Frequently fluent flyby birds squawking like pickled pigs porcupine needle on the record groove groove groove. There’s some jazz. Scrambled pegs all a-clippin’ on your washboard scrub. Tinkle down your livery and let me know how squelch the liver is this fine winter’s eve. Quack quack said fiddlesticks tyrannising the whole booth whilst all the time poor Betty was trying to make a call to her dead grandfather. The séance was broken on a whim, when fiddlestix Major decided to break wind at an opportune moment, creasing the glass panels with laughter till their shape was altered unadjustabley. Well well it’s a wonderful day all the way anyway any how any which whey you look at it. Big Louis’ blowin’ an’ the whole place bops. Even the neighbour nextdoor is lifting his trouser legs just a little so his ankles have the freedom to express themselves as they did in the long ago eons of Scotsman pole flunking and sword-dallying. A merry man is he this night. Chicken hula hoop meringue lemon cypress groove a minute minute means very little when you’re tracing time with the lilt of a negro. Well the net is fucked, but that is all and well. Now is the time for writing!

She stood before me on the bus. I could smell her essence, it riled, roused something in me. I wanted to grab her by the hair and sink my teeth deep into the delicate nape of her neck. I wanted to grab her buttocks, those wide shapely hips. Men should be allowed to do these things. The animal in man is restrained these days. And maybe that’s not an entirely good thing. I’d love to have that freedom. But it creeps up on me somely one two three times usually in public with a girl I don’t recognise but for the fact her essence is calling something deep within me to grab out. But I’m a musician. That’s my trade. And that’s what draws the girls in, when they see the performer. Into a dream phantasy reverie of golden future thoughts, serenading by the river under some weeping tree that weeps of joy and summertime solace in the wild. Perhaps one day, if things carry on as they are, what with the woman situation, I’ll be the one that’s grabbed. Woman-handled. They’ll rip the flesh from my bones just to get a taste of that dream someplace in the cold reality concrete officeblocks and full to the limit 5 in the evening bustrips. Maybe it’s this cold horrible life we’re leading against nature that draws up a resistance instantly where some slice of the real earth man’s life might be glimpsed. Long live the farmers. I’m going to the bar now, full of pregabalin, notepad and pen in pocket, plenty of time to sip and observe before I take the stage and unleash everything that’s been crying out for release. Hopefully. You never know how these things might go. At any rate, a wee drink will calm my bursting head. I’m dressed in tight brown cords and the new tag still on it shirt that I nabbed today for four pounds a bargain. Yes, I am colour co-ordinated, and ready to schmooze. Talk jazz with the French. That’s a language we can all understand. A silly blue bag I’ll have to carry this all in, unless I find a suitable other. Won’t be long till these pills kick in. Mother had a dream some months back warning me off them. Proved prophetic as the beating that was meted out to me the other night shows. Tonight I’ll ride safely, embursed in my comort bubble. Lively chat and great colourful jazz writing. Let’s do IT.