Diary Of A Busker Day 141 Sunday August 7th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Oxfam, Time: 2:25-5:27pm, 2. opposite Parchment Street, Time: 5:45-6:23pm).
It’s Sunday afternoon and for once a pleasant, rain free day. I’m set up just down from the tables (and chairs) outside the posh Maison Blanc restaurant. A lady hovers about on the other side of the street, looking over at me now and agn. After 10 minutes she comes over and stands next to me and starts humming – in my book, an early warning sign. I finish what I’m playing – Lara’s Theme (a new addition). This lady, about 55 is dressed in different shades of purple, even purple shoes – Doc Martens which look like they are black but she’s put purple polish on. I apologise for not being able to play the arrangement with the bit which imitates the Balalaika – a clever Chet Atkins arrangement incorporating a Requerdos de la Alhambra “tremolo” technique. Four working fingers are required for this and I have two. This is due to my Focal Dystonia which I explain to her. She takes my hand (Really Madam, do you mind!) and holds it in hers and asks if I feel anything. “Like what?” “A tingling.” “No.” After a few seconds she asks me to play again – the bit I can’t play. Nope, I still can’t play it. She takes my hand again, “Now, your hands are warm. Do you notice the difference between yours and mine?” “Hm…yours are colder?” “Yes, cold hands warm heart.” “Right…well, what does that say about me?!” “Well, you have warm hands, mine are cold. If they were the same they’d cancel each other out, like two positives.” I reckon she’s some sort of “faith” healer. “Are you a faith healer?” “Yes, but you have to believe, or it won’t work.” “I tell you, if you can heal me, I’ll believe in it!” “But you must first have faith.” Well, it might be Sunday but I can’t sit the whole day with this lady holding my hand. I can just about play with two fingers but it would be a real struggle to play with one hand. After what seems like ages she says “I’ll leave you to it. You must go home and just practice the bits that are difficult (that’s how I ended up like this in the first place!)…and I’ll see you again.” OK, see you later Purple God Lady.
Two “Drongos” come up on their bikes. “Did you hear about Stuart? – he got murdered.” “No, I don’t think I know him – if I saw his face maybe I’d recognise him.” “Yeah – little Stuart*, not quite as tall as me, y’know about 5 foot 7. Yeah, murdered, just near the train station. Anyway (he looks down at my bucket), you ‘avin a good day?” “OK. Could be better…could be worse.” “Well, you take care of yourself, see ya.” So thoughtful, the Druggies and Drongos around here.
At 5:30 there’s hardly anyone about and all the market people have left. I head on up the High Street intending to go home but decide on the spur to set up and play for a few minutes just down from WH Smiths, where I haven’t been for a while. It turns out OK, mainly due to a couple in their 30s walking by. The woman puts a crisp (just out of the cashpoint) £5 note inhe bucket. That alone was worth me setting up and playing to practically no one.
A Chinese lady tries to get her son to put a coin in but he doesn’t want to and after 10 minutes gives up but instead of giving it to me herself, she just walks off, putting the coin back in her pocket! A lady sitting on the bench nearby comes over – she’s been there about half an hour. “Do you play any Spanish stuff?” She sounds American. “A few things. La Paloma, do you know that?” “What – Paloma Blanca?” “No! La Paloma, this…(I play a bit)” “Yes, that’s nice. Do you play any Elvis?” “Elvis? He was the greatest but no, not for instrumental guitar, but (I think fast here) I do a few Chet Atkins things – he played the guitar on Heartbreak Hotel, you know!” “OK. What can you play for me?” “Um, do you know Mr. Sandman? The Third Man?” “No – The Third Man, what’s that?” I show her exactly what it is.
The area really is deserted now, so it’s The Good, The Bad And The Ugly then I pack up. A lone Druggie/Drongo comes by with his filthy quilt. “Hi, you alright?” I say. “Yeah, you had a good day? Mine’s been terrible.” “Has it?” “Yeah. Too many beggars about(!). I’m not begging tonight – I CAN’T BE ARSED(!!) Well, at least I’m alive – not like my friend Stuart, did you hear…”
Earnngs: £42.96p.
*Stuart Horsman. Attacked by 2 men in the tunnel under Winchester train station. Died at the Royal Hampshire Hospital of internal injuies, aged 34.