Through the marvels of technology I’m writing this week from the waiting room at Blackpool’s NHS Walk In Centre.
Why, you might ask is an early middle aged man, such a perfect example of healthy living (OK, I made that last bit up) having to spend a sunny day in the company of the unwell?
The answer, well, to quote a classic movie, we’re putting the band back together.
And,last week we held our first rehearsal – my first night behind a drum kit in nearly two years.
And boy did it feel good – at the time.
I’m not claiming to be Keith Moon but there’s something satisfying about making so much sanctioned noise, even if the heavy rockers on the other side of the paper thin wall were doing their best to put me off.
It was a triumph. Sure, we got nothing we wanted achieved, but hanging around with your mates, making music, it can’t be beaten.
The day after, not one to remember. First came the text from our guitar wielding frontman, complaining of a back so bad he could hardly walk. How I chuckled. Next I heard from our bass player, moaning about his terrible blisters. How I sniggered
So, how did I end up here?
Well, I won’t go into detail, but essentially it started with a splinter from my drumsticks and finished up here.
Pathetic, I know, but, being rather attached to my finger, I’m taking no chances.
Maybe those young folks who insist rock and roll is for them, not us, have a point. After all, I can’t remember band practice resulting in so much collateral damage when I was a teen. Sure, there were hangovers and these days I’m practically deaf in one ear, but nothing ever left me requiring urgent medical attention.
But I’d hate to give it up. I stopped playing football when the pain from a knee injury (picked up in those same footloose and fancy free days as ache free drumming) got too much to bear.
I’ve no doubt the finger will get better ( but not before the children have had their fun from prodding and poking and making me say “oww.”!
In the meantime I’ll just have to suffer for my art.