We were on the bus going up Grey Street, approaching Barkly street.
I was adamant that if we could keep the band together all riches would be ours and we could sustain our life of sleeping in and the occasional band practice.
Trunk looked over at me with those big eyes sagaciously absorbing the same old spin I trotted out whenever it came to the band.
Tex looked left and right beady eyed and maybe looking a little nervous and thirsty.
Frugal wasn't there but Jesus was.
The blonde haired stranger who had organised the gig rambled on something about a venue and his influence.
The bar was full of diffused light, open and noisy beer drinking.
I could hear the sound of ringing bass you hear when the bass player has new round wound strings and is attacking them with agusto, no less it was the sound of Fatman Trunk I was pre-empting.
I was wondering if I had any new tenor saxophone reeds and if not whether I might have an old one that would work.
My mind then shifted into that delightful zone where one can't remember how many cold pots have been sunk, whose shout it was or who cares.
