul Davey came along and succumbed to Martin's charm, weaving through to the back of the room with his clarinet and blowing himself to the land of bliss in an improvisation that was well beyond anything he'd done before. We did a duo (London) and a trio (Autumn Love), and Martin was on form, having discovered the bar person was from Barcelona and could do deadly high-fives; she got the joke and joined in gleefully from the other end of the room. I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday evening, actually.
Meanwhile, my cat posts my postings before I intend to.
She's just trying to get attention by walking all over the keyboard, but she seems to imagine she's some sort of feline editor.
The other one has learned how to open a packet of crisps.
All is surreal in the suburbs, you know.