Saturday afternoon painting the shop. I used to spend Saturdays totally chilled one way or another. Now I’m in a shop, a space that was just a lock-up a few months ago, on a Saturday, I can’t believe it. Strange how life takes these unexpected turns.

I hate painting. Done loads of it, acres, or gallons I suppose, tankers full. Not exactly Matisse I admit. Never learn. Have you seen the price of 10 litres? When I first started ( not this particular wall ), before God had a beard, it was just six quid a tub. So I buy the cheap stuff – give it two coats, then decide it will never cover, go back out again and buy the really proper expensive stuff which I knew all along I should have done and then start all over again.

So you get the picture? – Ha ha. I prefer the Jean Paul Sartre method of painting – just imagine it’s there, any colour you like.

It works really well sat in the corner of the room with a six pack of Stella. But I guess not everyone will have the same luminary vision and probably just think I’m a drunk with a scruffy shop.

Anyway, landline rings loudly on my second roll through. This ruins my pensive mood and visions, totally throws me as it’s never rung before. After deciding there’s no fire, I answer. Who would ring a landline these days ????

Once some irate phone operator asked me my landline number in an attempt to ID me. I didn’t know it I politely explained,

” Why would I know it ? I don’t ring myself up. If I was in there would be no need to answer and if I was out I couldn’t answer. ”

I remember this vividly, stood in a call box in the Market Square on a Saturday afternoon when I used to be free to do what I wanted, which usually involved sitting in the same place for hours, imbibing, until such time as I couldn’t function let alone speak on the phone. Funny how you see things differently when your young with time on your hands ! I reckon it’s about as much fun as a car crash now.

Now there’s a thing – the Call Box. I am a bit of a Luddite but that’s one pox ridden petri dish of germ culture we should be glad to be rid of.

Clutching that filthy receiver fractions from your mouth, rubbing it all over the side of your head while stood in something less sanitary than a portaloo at Glastonbury. Who on earth thought them up ? Jesus, talk about Weapons of Mass Destruction, we could just drop them on countries we don’t like or sell them to militant nut jobs and religious zealots while slagging them off on News at Ten at the same time. There’d be no antidote and it would make a proper big hole in your roof.

Smart arse. I didn’t get ID’d or whatever it was I wanted – not surprisingly.

Just as tricky these days – What’s the answer to your secret question ?? How the fuck would I know, I can’t remember why I walked in to a room never mind what the question might be. I’ve got loads of answers though, some really SECRET ones but I’m telling no one.

Anyway this bloke, on a Saturday, wants to know if I’m open, as he’s seen the website – (can make you look like bloody Harrods working out of a garden shed for a few quid).

“No I’m painting” I have a Sartre moment.

“But come by if you like, there’s nothing to see unless you want to look at paint. But hey, you might as well know where I am.”

He does. Lovely bloke, interesting, likes the shop, thinks it will be even better when it’s got some guitars in.

“Do you play ? ” I enquire. Dumb question I know but a bit of an ice breaker when your stood there with pole in one hand and mohair roll in the other, covered in Orange vinyl matt. I could’ve said “do you rock n paint roll” but that would have been just plain wrong.

“Yes” he replies “My band’s playing at the Running Horse to night”

Great legendary Nottingham venue, my words not his, home to Nottingham’s amazing Harry Stephenson, also not shy of the paint brush I can add, with or with out the Crabs or Last Pedestrians, Ian Siegal, Tony Crosby and many others who deserve to be listed but aren’t.

Bollocks ! I don’t know who this geezer is but I know some big hitter’s playing to night. Big mistake ! Maybe there’s a support act on, maybe he’s a drummer looking at guitars, well fresh paint really just now. Turns out he’s only Aynsley Lister, top class Bluesman and thoroughly nice chap.

I give him some plectrums, all stamped up with Nottingham City Guitars, I can see he’s just completely made up. Hope he comes back – now there are some guitars on display !