Words are like the paint on a painters pallet, as you mix them the picture they paint is altered, developed into a different image telling a different story. Having been invited out to the pub by my daughter Angela I was drawn from my comfort zone, the warmth of the chair and the laptop into a noisy community of wild Welsh men and women out to enjoy themselves irrespective of cost or consequence. They were up for a party, the Welsh rugby team had thrashed the French and whilst I tried to be impartial, well perhaps I engaged in a little light hearted French partisanship the win certainly whipped the locals up for party time.
Most people in a pub do not go there to engage in the minutia of the game they are hedonistically out to press the character they identify themselves with, the good looking, drop down gorgeous, witty, laugh a minute personality that they have convinced themselves they are. The noise ratchets up a decibel or two with each passing pint and the few of us who are keen on the game struggle to follow it.
Being a reinvented virgin in the night out stakes I watched the party boil up into a witches brew as the participants etched out a position for later on, whilst my attention was turned to a local jazz group warming up as the game finished. I'v mentioned in past blogs that Swansea is awash with pubs hosting jazz and blues bands its as if the town was a final settling spot for aged musicians still wishing to strut their stuff and good stuff it is too.
How I wish I had the gift to play like they do, ageing is of no consequence if you can role back the years with a riff and maybe a spliff.
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