The gig is at a literary festival, which makes me anxious. I’m never at ease among people who don’t suffer fools gladly
M
any months ago the band I’m in was invited to play a gig at a literary festival in Greece. The date slotted nicely into our international tour schedule, between Brighton and Plymouth. But it butted up against my already booked holiday; I would have to fly home, spend 36 hours repacking and then fly straight to Greece. Mind you, I’m not complaining.
“It sounds like you’re complaining,” my wife says as we negotiate the duty free chicane at Gatwick. It is 4.30am, and the airport is rammed.
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just worried about my banjo.” The previous evening I’d parted with it – in its new, specially acquired flight case – at something called Twilight Bag Drop, a fully automated process that gave me no confidence I would ever see my banjo again.
