Diary Of A Busker Day 99 Tuesday May 17th Winchester High Street (1. corner of Marks And Spencer, Time: 1:21-2:43pm, 2. opposite WH Smiths, Time: 3:05-5:13pm.)
I pass Frank, accordioning in a spot I’ve not seen him at before, half-way down the high street, at the crossroads. He’s (usually) always at The Buttercross or at the other end, at Marks And Spencer. A bit further down, I chat to Alan, my cheery septegenariun street cleaner. At first I don’t recognise him – he’s in civilian clothes and sitting on a bench. I recognise his face, though. He’s always smiling. Always. I find out why he’s not wearing his work gear and also why I haven’t seen him for a few days. He’s just retired. He says he is to go to the hospital for quite a serious operation tomorrow and his boss has let him go early. He says he’ll miss the social side of his job – he certainly must know alot about everyone on the street, I reckon. He says he’s waiting for his wife, then there’s a high pitched noise, it’s her phoning him and a minute later she’s here. I say “so long” and I hope the operation goes well. “Oh well, they can only do what they can” he says. A great guy – always friendly, always! I can see Frank’s taking a break so I go and say hello. We make a deal – I’ll go and do a bit down at the corner and if he gets bored he can come down later and we’ll switch places.
I have a fairly peaceful session, in that I’m not bombarded with too many interuptions – well meant or not. Four schoolboys stand in front of me. They don’t speak, but I guess (correctly – possibly because they don’t speak) that they’re French. One at a time they come forward to give me some shrapnel. Then, three drift off leaving one. He still doesn’t speak to me. After two minutes I ask him his name. It’s Francois. “How old are you, Francois?” Twelve years old, he says. Blue eyes, alot of freckles. He asks if I can play any blues or Sweet Home Chicago – how does a twelve year old French kid know about that stuff?! I real off a fast Eric Clapton blues-y ‘lick’, as we used to say in the seventies, then try and convert him to the Chet Atkins way of thinking. He sits down beside me on my right with his legs crossed and stays for there for fifteen minutes. A few people walk past and smile at me. One lady says “Is he with you?” and laughs. It’s like Frank with his dog – I’ve got this frecked French kid! His friends walk to and fro a few times and eventually he joins them. Au revoir, Francois.
I attempt Vincent today…and really mess it up but a lady comes around the corner. I get this often – I’ll finish something and someone will appear and say they’ve been listening from just around the corner, like at the bus stop maybe. She gives me a pound, which I feel bad about considering my botched performance, so I apologise for making a load of mistakes – “Thank you…and sorry!”
A bit later Frank turns up – he must have got bored, and drinks his cup of coffee on the bench across from me. I do a few more songs then pack up, have a break, eat my apple then I’m off up the road… My well-dressed, well-spoken regular drops by – “I’m sorry again, I haven’t got a sous to give you!” To another man, I mention that it’s my birthday today. He says I should have this written on a hat – I’d get more money. Maybe, but blatant opportunism – it just isn’t my style, I say! Well, not usually.
Another regular, the old guy now in possession of one of my guitars turns up and I’m not sure if he was trying to avoid me but he seemed to be going round the back of me, so I wouldn’t see him. Well, it’s no good! I stop him and ask how he’s getting on with the guitar. He says his fingers won’t stretch to do a C chord shape. Hmm… I give him my guitar to see how he’s doing it and it’s all wrong and he looks like he’s in pain – it’s painful enough just to watch. “Your fingers need to be at an angle to the guitar neck, you’re coming in straight on, you need to angle your wrist, about twenty degrees…” He trys it, it’s a bit better. Having played the guitar for a hundred years, I suppose I take this sort of thing for granted. It must be a real challenge for someone that age who hasn’t ever held a guitar before. I must have patience…
I get a compliment from a lady – “You’re getting better!” “Well, thanks! It helps that it’s not freezing cold anymore. It’s alot easier to play when it’s warmer.” “Hmm…you must be practising, too.” “Practise? I do enough of that out here!”
As I’m packing away my stuff, Frank turns up and the dog, Kazoo, is trying to get at a pigeon which is on the ground, obviously wounded – as Frank says “It mustn’t be able to fly or else it would have, with the dog trying to get it. I’d finish it off but there’s too many people about.” I’m curious – “How would you do that?” “Strangle it.” “You’d strangle a pigeon?” “Yeah, put it out of it’s misery.” “Hm…yeah, I suppose.”
Earnings: £39.00