old guitars and

For no reason at all, it was old guitars yesterday. Now, those who know me will realise that I mean something from Woolworth's or some body's garage, rather than anything notable or priceless, like a Stradivarius equivalent. We were having breakfast with my friend and fellow singer and guitarist, Michael, and spun back to when we were young (took a lot of spinning) and remembered our very first guitars. Mine was donated to me by some well-wisher with a sense of humour, a friend of one of my brothers, who may (no may about it) have used it for cricket practice at one time. A battered twelve string, it was, with only six strings, which, if I'd known anything about guitars or had any money (more to the point) I might have replaced. But they weren't rusty, they didn't jangle too much, they seemed to be in the right place and tuned up OK, so they stayed with that guitar for some time. It didn't have a case. I constructed one out of a black plastic bag which was easy, you just bung the thing in and throttle the neck with an elastic band so that it doesn't let in the rain. It didn't protect it from the bus journey to practices, of course, the thrusts and jolts, the wheelies round corners, nor did it protect from the slings and arrows, the mockery from fellow passengers. But when the rain fell, boy, that plastic bag was something else. That guitar saw me through years of songs. It was the colour of dog-do which probably matched my playing, so it suited me down to the ground.