Nympton Gig

Dear Diary,

On the Flex?! Yes. mais oui, bien sur. J'souis... Sur le Flex. C'est sur. Alas, Maxy saw his old-man play with the fantabulous sheep-dip playboys. It was the proudest moment of his whole dang life. Maxy's heart... it swelled with pride at seeing, hearing his old man play a kick-ass baritone sax solo, through a slow number.

I had taken ample supplies of scrumpy mixed with the 'special stuff'. Moonshine. I also had enough to smoke. As a result of over indulgence, in the second half of the gig, my vision blurred, the room began to spin, I almost collapsed were it not for the sound of soul food: music. It kept me together, listening to Dadio honk that horn, the playboys were excellent musicians.

Like father like son. I dazzled them all with some nifty guitar work, after the show had finished. I earned a compliment from their trumpet player, another awfully good muso.

The sun is shining and the ride back was pleasant. I miss Devon so much, but equally, seeing the spectacular vista upon arrival in my home village made me proud, content, that I dwell amidst such a natural paradise. The drummer whom Dad gave a lift back was suitably impressed.

I texted Suzie-Q, inviting her out to dinner tomorrow night. She has flu. I will take her some local honey and a bunch of flowers. She knows I'm very fond of her, and I am likeable enough for her to remain in contact. I must be doing something right. She is really fit. Red-head. Lithe. Loveable. x

I noticed yesterday whilst gazing veinly at my reflection, that I have my first grey hair. Many friends of my age and younger went grey a long time ago. I am youthful for my years. The grey hair is nestled in a scraggly beard and barely noticable amidst a tangled mess of a beard. The hairs of which are blonde, brown, and even ginger. Testament to a cosmopoliton ancestry.

Now I must go and play the residency gig. Work. Yey! :) On my Jack Jones but I may have another blues guitarist join in awhile. Gulliver is off jamming elsewhere, Harry has moved on, so it leaves me. Today I may even see Slab' and a Welsh friend of ours.

My neighbours are arguing. The wail of a distant police siren. This is the sound of heated argument; and it feels like home...

Maximus Fleximus.

Post-Script: Well. That was that. Shortest gig ever! After I spoke to Harry last, he said could not do the gig today. I bumped into another musician in town, told him what Harry had said. As soon as I arrived at the show Harry became stressy and said, "You twisted my words Max." I did no such thing. Rather than fuel the bitterness, I bowed out gracefully. Told the boss what had happened, and departed on good terms with her at least. Oh well.