A second B in the middle of the first T of the year (12 or thereabout)

republic of the moon

It says in the newspaper that January was the wettest month since records began.

In England.

Because in some parts the polar is vortexing.

I’m in England.

It's raining.

Actually, that isn’t true. It WAS raining last night when I thought about writing this, and it HAD been raining ever since Paris but today the sky is blue and the sun – at least through this window and into this jumper – is hot.

So I’d better go out.

It’s good that it’s not raining because I hate this city when it’s raining.

I hate parts of the city when it’s NOT raining, but the other parts I like and that’s where I’m going.

Which is a gallery.

In an old back bit that no one notices, of an old soup stock factory.

There’s a leaflet on the desk where you walk in and don’t pay – it’s a free gallery – about imaging the city in another way.

It talks about the grey middle not being there.

It’s the grey middle that I hate.

And the corporate middle.   

And the grim outside.

It’s the rusty, forgotten old back bits that I love.

I have spent the last two days in the rusty back bits, with the rusty back bit people.

“Ephemera is my thing.” Said one of them.

This was a little hard to believe when we were haggling over the price of a coffee stained Mad magazine, a crumpled and torn 1953 edition of Picture Illustrated and a book that seemed to be about mess and had the inscription ‘to all the people all over the world who         things’.

                  drop

“I’ll give you 2 pound”.

“Ephemera’s my thing, it has to be 3 pounds.”

“ Don't you mean ephemeron? 2 pounds 50”

“Give him 3 pounds”.

opposite haggling spot

Suddenly I am haggling with my wife as well!

My phone rings.

It’s my sister.    

“Give him 3 pounds.”

I gave him 3 pounds.

What is it with families?

I went to see Van Morrison in concert in Bristol.

At the theatre entrance there was a big notice.

‘Show starts at 8. Finishes at 9.45. No support act. No drinking in the auditorium. No filming. Bar will be shut whilst Mr Morrison plays.’

At 8 nothing happened.

At 8.10 neither.

By now I was REALLY thirsty and had a strong need for Guinness.

At 8.15 someone ambled onto the stage with the band.

It wasn’t Van.

Three songs later she introduced herself and if you were up to date you would recognise her to be Van’s daughter.

She sang a forth song.

Clearly not a support act then.

Suspecting that his brother would come out next, or his uncle’s cousin I wandered out to the bar.

Van was sitting there drinking.

He offered me a sip.

We chatted about old times and some of the old songs and I asked him what he intended to do in the finale.

“One off the new album, it’ll be the first time that me and the rest of the band kick up a real jam and then I’ll exit in mid-riff leaving them to riff on for several and several bars until I’m well on the bus heading home.”

I said  -“you won’t have much chance selling these posters that are dated and venue specific for 15 pounds after tonight will you? So. I’ll give you a fiver.”

only some of this stuff made up

“Sorry, I can’t do that” he mumbled in his lilting Irish lilt.

"It's my birthday." 

“Ask my nephew, he’s running the concessions”