Diary Of A Busker Day 2296 Saturday January 20th 2024 Winchester High Street.
Another cold day but at least it’s not as cold as yesterday in Chichester…or so I thought. In fact, although it’s a couple of degrees warmer, there’s a slight breeze coming down Market Street so it feels colder down at the crossroads. The good news is that, unlike yesterday, I’m not obliged to do a certain amount of time.
Two songs in and the woman who gave me the funeral service leaflet of Otto comes by. I can’t remember her name; I think it’s Alison.
‘Hello…Alison?’
‘Sarah.’
‘Ah yes, sorry – Sarah.’
‘You must be cold, would you like a hot drink?’
‘Umm…it’s OK, Sarah, I’ve just sat down not long ago.’
‘Sure? A hot chocolate maybe?’
‘Oh, ah…alright, a hot chocolate. Thank you Sarah.’
‘Right, I’ll get you one.’
‘Thank you Sarah.’ (I’m determined she knows I know her name).
She goes into the Pret place opposite, comes out five minutes later and plonks the cup near me – ‘That’s great Sarah, thank you.’ Sarah goes back into Pret.
A minute later I kick the cup over and it spills out all over the pavement. I manage to salvage about a quarter of the hot chocolate and put it well away from my foot but the damage is done – my pitch looks like scum. I’m such a fucking klutz!
I feel embarrassed. I mean, what will Sarah say when she comes out and sees the hot chocolate she bought all over the pavement? First, I forget her name then I destroy her drink. I do a couple more songs, all the while thinking of what to do.Oh no, she’s coming out! Phew, she walked by and waved and didn’t look at the ground.
A close one..but I’ve still got to do something; it’s making me feel sick. There’s a woman standing near me and her toddler daughter’s been dancing about so I ask if she can keep an eye on my stuff while I go into Starbucks and get some napkins.
I get 12 from the dispensary at the far end of Starbucks, come out and proceed to mop up but it’s hardly made a difference so I ask the mother if she can hang on while I get another handful…but that’s hardly made any difference, either. I reckon it takes about a thousand napkins to mop up three quarters of a spilt hot chocolate. Fuck it, I’ll just have to suffer it. It’s my punishment for being careless and a twat.
My suffering ended after I’d hit the one hour mark. I had to stop; my fingers were frozen and besides, the batteries in the amp were packing in. I packed up, picked up the hot chocolate-sodden napkins, binned them in Pret and hoped Sarah wouldn’t come back because I’d be gone but her drink would still be all over the pavement, unmistakably hot chocolate!