I love the sound of breaking glass.

I am delighted to say my ears seem to be returning to normal, I walked home today in the sunshine and I could clearly hear the birds singing, the wind blowing in the trees, the water tricking through the Asda trolleys lying sideways in the stream and my feet crunching on freshly broken glass. I also heard, before I even saw it, the Kentucky Fried Chicken box skipping gaily past on a sudden gust from behind me. It continued off down the road and disappeared in the distance as it raced to beat me home.

I say, my hearing has returned to normal but what I mean by that is the only thing that not right about my hearing is the usual tinnitus I suffer from which I only really notice if I think about it, like right now, or when things are really quiet.

I forgot what day it was today, and thought it was Wednesday, one look at my blog would have put me straight but that would have been bizarre, needing a blog to keep track of my life.

Tickets are selling really well for the Brighton gig and are hopefully for the Spitz gig in London too. I’ve been getting emails from people travelling some distance to attend the gigs including from Paris. You know it is weird to not playing very often and then when we do, we play two days in a row, I am going to be completely knackered by Sunday and I’ve got to try to keep this blog thing going through it.

I can’t stand all the preparation and organising that is needed for these things though but you can be sure that when I am on stage, finally ready to play, I am all there for you.

I matters to me that if you have turned out to see us, that effort should be rewarded by a fine performance by the band if humanly possible.

Then we all go home happy.

1965

My imagination was always full of explosions, every toy car, boat or plane of mine had been blown up countless times by evil villains, I ran a whole department of secret agents from my room and they were always returning having nearly lost their lives with their car or boat or plane completely wrecked. By the time I was old enough to see a James Bond film I could completely empathise with M.
One agent, just called 7 (these weren’t double ‘o’s, they didn’t have a licence to kill, they were a clandestine unit run in parallel with MI5’s, they were technically illegal so they didn’t need a licence for anything.), was a promising young man who we originally issued with a Robin Reliant, it was a really crap car even then but it was brand new. He managed to retrieve a consignment of Nazi gold by swerving it under fire, into on coming traffic on the road just outside the Gothenburg tunnel in Switzerland. He jumped out at the last minute and the baddies crashed into it and all died. But not 7, he survived and was favoured by our organisation, each time he completed a mission successfully and his car was a write off, we would issue him with a slightly better make and model of vehicle. He eventually became the proud owner of a brand new Austin Martin DB4 just like James Bond’s. They were made for one another.

Unfortunately the following day he broke his neck under my shoe when I had too many toys out on the floor.

I wasn’t allowed to acknowledge his death, to the rest of the world, he didn’t exist.

The life I lead is hard. Too hard.