Poor planning
Aug. 2nd, 2005 12:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shermaramaWe were supposed to be playing a gig on Thursday, but the Six String has closed in the two weeks since we last played there, so it was moved to Saturday at the Walpole Arms. Which I couldn't do because I was going to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ghoti's party in Cambridge, including carrying up the as yet uniced tiers of her wedding cake, packed in greaseproof, foil, cardboard and parcel tape and weighing a shedload. Any readers likely to be scoffing that cake, I warn you now there is almost an entire bottle of brandy in it. I also took my cymbal hard case, passed it on to drummygirl at Kings Cross and spent the rest of the journey having grief from my automatic parcel counter.
Spoke to Jodie on Friday night about the booking of other gigs, suggested future possible Saturdays, agreed that Mondays are poor days for gigs anyway as well as being bad for me, and then got a call at half eleven on Saturday saying we'd been offered a gig this Monday. Thought, fuck it, agreed, spent some of Sunday morning rearranging things.
Otherwise, party good, people good. Scooted back to Brighton on Sunday for a practice with not-fully-online-yet band III. We get to practice very little at the minute for various reasons and spend half of practices remembering how many songs we have and how they all go and the ones we allegedly know better still feel like new things appearing by magic under our hands though I admit this is a phase I rather enjoy. I then made the mistake of going, when already feeling post-drummingly expansive, to the pub to celebrate a birthday with a bunch of people who didn't have to go to work the next day. It wasn't the beer or the whisky so much as that the beer and the whisky convinced me that it was a good idea to go back to someone's house and drink lager. Yeah. And get involved in play-wrestling, which means my arms are covvered in small bruises, and I don't even know whose idea that was. I made it to work anyway on Monday because I'm a stubborn fool like that. On the way in I got a phone call reiterating an interesting proposition from the night before, but in the morning blear I said no and with hindsight, that was a stupid waste of an opportunity, but never mind. Got out of work and went to London for this here gig at the Walpole Arms. We were billed as '3 goodlookin' girls with a serious sound' which, given how I felt when I got there, seemed faintly ridiculous.
There was a bloke with an acoustic guitar doing the usual strummy shite. I dunno, he wasn't that bad, he sould sing at least, but ever since this one act I saw at an open mike night, wrenching more fabulous dynamics out of an acoustic than most people can manage with an electric and a Marshall stack, I've been spoilt for acoustic strummy shite. The worst bit was that he didn't start til nearly ten, and it was 10.40 when we got up there, in a place supposed to be shutting at 11. And then an A string broke in the second song and an A was the one string Jodie didn't have spare and after about ten minutes we managed to get it sorted but by then it was nearly eleven. We ran through the rest at some speed, left one out to keep the time down, but then got asked to do an encore so did that one anyway. And have another night booked there, Friday the 12th, which is going to mean some fairly scary last-minute running around for me to get to Cambridge the next day but what the hell.
The late running gig meant a late train home, all the while with the Sore Throat Of Overdoing It lurking. Which means today I am off work ill anyway, and without yesterday's interesting proposition by way of distraction. All in all I've had a good weekend with beer and fun and practices and gigs and good food and all sorts of debauchery, of course, but. Meh, I'm just being greedy.
ghoti's party in Cambridge, including carrying up the as yet uniced tiers of her wedding cake, packed in greaseproof, foil, cardboard and parcel tape and weighing a shedload. Any readers likely to be scoffing that cake, I warn you now there is almost an entire bottle of brandy in it. I also took my cymbal hard case, passed it on to drummygirl at Kings Cross and spent the rest of the journey having grief from my automatic parcel counter.Spoke to Jodie on Friday night about the booking of other gigs, suggested future possible Saturdays, agreed that Mondays are poor days for gigs anyway as well as being bad for me, and then got a call at half eleven on Saturday saying we'd been offered a gig this Monday. Thought, fuck it, agreed, spent some of Sunday morning rearranging things.
Otherwise, party good, people good. Scooted back to Brighton on Sunday for a practice with not-fully-online-yet band III. We get to practice very little at the minute for various reasons and spend half of practices remembering how many songs we have and how they all go and the ones we allegedly know better still feel like new things appearing by magic under our hands though I admit this is a phase I rather enjoy. I then made the mistake of going, when already feeling post-drummingly expansive, to the pub to celebrate a birthday with a bunch of people who didn't have to go to work the next day. It wasn't the beer or the whisky so much as that the beer and the whisky convinced me that it was a good idea to go back to someone's house and drink lager. Yeah. And get involved in play-wrestling, which means my arms are covvered in small bruises, and I don't even know whose idea that was. I made it to work anyway on Monday because I'm a stubborn fool like that. On the way in I got a phone call reiterating an interesting proposition from the night before, but in the morning blear I said no and with hindsight, that was a stupid waste of an opportunity, but never mind. Got out of work and went to London for this here gig at the Walpole Arms. We were billed as '3 goodlookin' girls with a serious sound' which, given how I felt when I got there, seemed faintly ridiculous.
There was a bloke with an acoustic guitar doing the usual strummy shite. I dunno, he wasn't that bad, he sould sing at least, but ever since this one act I saw at an open mike night, wrenching more fabulous dynamics out of an acoustic than most people can manage with an electric and a Marshall stack, I've been spoilt for acoustic strummy shite. The worst bit was that he didn't start til nearly ten, and it was 10.40 when we got up there, in a place supposed to be shutting at 11. And then an A string broke in the second song and an A was the one string Jodie didn't have spare and after about ten minutes we managed to get it sorted but by then it was nearly eleven. We ran through the rest at some speed, left one out to keep the time down, but then got asked to do an encore so did that one anyway. And have another night booked there, Friday the 12th, which is going to mean some fairly scary last-minute running around for me to get to Cambridge the next day but what the hell.
The late running gig meant a late train home, all the while with the Sore Throat Of Overdoing It lurking. Which means today I am off work ill anyway, and without yesterday's interesting proposition by way of distraction. All in all I've had a good weekend with beer and fun and practices and gigs and good food and all sorts of debauchery, of course, but. Meh, I'm just being greedy.
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