Compromise

Dear Diary,

Well well well, today had an interesting turn of events. I went to busk and just as I arrived at the pitch (where the streets are paved with gold) Gulliver the fiddler arrived. I asked him whether we should flip a coin to see who has the spot. He bade me go first, we agreed to share it (though he had it all day last market day, I must settle for half on this market day). Alas, after an hour I’d made a few bob (slim pickins) and made good, as a man of my word, left. I wandered up town and wondered where the banjoist-fiddler may be. He was in the square, where, nobody makes money. People who drink in wetherspoons (battery-farm drinkers) don’t have money, whereas people who shop at waitrose are affluent.

I considered letting him know that I had finished but decided against it. I wondered if he could see me walking down the street, and then realised that his right eye is missing so he can’t see shit down that side. We could have played together, but he doesn’t want to. It is his loss.

Food glorious food! Haha! My megre pittance is enough to buy some vegetables, gladly. Now I am ready to continue my studies. Well fed.

I decided against getting vegetables or coffee and bought some cider instead. Fcuk it. I could use a drink. First one this week. Also, I managed to meet Dad half-way and am going there for Christmas - much to Ron’s dismay. Band practice is out of the question, but the gig is still going ahead.

Max.