On the verandah.

On the verandah, two years ago, we played (mostly Irish) with Brian and Sylvie and Gray, while Andrew was up in Watkins and Cairns, visiting people. Our sister, Megan complained bitterly about Brian;
"He doesn't talk like that normally."
on account of Brian's Irish accent, which has an algebraic relationship to the degree of sentimentality of the ballad and the number of glasses downed. Mine's a bit like that too.
But I was playing the fiddle then, so it's (sorry) harder to pick.

No fiddle this time, just our sister Fiona's lovely lad's guitar on loan.
I played guitar every day, Friday sitting on my feet, Mum doing the crossword at the table.

Up in Watkins, I played "Sandy's song" to Sandy, and the River song, and she recorded them on her hand-held cam-corder. (I think that's what she called it.) I didn't get time to see it, but I heard later, from Stan's girlfriend that it was 'lovely'.

Sandy called me by my old name, and I liked it very much, and realised with fresh anguish how very little say I personally have had in the new directions we've taken, and how dreamlike the last few years feel to me personally, and how vivid the time up there in Watkins is, by contrast.

It was wonderful in the milky turquoise coloured pool.