Ho Ho Hum

A few nights ago I went down to one of Falmouth’s oldest and well known pubs (famous because the landlord is a priest) in order to hear the local shanty group. I’d been told that if you want to join, turn up at 8pm, so I did. No one was there. After a while another new recruit came along so we joined forces and waited. Finally two members came along and informed us that in fact they had too many members already and were in danger of being larger than their audiences, but we could come and sit in if we liked.

Having got that far, we decided we would, so we went and joined them. Half an hour later a few more trickled in but still no singing and after another 15 minutes I decided to go home. It was disappointing not to even have a sing, but more disappointing that they’d already got a full quota. I get withdrawal symptoms from not singing, and our next am dram production doesn’t start again till November.

When I told Himself, he expressed a Poor View of the shanty group (I think you can probably guess what he actually said) and suggested that I should set one up myself.

A good idea except that a) I don’t know many shanty songs and b) I couldn’t think of any friends that do sing.

But yesterday I met up with two dogwalking friends who sing – after a few pints – and thought Pip’s idea was an excellent one.

‘We can meet in the pub, have a few drinks and a good sing,’ said Viv, her eyes lighting up. ‘So what do we call ourselves?’

This is a problem. Shanty singers tend to have names like Wareham Whalers or Rum and Shrub. Himself had suggested Yo Ho Ho, but we thought we could do with something a bit more distinctive and remembered last year, when the three of us cleaned holiday lets and called ourselves Scrubbers R Us.

We came up with two options:

Hammered Slags,
or
Falmouth Shags (after the bird, of course).

I can see this group will have a long and happy future.

Lack of concentration

Today I have a skittish brain. Do you ever get that? As if my brain cells are like hyperactive children, skipping around the place and giggling, unable to stand still. It makes concentration very difficult, if not impossible, particularly when I’m editing my novel which requires a Quiet, Still Brain. A friend is coming with me to walk Mollie this afternoon so hopefully that will still my head and I can write better when I get back.

Or perhaps it’s the weather, which is enough to make anyone kick up their heels with glee. The sky is a sheer blue, unblemished by any clouds. There’s a slight sea breeze – good for sailing or walking – which makes the water shimmer and dance, like diamonds. A chaffinch is sitting on the fuchsia tree outside, his tail bobbing up and down, as if to say, ‘it’s great out here – come on!’ And on my desk is a vase of sweet peas, their heady scent filling the room with sun drenched summer.

More later