Sunday Night

It's late.

Probably should be going to bed soon, that would be the 'responsible' thing to do. But Dizzy and Oscar are on the headphones and it's so frenetic and joyous, I can't stop. I have to listen. That and they drive me to write. I don't know why.

As I listen it seems as though something is being created in my ears right hear and now, that I owe it to them to do the same. They poured out their heart and soul into this record, moment by moment, and so my only response can be to do the same. You can't listen to jazz passively.

But then all too quickly my reverie is defeated by Molly the kitten. She's destroyed something or broken something. Ah Molly, the Dervish Of The Downstairs.

It's okay, nothing's broken. She looked suitably contrite however. Her eyes say 'I won't do it again' but, well. I'll settle back down again.

Yesterday it was old champagne and hobnobs, today it's peppermint tea and hobnobs. I love hobnobs. They're good for you, because they're full of oats and everyone knows oats are good for you. Which is also why it's better to add oats to an Apple Crumble. The health benefits. Then it's got everything the body needs: Apples, Crumble, Oats and if you're lucky, Custard. The four main food groups. Guinness is a kind of meta-food group in and of itself, so that doesn't count.

Ha Oscar's just coughed on the record. Reminds me of that bit in that Ben Folds Five record where the phone goes off at the perfect moment and they start laughing.

I bet they didn't have to contend with a dining room dresser with a resonant frequency of G# just above middle C. It's murder when you're playing in E. Or a lot of keys, I suppose. I've just been playing in E today - The Harmonious Blacksmith.

Anyway. I'm full of peppermint tea and hobnobs and wistful jazz dreams so I should attempt sleep. I'm not particularly hopeful.