One of my best mates is a talented musician. He works full-time in the music industry and does solo gigs from time to time. He used to be in a band – well, a couple of bands – and writes all his own songs and lyrics. He’s played at the HQ Club in Camden as well as many other venues. He’s recorded demos and CDs. Whenever he and his family come round our house, out comes my acoustic guitar and we all have a sing song.
But he’s no ordinary rock star. He’s married with two children. Doesn’t drink or smoke and, if he’s not playing, is in bed early every night. In fact whenever I go and see him he ends up giving me a lift home after the gig.
I went to see him the other night play at a small venue in Greenwich. As usual, he did a great set and got a great reception. We were sat talking in the bar after he’d played (he was on mineral water, of course). Some of his old school mates were there who I’d never met before. They weren’t sure who I was and asked me how we’d met.
I suspect they expected a different answer to ‘At the ante-natal clinic.’
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