Confusion

Dear Diary,

Just as soon as you step out of doors, your day seems to take its own tac. As I strolled happily to the shops, I was hollared, collared, by the good Larry, and Harry. Normally when I see Harry he is imaculately dressed, washed, clean-shaven, but today, he looked like one of us. "Park-bench material". Rather than being his usual.well-turned out self, he sported a two-day old stubble, leather jacket, and was smoking a fag.

Inside the pub (as that is where we instinctively drift to) I began the day with the usual. A loaf of 100% organic bread and some home-made eigth degree scrumpy. Arr. Having friends can influence one somewhat. Larry asked me to take good care of Harry, whilst he was out having another cigarette. I agreed to do so.

Times have been tough for old Har'. He's been out on his ear relationship wise. I tried to help him, be good company, we went to the studio. It was... nice, I suppose.

Alas, on our way back into town, he passed his recent ex and went back inside the pub. I'm not sure what is going on but I feel like this may bode a sea-change in the music scene whereby Maxy has a carte blanch to continue there, or elsewhere. I am not sure what is happening. All I know is that the morrow brings old friends and violins, banjos and buddies. Grant Scot McCormick, also another friend coming down: the Blissful Pilgrim.

Away to the Jazz fesitval, should be good, might be alright. Maxy returns to the heart of the beast. They lair of gypsies. Aye. Finger's crossed, prayer beads on standby. We're in for a rocky-ride.

Maxx