Harry Paterson

I found myself wandering around, downstairs, in the wee sma’ oors, last night.

Nothing unusual about that. I’ll normally sleep for four, five, maybe six, hours at a push and the shades of Bonzo and Moon the Loon thundering through our boudoir won’t shift me.

After that, though, it’s all toss, turn, fits and starts. Restless, sweating and dreams of the type I’m too considerate to share with any shrink. The poor bastard would be howling at the moon or crying for his mam way before the allotted fifty minutes was up.

Last night was different, though. ‘cause things are weird, right now. Good weird and bad weird. The gray and the green together.

There’s the buzz of repaying something special by passing it on to a very cool cat. A cat who, I know, will have the ride of his already chequered and eventful life and be forever thrilled he bought the ticket.

Also, the writing gig is starting to happen. Had some good breaks, lately, and still some stuff to come, hopefully, and that’s cool, too. No question. But while I’m grateful, thrilled, even, I’m kind of feeling all that by proxy. As if I’m watching myself from outside myself. Some daylight equivalent of astral travelling, maybe.

‘cause the bad weird is the stuff really occupying me, right now. SheWhoIsNeverWrong’s aneurysm on the brain and the frightening array of mystery symptoms that lead to it. The whole thing baffling the quacks tasked with dealing with it. A real collection of the good, the bad and the ugly, let me tell you. Above-and-beyond compassion and attention to detail on the one hand (take a bow, Derby Royal) and breath-stealing incompetence and callousness on the other (call your lawyers, Queen’s Med).

Was talking to Mick about it all, earlier in the evening. He’s had his share of that shit, too, and the dude gets it. Which helped. Until the night set in.

Still, made a change from my usual nocturnal perambulations. Induced, in the main, by an overworked conscience and the need to dodge the ghosts of unsettled scores past. Can’t hit a moving target, you fuckers.

All of which left me, when daylight arrived, pensive and reflective. Which meant the only antidote that works: music.

Tell you about that later. Right now, Dad’s Cab is rolling again. The Princess of Darkness needs taking to work and I live only to serve.