Diary Of A Busker Day 264 Friday August 3rd 2012 Winchester High Street 1. Opposite Oxfam, Time: 1:35-2:35pm, 2. Opposite Bellis, Time: 4:35-6:18pm
A couple of busking students at The Buttercross have hijacked the Tesco slogan for their sign; STUDENTS – EVERY LITTLE HELPS, and down at the crossroads, it’s Guy’s Threepenny Bit folk franchise, five of them today. So I end up further down, to play for the outdoor diners of Maison Blanc. Two songs in, Delia turns up and because I haven’t seen her for awhile we have a long chat. She notices my Jacques Brel T-shirt and doesn’t know who he is, so I attempt to educate her – ‘He wrote If You Go Away. Everyone’s done it.’ Good, she knows that one. That’s his most famous song – Ne Me Quitte Pas, it was called originally. I tell Delia she looks well. She says she doesn’t feel it. She still hasn’t recovered from a bad reaction to some antibiotics. We go through the usual dance; she gives me a pound, I don’t want it, she insists, I take it. ‘Now, what are you going to play for me, to listen to when I’m walking away?’ ‘Do you know The Swan?’ She thinks she does. I play a few bars…yes, she does. I’m pretty confident about this one now and can play it all the way through with a minimum of errors, although there’s always at least one wrong note…like now! Delia notices – ‘It must be difficult to go from the low notes to the high ones.’ The problem isn’t location, it’s memory. …Oh dear, after half an hour, I’ve made less than two pounds, and that includes Delia’s pound. If it keeps up like this, I’m definitely leaving after the hour’s up…and it does, so I pack up and it doesn’t take long to count the takings; £3.05 – terrible. I don’t get it, it’s a nice day, sun’s out, loads of people, loads of parents with young children who SHOULD be demanding money from them to give to me. The same as last Saturday, in fact. But today it’s completely different. A different atmosphere. I don’t get it, and I’m not getting it! As I’m about to walk off, a young woman comes up and gives me a two pound coin. I thank her profusely and we start talking. Her name’s Madeleine and she’s a singer. She sounds American, I tell her. Wrong – she’s French (how can I mistake French for American?!) I’m sure I’ve seen her before, up at the crossroads, awhile ago. I tell her that, with her donation, she’s almost doubled my takings. I ask if she’s going to sing. She wants to but the street’s all full up today. I suggest she tries her luck here, maybe she’ll get on better than me – she couldn’t do worse. Yes, she might do that.
After a toilet/snack-in-the-cathedral-grounds-break I head back to the high street to survey the busking situation…and it’s the same. Hmm…what to do, what to do… While I’m pondering, unable to make a decision (as usual), one of the Naomi House Hospice street canvassers comes up to me. There are four, trying to get sign-ups; a thankless task, I always think. She’s a short girl and she wears a cap with a small propeller on top. She asks me what I do, what’s in the case, etc. She has what you might call a “bubbly” disposition. ‘Does it look like I’m having a good day? Do I LOOK like I’m having a good day?’ she says. ‘Yeah, you do,’ I say. But no, apparently she isn’t. No one’s signing up. I say it’s really bad for me as well; almost no money. Now, where to go…it’s going to have to be back down the road to where I was just at, before my break. After three songs, Madeleine turns up again and after a short chat I realise what’s happened. She’s been here singing, she’s taken a break, meanwhile I’VE turned up and taken over! Oh dear. But don’t worry, I’ll pack up, it’s no problem. By the way, how has it been going? Very good she says. Really? Yes! Damn, it must be ME! She lets me finish what I was playing as I’d stopped to chat to her. So it’s Here Comes The Sun, the incredible money-spinner of last Saturday, a little boy being today’s sole contributor. I also sneak in a short Albatross, again receiving a solitary donation, although Madeleine is very impressed by my manual fade-out – ‘I’ve never heard anyone do that!’ I tell her that’s because no one else ever has. I decide I would like a photo of her for my growing visual diary. There’s still quite a pronounced imbalance of the old/wrinkly/male variety versus the young/female variety which needs to be countered. And after all, Madeleine, being a busker, is a fellow Fellow Of The Establishment. I get a good shot, nip up the road to Boots, get two copies printed, go back down the road and put one in Madeleine’s collection hat while she’s singing.
I’m eventually able to set up at the other end, the students having gone, and have a reasonably good hour and a half, the money going back up to the usual rate, thank goodness. After six o’clock, the crowds die down and the Naomi House girl dances nearby to whatever I’m playing. There’s even some ballet in there; I remember she said something about studying ballet, once upon a time. She comes up to me at one point, during my Spanish Medley – ‘Was that from Love Story?’ ‘No, it’s a study in E minor by Tarrega,’ I say. I then ask her how her day’s been. ‘Really bad – we’ve only had four signings between all of us.’ Oh dear. I tell her about my busking photo album and ask if it’s OK to get a photo, and it is. I ask her name – ‘It’s Bobby. B-O-B-B-I-E,’ she spells it out. ‘Ah yes, that’s a good name for you, I reckon.’ ‘Yeah, because I’m bubbly and all that.’ ‘Yeah, I was going to say.’ I get a photo – after a couple of run-throughs to make sure the propellered hat is in – Bobbie has to tilt her head slightly down – something I get the impression she’s not used to doing. She’s a “hold your head up high” sort of character. I couldn’t do her job, I tell her.
Earnings: £26.40