I didn’t sleep too much last night. Getting to sleep is always a problem for me, more so after a gig. Regardless of whether the night’s gone good or bad, getting home late after running the onstage gauntlet, the mind is just too alert to shut down.
I’d stopped off at my aunt and uncle’s before the gig, having not managed to visit them this week. I hadn’t gigged for a week so I was anticipating some stage rust. That’s always the case if I’ve dropped below the regular 3 or 4 shows a week, which I have been doing because I felt this gigging was becoming life and I don’t really want that. I’m still first and foremost a writer. That’s where the dreams will always lie.
Having not gigged this week, there was some pre-gig anxiety and I had this Spanish herbal tea, Tela, Tila or something like that, my aunt always gives me to calm me down
Of course, I got the annual Good Friday speech I’ve been getting since the fateful Big Mac of Good Friday ’99. The thing is, soon realising my error that day (at the moment my bus went past the Methodist Church on Clapham High Street and seeing a big ‘Good Friday’ banner), I owned up to it right away.