In the latter stages of the war the majority of the Italian airforce were reduced to flying sycamore seeds.

It’s an odd feeling, sitting in front of a computer and willing your brain to think of some way that you can sell your music and make a living so you can afford that cool terracotta pot for the rose bush. I read the things that people write about podcasts and webcasts and I listen to music from bands with very hip sounding names and I wonder what it is that needs to be done.

So, drawing on my extensive experience in my very own field, namely the NHS, I have decided to make a leaflet. Sorry, handbill. To go with the CDs that we will send to people who will listen with attentive looks on their faces. Well it has to be done. And it has to be done in such as a way as to not make it read like a fool with a thesaurus and an A-level in Business Studies has done it. Words are important, like. Words are used to make people know what it is that you mean when you use the words that mean what you mean them to mean. And stuff.

I’ve also been getting quotes, or rather requesting quotes, from people whose titles would look good underneath a glowing recommendation of us. I have two so far, and they glow like a four bar electric fire in a gloom filled nursing home in Dartmoor. So my efforts have not been in vain. The next step will be to make some more CDs and sell them and not spend the money the day after on sausages and toilet rolls and fag papers and cheap wine that is still too much for the delicate budget. I even look forward to getting some posters done, one day, maybe. Much as I hate the way I always cock them up.

There are some new photos on the website that look quite nice. I look forward to playing in an environment that is not quite as cluttered as the Tavern, but support acts have to suffer the “not stopping” look I suppose. At least we took our coats off.

Right, back to the Star Making Machine it is. Of course I suppose I could assist in the running of our local healthcare organisation as well…..nah. Stardom won’t fall unbidden into our laps by itself.

Last night Monica watched A Streetcar Named Desire, which ended in the wee small hours. She came to bed very sad, but thankfully awoke me from a nightmare in which Maurice, our cockatiel, had been making chicken noises and running round in a figure of eight before doing a shit the size and exact likeness of Walter Matthau’s head, rendered in green and white, which are the colours of cockatiel shite. I don’t know what it means.