Dickens

Ever Dearest Diary,

I just finished the second set at the bistro gig, on my Jack Jones, it went well enough. That’s me for the week. I am sat with a cellist and a song-writer. They argue that a tenner’s alright, I say I’m used to ten times that, twenty even, more.

Finished the third set making it two hours of singing and playing. I even politely refused the free lunch as if to say, “I just want money.” Hinting that I need the money to live: strings, dog food, stamps, those sorts of things. Living costs, that old chestnut.

It’s cutting my nose off to spite my face really, but I have little food at home, and truth be told, I could just use going getting some tobacco, heading home, having an ale or two, and a smoke. I just split.

Max.