I do believe that I'm starting to understand what people like to read in the paragraph about my weekend. I suspect that it's not the quality of the prose that you appreciate, but the ridiculous and humiliating situations that I find myself in. You don't want to know that my band played in front of two or three hundred fierce looking bikers, and our very real fears that we were "too fucking lightweight". You won't be interested that we actually stormed the show, or the magical way that our straight rock version of "Tainted Love" separated the audience into 2 groups - women on the dancefloor, men at the back.
What you want to know is that my overcoat is a traditional peacoat peacoat made by French Connection and very expertly altered by the ex-seamstress mother of an ex-girlfriend. They are double-breasted and have two rows of buttons down the front. It was raining hard on Sunday so I wore my coat to the co-op when I went to buy some food. I hung a basket in the crook of my elbow so that I had a free hand to hold my shopping list. When I got to the checkouts I discovered that I was securely buttoned to my heavy shopping basket, and that I didn't have a free hand to extricate myself.