If music be the food of staring pointlessly out of the window, then who will tip the waiter? (You.)

There's not much to tell, all told. This has become a bit of a recurring theme.

Trewin, I assume, is working on new material. He's all holed-up, as it were, in a little flat overlooking Brighton beach with just a computer and two huge monitors to keep him in healthy company.

Ed, I assume, is out and about; teaching, going for bracing walks, singing and/or whistling as he trundles down the road to the bakery for a fresh loaf and perhaps a glazed doughnut - half for now, half for later. Skip-a-dee-doo.

Jeb, I know, is at Glastonbury. The line-up looks rubbish. I hope he's having an awful time. He's definitely having an awful time.

Seryn, I assume, has been queuing for the merry-go-round for about six hours now, not realising that he is in fact stood behind a plastic man meant to entice holidaymakers into Brighton Fishing Museum and so never getting the rush of wind in his hair that he so dearly craves. The attraction attendee also, going out of business, wishes only for a friend, and kills himself on a polymer unicorn's spike as the Wurlitzer plays on, and on.

Me, I assume, is/am staring our of our first floor window at a brick wall belonging half to next door, coffee in hand, listening to

 

for the first time.

This is time that is down, or 'down-space', as I believe it's referred to in popular culture. (I don't look at any popular culture except the interactive show 'Unrestrained Reverend Warfare', which is on a channel only I can access, though is made by a group of people popular within their own peer group (battery licking nuns), which I assume qualifies it as 'popular culture'.)

So now it is Saturday, and the sun is struggling to come through the dusty clouds.

I hope you have a lovely day, however isolated, however slow.

Tim.