Diary Of A Busker Day 170 Tuesday October 18th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Phase Eight, Time: 12:55-2:35pm, 2. opposite O2, Time: 3:10-4:45pm).
After chatting with one of my aged regulars about hand warmers (it’s the first truly cold day) – for a good half-hour, I set up near The Buttercross. My old Italian lady, Delia, visits me, wrapped up – complete with woollen hat. The big news is her son’s bought her a washing machine – it arrives on Thursday – and she’s never had one in all her 80+ years. “I’ve always done it myself – the bedclothes, the sheets – wring them with my hands, but now (she makes a ringing hand action)…it’s too hard.” I say she’ll now have alot more free time. “It also dries the clothes”, she says. I don’t think she’s sure about it, though – she has a routine – she does the washing on a certain day, the dusting on Sunday. “You spend the whole day dusting?” “Oh yes, it gets everywhere – I’m not a dusty person.” This makes me laugh. I tell her about Quentin Crisp’s famous utterance concerning dusting – he never bothered, as “after three years the dust stays the same.” Delia is horrified, and she’s never heard of him. I tell her he was a famous gay bloke who wrote a book called The Naked Civil Servant – they made a film with John Hurt. Delia says goodbye, ringing her bell on her trolley. “I’ve got exactly the same kind of bell on my bike, Delia!”
Five people – four men, one woman approach me, all carrying paper. “We’re on a treasure hunt”, says one of the men, clearly embarrassed. “We have to get photographed performing with a street artist. Do you mind?” No – they’re OK, they’ve given me some change. They stand behind me while one of them takes the photo. I wouldn’t say standing behind and smiling is joining in with my “performance”, though.
…after an hour and a half my hands are seizing up and I have flashbacks to last winter, when they were turning purple. The “fear” is here. I go and warm them hands up under the hot water tap which is boiling (they never do get it right, in public toilets), come back and hang around the High Street. I’m waiting for a college student, Alice, to turn up. She’s been doing a project on how the public interact with “street performers”, and she picked me to do it on. She spent a bit of time yesterday, standing nearby, observing it all, though, of course, not much happened. I loaned her my Hampshire Chronicle articles which she said she wouls bring back today, so I don’t want to miss her. While I’m waiting, another group of five come up to me. “Hi, we’re doing a treasure hunt – we need to get picture, I notice you have a guitar, would you mind setting up – I’m sure there’ll be a fiver in it (he looks around at the group, a couple of them nod)… for you.” “OK, sure. I’ll set up over there, just give me a few minutes (so I can finish my sandwich), OK?” “OK, we’ll be back in five minutes.” “OK.” So I finish the sandwich, set up…and they never came back. But it doesn’t matter because where there are two lots of “street artist”-seeking corporate treasure hunters, there is bound to be another lot just around the corner – and half an hour later, there is and I reckon between the five (always five) of them, I get a fiver in the bucket. And all this captured on film by Alice, who turned up just after I started playing.
A young lady, who always contributes, says , “I play the violin – I know every song you do!” I think fast…”I bet you don’t know one song I do.” One of my old lady regulars comes over, “I like your music.” She’s shivering! “Thank you. I wonder if YOU know this one…” I play a verse of Tammy. The young girl doesn’t know it – I was right. My old lady’s heard it but doesn’t know what it’s called. I give them loads of clues – from 1957, from a film…Debbie Reynolds (“Oh, I love Debbie Reynolds”, says the violin girl – obviously affection for, and knowledge of a particular person are two different things)…sung by a male harmony group at the start, by Debbie Reynolds later on. No, they don’t know. It’s Tammy!
…my Down’s Syndrome mate, Tom, turns up, and, as he always does, pats me on the head. It starts to rain a bit. I say to Tom that I was just going to start Here Comes The Sun. “What about Here Comes The Rain?”, he says. Money-wise, a very good day, although I suspect there was a certain amount of “sympathy money” – it really was getting cold – no wonder I was the only busker out.
Earnings: £51.63p.
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