Diary Of A Busker Day 120 Thursday June 23rd Winchester High Street (1. outside Debenhams, Time: 10:40-12:40pm, 2. opposite Vodafone, Time; 1:15-2pm, 3. opposite WH Smiths, Time: 2:10-2:25pm, 4. opposite The Body Shop, Time: 2:30-4:35pm.)
I make an early start – to go through a couple of “numbers” (Cavatina, Georgia On My Mind) before the crowd builds up. I need to get these two well-rehearsed for the wedding drinks party I am to play at next week. A lady comes up and says, “Is that a cuppa tea, there?” – a strange thing to say, there being no cup of tea or cup of anything near. “I’m sorry?” I say. She says it again, “Is that a cuppa tea, there?” I’m about to say “Sorry, what was that again?” when I see on the ground the music for the song I’ve just finished, Cavatina. Cuppateathere – Cavatina. “Oh right, I see, yes, Cavatina! I’m a bit deaf, I thought you were saying…”
A man listens across the street. He’s in his late 60s and sporting a late 50s hairstyle – complete with quiff. He comes over and says “You probably don’t remember but your playing reminds me of Bert Weedon – tuneful, you know.” “Hm, yes, well I’m more of a Chet Atkins man, myself – with the fingerstyle stuff.” He continues, “I used to like Duanne Eddy, ‘course you need a big amp for that (I interupt with a low Duanne Eddy style riff)…I used to run a club and I ‘ad a big guitar amp and someone once said I should put the record player through that, y’know – put the sound through the big speaker, they wanted to ‘ear what it’d sound like.” “It would sound like a disco, I suppose. You look like a 1950s person – still got the haircut.” “Yeah, trouble is, it’s all grey now. Then the thing is finding a chick.” What did he say, a CHICK?! I need this confirmed, “Sorry, a what?” “Finding a chick, then it takes free quarters of an hour for the Viagra to work.”
I’m in the middle of one of my extended renditions of Over The Rainbow. I’m at the 5 minute mark when I suddenly realise I’ve been watching an odd thing for the whole time. On the pavement across the road, a lady is kneeling down with her dog sitting beside her. She has a packet of tissues or wet wipes on her bag and is scrubbing the ground, trying to remove a stain. She takes a tissue, scrubs vigorously for 10 seconds, puts the tissue in a plastic bag, takes another tissue and repeats this over and over again. She must have used up half of the tissues, I reckon. At first I think she might be cleaning up after her dog but I don’t recall seeing the dog do it, and dogs usually urinate against something. Then I think maybe she’s cleaning up after someone else’s dog, but dismiss this – I mean there’s public spirited and there’s public spirited. I can’t work it out – she doesn’t look like a “nutter”. Oh well, “there’s nowt so queer…” as they say.
After a couple of hours I move up the road – for 45 minutes until it pours with rain (what else?) I’m right near one end of the line of market stalls where, ascross the way is a lady with her mobile ice-cream cart, a recent arrival. Before it rains, my regular who keeps saying he’ll bring in his banjo for me to tune (I am now convinced this will never happen – I think he is, too) pops by. He’s been “talking” to women on the internet. “I’ve been talking to a girl, Molly – seems quite nice. I’ve invited her to the Hat Fair*. If it goes well, maybe she’ll see a bit more than hats.” hopes Colin. “Yeah”, I say, “Like your purple helmet.”
I set up in relative shelter a bit further up in the covered bit where, near the end of my “shift” I’m joined by several well-knowns and regulars such as Anthony – the old guy struggling to learn the guitar (our opening exchange is always the same: he says “How are you Marvin?” I say, “Fine, how are you?” He then says “Still struggling.”) , Frank, who’s been busking and Mick with his just purchased discount food from Marks And Spencer – which today happens to be custard tarts.
We get on to the topic of my favourite composer, Chopin. Anthony, amazingly saw two of the greatest Chopin interpreters, Artur Rubinstein and Vladimir Horowitz perform in the 1960s. I tell them about my 2004 pilgrimage to the female writer George Sand’s house in deepest, darkest, non comprehending of English, rural France, where Chopin wrote many of his masterpieces.
Earnings: £46.74p.
*Hat Fair – annual Winchester event “a celebration of street theatre” – as described by the banners across the High Street, always the first weekend of July.
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