Diary Of A Busker Day 292

Diary Of A Busker Day 292 Thursday October 4th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Bellis, Time: 1:49-3:05pm).
A man who I’ve seen a couple of times before asks if I can play Mr. Tambourine Man, as he’s heard me play it before(!?) I tell him he must be thinking of someone else – I know the song but I don’t play it and I certainly don’t sing it. He says he’s heard me, though! Why can’t some people admit they’re wrong?! I know if I’ve done a song or not! Anyway, I spend ten minutes trying to work it out, the melody with the chords, moving the capo about – I know Dylan did it with one quite high up…I think. I even try to SING it, but it starts getting a bit like Spinal Tap, when they’re all around Elvis’ grave, trying to harmonise on Heartbreak Hotel – “Heyyy, Mister Tam… no, that’s too high (move capo lower)…Heeeyy, Mis…that’s too low!…” Quite amusing but a total waste of time.
I decide to mark down the number of songs I do on my notepad – four lines then one across, like what prisoners do in their cells, to count the days! At the end of the set, it’s 22 – enough for one ‘sitting’ of an hour and fifteen minutes. Ian, the polite shopworker drops by just as I’ve packed up and about to walk off. I say he’s missed my Requerdos De Al Alhambra – “I’m attempting it now…well, I’m faking it, actually! I’ll have to play it for you some other time.” “You know, I’m SURE it’s very good (he’s wrong!), now, what time did you finish your concerto?” “I’ve just finished.” Concerto! Ian’s curious about busking – “Do you need a license?” I say you do in some places, not here – yet. He tells me about the old days – “The whole thing about busking has changed from what it was twenty or thirty years ago. The police used to move them all on, most of them.” “So they let some stay?” “Yes, the ones they thought were in tune!”
I take a break and think I’ll walk down the road to where I was yesterday – to see if the guy in the Tinc shop is playing music, or if it was just for my benefit… I bump into Delia – she’s looking around the market stalls near Marks And Spencer. I say hello and ask her why she’s in town on a Wednesday. Tuesdays and Fridays – it’s only ever those days! “I know but they’re saying it’s going to rain tomorrow – I don’t want to get caught up in it so I’ve come out today.” As usual, her trolley’s well-loaded down with shopping bags. “You’ve got a bit there, then” I say. “Oh! Will you have a scone?” She ‘pressed’ one on me awhile back, I remember. “No, not if they’re for YOU, no!” But she insists, so “Oh alright, then.” “I’m sorry I can’t provide you with butter” she says. “That’s OK, I’ll settle for some jam…and cream, if that’s about.” “Oh no, cream’s not good for you.” “No? Why’s that?” “It furs up the arteries, you know.” “Oh dear – no, I don’t want furry arteries.” She gets out her battered sweet tin (here we go) – “No Delia, I don’t want any money, NO!” “Oh, you take it, go on!” She holds out two 20ps and a 10p. “No, I don’t want it!” “Take it – you shouldn’t have an argument with an old lady!” “Right, no, OK.”
I meant to do another set but Doll phoned me and bought me a pint of Bombardier up the road at The Slug And Lettuce and after that I didn’t feel like sitting in the street playing a guitar. I also forgot to walk past the Tinc shop.
Earnings: £15.34p

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