Jazz and head injuries
Off to the City this evening to meet Paul in his jazz Svengali mode. He has been doing some sort of work with a Jazz group called Vox City 5. Went to a pub where they were playing, and there were three of the five there. It was one of those hard-to-resist parping trombone, electric piano and vocal groups. They were very accomplished but unfortunately my least favourite type of jazz.
It was, however, an entertaining night. Turns out the pub we were drinking in, called the Watermark, was Paul's local. He had primed the barmaid to aggressively sell the band's badges and CDs. I found myself browbeaten into handing over one of the Queen's pounds for a badge with the band's name on it.
A little known fact about Paul is that he is a kind of guardian angel to Dave who had a head injury many years ago. Paul sees Dave most weeks. Paul had invited Dave's retired dad Norman along for the jazz, and he and I companionably swapped anecdotes about jazz and head injuries as Paul importantly smoked cigarettes outside.
Fortunately Paul had also invited Ali B and Bryony who appeared with their respective pals. Not seen either for about a year, and it was nice to catch up with them, and introduce one to the other.
Ali B, who appeared with two rather surprised looking girlfriends, whispered to me that the whole thing was like a play. This reinforced by the band taking an interval - in which their CD was played. Ali also set me up discussing some gorgeous friend of hers, who I was supposed to have once met. I replied airily that I had no recollection of her at all. Warming to my theme and including Ali's two pals in the coversation, I said she couldn't have been that fascinating and gorgeous to have been so forgettable, and so on. Turns out one of Ali's pals was her sister. Good job.
Later I enjoyed gossiping to Bryony about relationships, film producing, Brighton etc. We were chatting over a buffet laid on in the pub, which I hadn't expected. I left at 10, brushing the crumbs of pork pie morsels from the front of my hoody, as the yarp of the seagull grew insistent. Home walking through the city at night to Farringdon, then training it to Brighton and beddy-byes.
Off to the City this evening to meet Paul in his jazz Svengali mode. He has been doing some sort of work with a Jazz group called Vox City 5. Went to a pub where they were playing, and there were three of the five there. It was one of those hard-to-resist parping trombone, electric piano and vocal groups. They were very accomplished but unfortunately my least favourite type of jazz.
It was, however, an entertaining night. Turns out the pub we were drinking in, called the Watermark, was Paul's local. He had primed the barmaid to aggressively sell the band's badges and CDs. I found myself browbeaten into handing over one of the Queen's pounds for a badge with the band's name on it.
A little known fact about Paul is that he is a kind of guardian angel to Dave who had a head injury many years ago. Paul sees Dave most weeks. Paul had invited Dave's retired dad Norman along for the jazz, and he and I companionably swapped anecdotes about jazz and head injuries as Paul importantly smoked cigarettes outside.
Fortunately Paul had also invited Ali B and Bryony who appeared with their respective pals. Not seen either for about a year, and it was nice to catch up with them, and introduce one to the other.
Ali B, who appeared with two rather surprised looking girlfriends, whispered to me that the whole thing was like a play. This reinforced by the band taking an interval - in which their CD was played. Ali also set me up discussing some gorgeous friend of hers, who I was supposed to have once met. I replied airily that I had no recollection of her at all. Warming to my theme and including Ali's two pals in the coversation, I said she couldn't have been that fascinating and gorgeous to have been so forgettable, and so on. Turns out one of Ali's pals was her sister. Good job.
Later I enjoyed gossiping to Bryony about relationships, film producing, Brighton etc. We were chatting over a buffet laid on in the pub, which I hadn't expected. I left at 10, brushing the crumbs of pork pie morsels from the front of my hoody, as the yarp of the seagull grew insistent. Home walking through the city at night to Farringdon, then training it to Brighton and beddy-byes.
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