My neighbours probably know when I get up. Everybody else could be up and about on a Sunday morning, and all will be quietish. Girly giggles, a fluffy woof or two, but generally quiet. Once I get up the radio goes on, and stays on. I potter through my days with the background burbling of Lauren, Mark and Simon. At the weekend it’s Cerys, Graham and Jarvis. At times I have to
put my book down stop the vital work I’m doing, and investigate further- what was that person’s name? Oh, I like that– I wonder what else they’ve done?
I would love to be musical myself, but I haven’t a note. A family full of singers, dancers and musicians, but I got none of it. (I have two left feet, the primary school choir didn’t want me, and everyone was glad when I stopped murdering a violin.) There’s nothing I can do about it, except enjoy everyone else’s skill.
The dark days of January are brightened round these parts by the Out to Lunch Festival– there are evening performances too, but lunchtime is perfect for me. This year I went to see young local folky type Niamh McGlinchey, always fun singer songwriter Kieran Goss, and the rather awesome Arlo Guthrie. Like the performers they are, each left me wanting more.
Chat, music, laughter, tears, outrage. Lunch included in the price.
Oddly, I’ve done more music shopping since.