And talking of playing, I dusted my trusty old gee’tar down tonight and played my mean version of Mr Tambourine Man. Only it isn’t so mean any more because I’m well out of practice. I think the last time I played it was in the late spring or summer of 2011, sitting out in the garden with only a few critters-with-taste for an audience. At the end there was a whole bevy of badgers, foxes and bunnies applauding mightily, while countless birds flew excitedly around and the crows cried ‘Yeah!’ in that gruff, bourbon-soaked voice that crows do so well.
(See what I mean? Escape into fantasy at any excuse. I think I should write children’s fiction.)
Anyway, the reason I was playing it on that occasion was in honour of the Belle of Brooklyn who’d only recently apologised for not coming to live with me after all. She’d gone to New York instead to do brave and highly commendable work with deprived kids and a social conscience. (That was how she’d become the Belle of Brooklyn instead of the Filly from Philly, which would have been her soubriquet had I but thought of it at the time. Only I didn’t, so maybe that’s why she changed her mind. Have you ever been really excited at a prospect, but absolutely terrified at the same time? I have.)
The point is, however, that said lady insisted I’d played Mr Tambourine Man to her over Skype. Well, if I did I must have been drunk or something because I don’t remember having done any such thing. But then she did make a habit of keeping me up until 5 o’clock in the morning, which is as good an excuse as any for not remembering. Or maybe I just dreamt the whole thing and demonstrated yet again that life in all its forms is but an illusion. Or at least a game.
(I knew I’d find a way of reprising the opening somehow.)