30 October 2014 (Thursday) - Music
Yesterday I whinged about a bad night's sleep. I slept marginally better last night; waking a little while before the alarm having had a rather vivid dream. I had become a native American (red indian) named "Talking Bullsheet" and was on a mission for the Ministry of Defence having been sent to northern France to rescue Mrs Bridges and the cast of the 1970s TV show "Upstairs Downstairs" from what was apparently a war zone.
What was that all about?
"Furry Face TM" then had much of my toast; I scoffed my tablets, and then I watched my dog chase sparrows out of the garden. For a dog who could barely move just three weeks ago he's a lot more sprightly than he was. He's even jumping on and off of the sofa without a thought. He doesn't seem to realise he'd supposed to be resting.
Off to work. As I drove the new leader of the Scottish Nationalists was mentioned on the morning news. Having been told quite convincingly by the Scottish electorate that the Scots aren't interested in her isolationist policies she's now trying to say how unfair a referendum in which all of the British decide en-masse about continued membership of the European Union would be.
How does that work? She wants Scotland out of the UK but to remain in the larger political union.? In any event she's been handed her arse on a plate by the electorate. You have to admire the tenacity of the defeated politician.
There was also talk about the recently released Government files dated from thirty years ago when the threat of a nuclear attack on the UK was a rather serious concern. It would seem that the government of the time had plans for the post-apocalyptic UK; with a decimated population and a overly-stretched police force, martial law would have been declared, and it was suggested that unfeeling psychopaths could be enlisted to ruthlessly enforce law and order.
Fortunately that plan never came to fruition, but it was plans like this which make me think I was right to have been a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament when these crackpot schemes were being hatched.
As I drove up the A28 I was dangerously overtaken by a twat in a green Transit van. As this chap sped up the wrong side of the road at the Wye crossroads cars swerved in all directions to avoid him. Six miles later I caught up with him at the Chartham junction where (as soon as opportunity arose) the chap took a short cut by going the wrong way up a one-way street.
I wish I could remember his registration number... mind you from the way he drove I can't help but wonder if he was one of the psychopaths who, had the bombs dropped, would be laying down the law.
Work was work; I got to scoff some home-make cake and then at lunch time I blew my saxophone. After work I went for the weekly sax lesson. It's rather apparent that for all I'm not that good at reading sheet music, I do it better than trying to work out a tune from letters written in a sequence. "D D# C B A B C# B" doesn't give you any idea of the rhythm; if I say that "D D# C B A B C# B" is the introduction sax solo to Baker Street you get to understand my problem. I hope...
Home for a quick bite to eat, and then I turned down the chance of a meal out with my workmates because "Access all Areas" were gigging at the Windmill. Being on the tablets (and consequently off the beer) I was on driving duty and wouldn't have time to have a meal out and do all the driving in time for the gig. Which was a shame, but in keeping with the day's musical theme I was glad I got to see the band play.
I generally don't like live music, but that's because usually it's not done very well. Tonight's show was rather good. Or perhaps I'm just the teensiest bit biased. Good music, good company....
...the evening was only marred by seven quid for a bottle of cider and a glass of pop finally served up when the barmaid could be bothered.