Day 2684
Saturday May 2nd 2026
Winchester
Back home for a two hour Saturday afternoon session but not in The Square, because Rick Tarrant’s there, this time without his banjoist partner and in his old spot next to The Hambledon. Why there Rick? Why not in The Square? – ‘Well, there seems to be some sort of filming going on there, Marvin.’ Yes, there does seem to be.
‘…and I don’t want to annoy them.’ Very sympathetic of him.
‘But I’ll be gone soon so you can play here if you like.’
‘OK, maybe. How long will you be? An hour?’
‘Oh no, I’ll be gone in half an hour.’
‘OK then, I might come back then. You done alright – I see you’ve got a fiver, anyway.’
‘Yeah, not bad.’
I go on down Market Street and almost set up next to the phone box but decide against it, as it’s in the sun and it’s a bit warm today and I think I’ll prefer the shade of the Nando’s spot. Three songs in and it’s Can’t Help Falling In Love and a couple in their early 30s are gently swaying. They’re both wearing blue jeans -she’s in a white shirt, she’s wearing a top with pink and red stripes. Their movements are hypnotic and send me into a reverie. Ah, to be young and in love…
…and I’m thinking of my first girlfriend. In fact, I’ve been thinking of her a lot, lately. Where are you now Lesley Jones from Huddersfield? Oh, how I loved you when we both lived in London, and how weird it is to live not half a mile from The Albion pub, where, after the train to Brighton and a hotel the day before, we decided to come to Winchester and sat at the little round table near the side door before spending the beautiful night in each other’s arms. In the morning when we left the pub and searched for the town centre, you were on my left and you took my arm, looked at me and said “My man.” I’ll never forget it.
That was Sunday March 23rd 1986 and Monday the 24th and before I screwed everything up for us. You should have listened to your mother when she said “Don’t ever go out with a musician.” I’d apologise – I owe you a million, but I don’t know your married name, and anyway, when in 1995, I sent you two letters, care of your mum oop north, she wrote back saying you’d asked her to write and tell me you didn’t want me to write to you anymore, that you were “Married and happy.” My darling Lesley, I wrote a song called The Photograph about you You gave me a photograph of you in front of a mirror, taking your photo with a Pentax in late 1985 when we were courting, remember? I’ve still got it. But alas, you’ll never hear it and I know you’ll never read this but anyway, let me say I’m so sorry, Petal. I really did love you. I still do, I think. I can’t believe you’re going to be 64 soon – three months and ten days after my own 64th, on the 17th of this very month. When We’re Sixty-Four, bloody hell. Speaking of which, that was even before the bloody Beatles even had a record deal. We came into the world almost at the same time, didn’t we? I wonder if you’re a grandma now? I hope they’re not called Vera, Chuck or Dave. Oh well, I hope your husband was worthy of you and you’re still happy with him. He’s a lucky old fellow. But you could have died. Oh god, I don’t want to know.
It’s funny how the universe behaves, because not long after my reverie (the couple didn’t donate but she smiled at me as they walked off) a man comes up and if he’s not from Huddersfield, he’s from Leeds or somewhere nearby. ‘Ah started playing the guitar when I was sixty-four, y’know.’
‘Sixty-four, really? I’m sixty-four in a couple of weeks. How old are you know?’
‘I’m sixty-eight.’
‘Sixty-eight! You look about twenty years younger than me!’ He did.
‘Must be the physical exercise but thank you!’ He’s really chuffed with my compliment and then says he plays a guitar down at the local pub when they have open mic nights – ‘no mics, though, just sitting down an playin’, acoustic-like with a few others. Nothin’ serious, y’know.’
‘Well, that’s great – none of that proper gig malarky, no sound checks.’
‘Oh, we ‘ave sound checks but nothing else.’
He buys an £8 CD and I tell him it makes my day.
‘OK Marvin, keep playin’, love the 12-string.’
‘OK. Oh, what’s YOUR name?’
‘It’s Mick. Mick Jones.’
‘Really? That’s a quite famous name. There are a few other’s…’
‘Yeah, Mick Jones from The Clash, Mick Jones who played for Leeds.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Well, I’ve heard of the Clash guy, anyway…and Mick Taylor, Mick Jagger. Lots of Micks in the 60s.’
‘Yeah, oh by the way, I liked your Rolling Stones one you played.’
‘Rolling Stones?…oh yeah, As Tears Go By – Marianne Faithful. There’s a 12-string on it. I think Jimmy Page played that, actually.’
We say goodbye and I’m grateful Mick’s come along – he was cheerful and his accent took me right back for the second time today.
Halfway through, a little oriental boy appears. His mother stands with his buggy. He’s got a soother – he can’t be more than 18 months old, and he can’t take his eyes off me and the guitar. He keeps breaking into a little dance. Well, he sways side to side and I’m calling it a dance. This attracts the attention of quite a few passers-by, who stop and smile and take photos and short videos. At one point the little chap comes up to touch the strings and I stop playing and let him. Bloody hell, I MUST be in a good mood. After a few seconds his mother gently pulls him back and he carries on swaying and looking at me intently. At one point there’s an arc of around 12 to 15 people in front of me, which is something I never usually get.
It started to drizzle a few minutes before the two hour mark so I timed it well. Total coinage was £24.85.