I’ve just come back from another visit to the doctor about my bloody dodgy knees.
No, not from spending my time on my knees in the office ‘pleading’ to our publisher for a pay-rise, but more than likely from years of crawling around on cold concrete floors searching for a nut and bolt that suddenly went AWOL during a crucial bit of classic maintenance.
The helpful doc suggested that it was likely that a section of cartilage had come adrift in the knee and subsequently causing some irritation. He also went on to suggest that commuting 550 miles a week in a manual gearbox Scimitar probably wasn’t exactly helping matters.
The situation reminded me of an old friend who happened to be the drummer in a band we once sought fame and fortune with. Obviously it goes without saying that both of those desires managed to elude us for many years despite tireless gigging and hours spent in rehearsal studios – sometimes even playing in time and in tune.
We did have to cancel a number of performances throughout our ‘career’ though – once because I nearly cut the top of my finger off fitting a new drain cover on our driveway (fingers are crucial to guitarists – even bad ones), but several more were canned because of our drummer’s Ford Escort van.
