Rather bizarrely, last night I received a text message from a friend I haven’t properly spoken to in a long time. It simply asked: “Do you want to go to the seaside?”
Not really a difficult question to answer. Who wouldn’t want to escape their crumbling, freezing cold house and escape to the coast for a day? The weather is uncharacteristically cold for this time of year, but mercifully it has started warming up in recent days. It’s scheduled to hit a whopping 8 degrees Celsius in Weston-Super-Mare today. EIGHT DEGREES. That’s positively Caribbean.
So here I sit, at 6:50 AM, waiting for my friend to pick me up. I suspect we will be travelling in one of her many land-rovers, but we shall see about that. In all honesty, I don’t care where we go, or how we get there. I’d like to be far away from this place, if only fleetingly.
So I’ve restrung my guitar and am hoping to maybe catch a few falling coins from passers-by on the beach, but in all honesty I could happily play and sing for eternity with no recompense. If you don’t play a musical instrument, I’d highly recommend it. If you have no control over such things, then just take to time to sing a song once in a while. It feels good, gives a modicum of exercise and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
The only problem with my music is that I only seem to know sad songs. This wasn’t intentional; it seems that the songs I favour are often those which detail lost causes, failed struggle or general tragedy. Perhaps that gives me an edge over traditional buskers. Or perhaps it just highlights that I’m a miserable git. Either way, I’m not losing sleep over it.
Well, my friend should be arriving any time, so I should draw this entry to a close. To the west, my brothers, to the west…