I like convalescing. Four days of bad bad flu, then I pick up the debris, start recovering, aided by Terry Pratchett's The Light Fantastic. (there are some things I'm a complete sucker for, and Pratchett's one of them. My first in ages, by the way. Last year I read about twenty one after the other when I should have been finishing a dissertation...but that's another story.)
Post-convalescence, with ginger steps, is a nicer feeling still. Today, mid-afternoon, Covent Garden. Lunch with an old college friend I hadn't met in ages. And then, out in a very fragile London sunshine, threatened by clouds from all sides but holding strong. In front of Covent Garden station, crowds milling past busily, people mostly like my friend, with work and offices to go to once lunch hour's past. The usual bunch of tourists too - many nationalities, many chattering tongues, many footsteps clattering on the cobbled stones, many cameras clacking. Many faces, disappearing into the distance.
And in the middle of all this, a bearded busker in a blue cap, picking out the most exquisite notes on an old acoustic guitar. First a typical delta blues, could have been anything really, and probably was too. Then, nearly without a break, pirouettes into the first solo guitar rendition of the Dave Brubeck Quartet's 'Take Five' that I've ever heard. A man, a woman and a pram (I wasn't near enough to see if it was occupied, but I suppose it was..) stop for a while, gaze wonderingly at him as he plays, clap their hands, and move on. He looks up briefly, grins and winks at them, then at me (who is this bugger anyway? he's been here half a bloody hour!) and carries on playing. Nearby, a youngish man in a much-worn and tattered black jacket, I think a tramp, is sitting on a bench eating the remains of a sandwich. Also listening. The liquid notes weave a blue line between us. Kids rattle across the cobbles, casting curious glances at the man with the guitar. There was something sad about it, yes. There always is about buskers, about anyone who needs to bust a gut to have someone toss 20p into his empty guitar case. When I tossed in a coin, I saw he'd made very little indeed today. But what he was doing, right then and there, was about more than that - the music was about more than that. It was sad, yes. It was also the most beautiful thing in the world.
The sun was up. For a while. Holding its own.
And in the middle of all this, a bearded busker in a blue cap, picking out the most exquisite notes on an old acoustic guitar. First a typical delta blues, could have been anything really, and probably was too. Then, nearly without a break, pirouettes into the first solo guitar rendition of the Dave Brubeck Quartet's 'Take Five' that I've ever heard. A man, a woman and a pram (I wasn't near enough to see if it was occupied, but I suppose it was..) stop for a while, gaze wonderingly at him as he plays, clap their hands, and move on. He looks up briefly, grins and winks at them, then at me (who is this bugger anyway? he's been here half a bloody hour!) and carries on playing. Nearby, a youngish man in a much-worn and tattered black jacket, I think a tramp, is sitting on a bench eating the remains of a sandwich. Also listening. The liquid notes weave a blue line between us. Kids rattle across the cobbles, casting curious glances at the man with the guitar. There was something sad about it, yes. There always is about buskers, about anyone who needs to bust a gut to have someone toss 20p into his empty guitar case. When I tossed in a coin, I saw he'd made very little indeed today. But what he was doing, right then and there, was about more than that - the music was about more than that. It was sad, yes. It was also the most beautiful thing in the world.
The sun was up. For a while. Holding its own.
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