Diary Of A Busker Day 153 Wednesday September 7th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Reflex, Time: 12:25-2pm, 2. opposite Oxfam – doorway of Welcome Gospel Hall, Time: 2:35-4:30pm).
There are three sets of buskers down the High Street and none of them look like they’re going anywhere…so it’s down to the bad end of town for me. The weather doesn’t look too good but at least it’s dry. I set up near the tables outside the posh Maison Blanc. A few minutes in, a lady – about 40, comes across from one of the tables and puts a coin in the bucket and says, “Thanks, we’re over there. We’re happy and sad.” “Oh dear, more happy than sad, I hope.” “Well, we love the music but we’ve just heard our father’s got cancer.” “Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that” I say, which I suppose is all that one can say. She goes back to her table where there are two others sitting, one lady obviously quite upset…
Ralph, my 92 year old regular comes by. “Alright, Ralph?” Oh my goodness – for some reason Ralph’s lips are black! He looks like the vampire uncle in The Munsters. Ralph has a deathly pallor at the best of times and this completes the picture – how macabre. I don’t say anything, maybe he’s just eaten a bunch of blackberries. After going through all the things wrong with him, “When you get to my age…”, apart from his black lips, he says he’ll be back in a while. As he looks like he’s about to drop dead, I won’t hold my breath.
I play my “new” zither-like Third Man arrangement and a lady says “I like the music but couldn’t understand the film!” “Yeah, the music’s the best part of it”, I agree. Right on cue, the “sad” man, who was so cheered up by my Third Man rendition earlier in the year, walks by – again, like the last few times I’ve seen him, with his son on his shoulders.
There’s a big racket coming from down the road and getting louder. It’s one of the drongos – the young guy who, a few weeks ago, asked if I would teach him a few chords. He’s using a traffic cone for a megaphone and shouting incoherently (I suppose it makes sense to HIM), off his head.
…I see Ralph coming down the road (returning, or going TO the dead – It’s hard to tell), so I quickly re-tune my guitar and start into Chinatown – I know he likes Django Rheinhardt and this is the closest thing I do to that sort of thing – it’s fast and I know he likes it – he even smiled one time I played it – and Ralph never smiles.
It starts raining – quickly, so I pack up and take a break…half an hour later, I’m set up again but I’m not taking any chances – I set up in the doorway, right opposite the Maison Blanc tables and chairs. This is a Gothic, arched doorway to the Gospel Hall ( the main one is around the corner) and I’ve never seen the door open. It’s always shut. The actual door is wooden, painted red – by the looks of it as recently as a hundred years ago. There are cobwebs from the ground to the door. It provides no more than 18 inches of cover, which is enough for a person taking shelter but not quite enough for a guitar playing person taking shelter, as the end of the guitar gets wet – but the rest is dry, so it does the job.
Earnings: £41.40p.
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