Diary Of A Busker Day 176 Tuesday Noember 1st Winchester High Street (opposite Vodafone, Time: 12:20-2:10pm).
…and the so-called Indian summer continues. Coming into the High Street, I chat to Frank – minus accordion but with dog – Kazoo, sitting near The Buttercross. “You’ve got the whole street to yourself today, and it’s a nice day.” He’s right about having the whole street to myself – but not for long, as five minutes later, after I return from my traditional reconnaisance of the street, there’s a beggar/drongo who’s just sat down, so…back down to set up at the crossroads. After Yellow Bird, a lady comes up – “Ah, that reminds me of Edmundo Ros – I think he’s just died, in his eighties? – nineties?” “Oh, did he do that one? I’ve never heard of him.” Then I realise – this must be the guy Frank was talking about the other day, not Harry Belafonte. He made a mistake. She goes on: “Yes, Edmundo Ros – probably before your time! Reminds me of my parents, you know – he was on Family Favourites – probably before your time!(again)”
A man who I don’t recognise, though he’s obviousy heard me before, says “Still doing The Third Man?”, which I was. “Oh yes – no more than usual, though – it’s in the rotation, just like all the rest – unless someone requests it, which they sometimes do.” “Ihaven’t seen you around much”, he says. “No – I’ve been off for a few days and I have to go to France for three days, on Friday.” “Oh, where?” “A place, it’s got a weird name – Ouistreham, in Normandy.” “Hm, don’t know that. I went to the French alps, you know. I remember sitting out on the balcony…” “Hm, yes, very nice, well this place I’m going to is where Sword beach was – where the ritish landed on D-Day.” “Oh. Oh well – bye!”
During my Elvis spot – Can’t Help Falling In Love, an old lady comes up. I’ve been watching her get some money out of her purse while I’ve been playing. “You’ll make me cry in a minute!” she says. “It’s not that bad, is it?!” I’m sure it’s not – my playing. “Oh, it reminds me of my husband.” I take it he’s not here anymore. “Oh, he’s not here anymore?” “No – we were married fifty years. “Well, congratulations. Fifty years – that’s a long time.” “Yes, I met him when I was sixteen – I’m almost ninety.” “Wow, well, um (I can see her welling up a bit), um…” “Oh, I won’t cry – I’ll wait ’til I get home!”
It’s Tuesday, so Delia’s here, for a chat, and while she’s talking, Carol, my north-east regular stands behind her – I’ve got a queue of old ladies (if two is a queue) waiting on me. I introduce them – “Delia, this is Carol. Carol – Delia.”