A muted harp

Calliope, bored with being rained on, came inside and bit my feet until I woke up. When I did, I found that for the first time in days I could think straight.

I had stayed up late last night, surfing, and in so doing discovered that a long-lost friend, a singer songwriter called Patrick Mayo, had died of a freak accident falling down some stairs about ten years ago. Obviously I've not seen him for years, but he was a lovely gentle soul, and had some great tunes with a strong Irish element. He had a high nasal voice, but had a splendid footstomping song called When will it end. And an adaptation of a poem by Thomas Moore which I think was The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls. The first lines are rather apt:

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled

As well as playing guitar lots at The Troubadour, which was a haunt of my twenties and early thirties, full of mad poets and musicians, he also ran a desert island discs show for hospital radio. He had me on as a guest twice, which shows how thin on the ground decent guests must have been. The first time I took it quite seriously, the second time I turned up about two minutes before we were due to start, so we played random music and invented stories to go with it.

Anyhow today simply got on with business. Writing my new letter to agents, and running it past First Matie. Also listened to the pilot radio show Mark and Mindy had made. It seemed very professional to me, and my short Skelton story came out fine too. Inevitably they are still waiting for a response.

Lorraine back at her house, and doing work emails and tidying her place and wondering why she is feeling feverish again.