Gig in Limehouse

by brightonsauce

Edit as I go

Gig in Limehouse

What with the job interview on Thursday and the gig on Sunday this was set to be an epic week of consequence.

Consequence number one: I shall be a chicken farmer, and how long for I cannot say, but it’s bloody splendid of the boys to give me a job. Although I won’t be saying things like ‘bloody splendid’ alongside the tractors, but it means I can plan again, because wageless eccentric scribe can have its downside: no Christmas presents for the children, no train fare to visit mother when she’s gargling down with the emphysema on her lungs. There are, even, several quite serious reasons why a man should be waged, a sense of power and virility spring[s] to mind.

Anyway, I told you why I became a chicken farmer in the last post. It gives me something to talk about. I can’t be sitting here chatting away about the BBC news pages or my annual trip to youporn online, it would be very boring. I need to interact outdoors with, well it will just have to be men won’t it? Men and chickens for me. Face facts, twenty years of marriage and if I haven’t brought up in conversation or anywhere my requirements as regards the team of solid and reliable women buddies to thump, to drink beer with, seems, well, by now, I should shut up and look after the one woman I have got, in her cage. I love Gretel dearly and if she insists on collecting breadcrumbs, so be it.

No, I will write the novel ‘Chicken Farmer.’

Wearing the tight boiler suit, and wellingtons, he hopped the puddle, grasped the carcass in his big hand until he saw Magda at the bonnet of her Landrover.

‘It’s a fesh kill, I throttled er a minute ago, the flesh should be lovely and tenda.’

Magda fluttered her lids, ‘Perhaps Matthew you would like to share a chicken dinner in my damp kitchen, rub the chicken in a wet sink.’

‘You know I can’t taste your chicken dinner. I am a happily married man.’

And really, fiction aside I am typing in the dark here at the desk and two feet away, in her sleep, my baby darling wife, she just sleeptalked, said:

‘I want to play on the beach today.’

Is That not the cutest thing? What a dream, with beachballs, frolicks and pasties. Wonder what I must have said in her dream?

‘Right, I’m garn surffin with the boys, hope you enjoy washing the duvet, I’ll see you at eight o’clock, love you.’

Oh my great shame, those millennium days, if only I had provided her with a boogie board when she had asked, etcetera.

Consequence 2, The gig was great. Cable Street studios in East London, trendy only I’ve got the new Phil Collins haircut for the job interview which let me down until I gave my spiel behind the microphone…and they all chuckled [100/150? 70] and did the right thing and the story is in the mag, all good. I missed an emphasis on the word ‘bee’ in the opening sentence of my narration, so it took a paragraph for the audience to fully understand I was hunting bees with a rifle. I made a couple of writer pals, have their e-mails and met a film-maker called Jack.

Praise to Sean Preston, editor @ Open Pen Magazine.

A little tune for me:

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