Escalator Riding For Beginners

When I was fifteen and sixteen and seventeen years old I used to work for my dad at the horse race meetings every couple weeks.  He preferred me to work as his Penciller because I loved the pressure of making mathematical calculations on the spot with drunken adults waving wads of cash in my face. I thought it was the perfect job because it combined my natural proclivities for mathematics and str ess management (i.e.: couldn't give a shitness) in one career choice. Only thing was, it wasn't a career. You only worked Saturdays. Still, I made 60 bucks for four hours work which wasn't bad back in the day. Dad was only making 120 bucks a week in his full-time job at the wheat board. I know this because he used tell mum to take it easy down the shops cos she was spending 130 bucks a week on food. So at 15 I was rolling in it and it happened because I was good at math and in not taking people too seriously. So dad was a bookmaker and people would line up and make bets and he'

I spend the whole day in my hotel room. It’s minus four outside, with a light snow. I’d like to feel free to roam around the city but the risk of getting too cold, of coming back with some bug or a sore throat, it’s too great.  I got to stay inside and practice and prepare.  Today I don’t prepare that much. I play a little on the guitar, maybe an hour. The time flies by. I drink coffee. I check my  messages, my emails. I write to some venues in the UK that my wife has found trawling the net. I’m going over there in April and don’t have a single confirmed date yet with only eleven weeks to go. This tour started a week ago in Paderborn at a little place called “Sputnik” cafe. It’s a nice place and small. Most of the places I play are small and some are tiny. I figure when you are virtually unknown the amount of floor space you occupy at your gigs is out of proportion with the total space of the place. When you are not known you play to small rooms but you still need the same amount of sp