“Really easy,” said Tom, leaning on the door of his car, “Out of here, turn left, then carry on until the village. Then it’s the Alma pub; you can’t miss it.”
Ten minutes later I was doing a three-point turn in a narrow country lane. The car was beeping as I shunted into reverse among the thick winter hedge. Tom was texting me.
I don’t know how I’ve become so rubbish at directions. I know I’ve talked about this before, but it’s really annoying! Especially in the era of the sat nav. It should be easy to get anywhere with a postcode! I suppose I could argue that my brain reroutes these trivial matters to higher things, and I’m perpetually unconcerned by the mundanities of where I am versus where I should be. But I fear that that... would be bunkum. I get lost in the supermarket.
Tom and The Other Matt smiled at me as I pulled into the pub car park. They were kind enough not to say anything, but in a way, they didn’t need to.
Practising with those guys is usually great fun. They’re both excellent musicians - drums and melodeon, and I typically do my best to keep up on the keyboard, without making too many faces.
“I never know whether you’re confused or just angry with your sheet music,” said one of them (I forget which) to me today. I said was okay.
The Other Matt somehow manages to keep all the complicated tunes locked away in his head, like a musical map. I thump away at the keyboard and hope for the best. No musical map for me - once again, I frequently get lost in Sainsbury’s. I am an improviser.
I made the mistake a while ago of looking up a review of a barn dance we’d played at. They say you shouldn’t read your reviews; I quite agree. This one emphasised how excellent the drummer and the melodeon player had been, particularly. I took it as a keen encouragement to get better.
We finished, and I headed home, following my nose towards the M3 and the A34. At least, I hoped so.
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