Poozies, Windies and Wobblies

'What are you going to wear, then?’ asks my dear friend, Jill.
‘Well, first I’m going to knit some sandals…’
‘Don’t forget your dirndl skirt!’
‘Ooh, and a hairy, multi-colour, organic jumper!
Our mutual mirth is due to the fact that the Night of Reckoning is here. What seemed a great Christmas present idea has now come home to roost. I’m taking Tom to see the Poozies, an all girl folk band described with words like ‘uplifting’ and ‘traditional’ ie not my bag at all. My disquiet increases on the way to the venue when I ask Tom how long it is since he’s seen them.
‘Seen them? I’ve never seen them.’
Turns out he saw them once on the telly and ‘quite liked them’ so bought a couple of their CDs on the strength on it. One of the drawbacks of getting together a bit later in life, apart from being missing being young and foolish together, is that there’s enough trauma just getting together without delving too much into each other’s young and foolish pasts as well. Sometimes you can get things wrong. It’s a horrible night, wet and windy, and for a moment I wonder why we’re going at all but, hey, the cosy Theatr Mwldan is only twenty minutes away and live music is always worth hearing.

Feeling smug that we don’t have to worry about parking or last trains back to the suburbs we head inside where the theatre is practically heaving and there isn’t a freaky jumper or hair-do in sight. There isn’t even any evidence of that other sub-species much in evidence at arty gatherings round here, women who dress in what the Guardian’s Jess Cartner-Morley calls the ‘Hampstead playwright’ look ie flowing black, velvet scarf and ethnic earrings. If it wasn’t for the fact I spy the rather strange man who Tom left me to do the last dance with when we turned up for a Welsh class and found it had turned into a folk dancing nightmare, I’d swear this audience had been bussed in.

We take our seats (no fighting or groping in the moshpit tonight) and the five Poozies arrive on time and with sweet smiles and even sweeter voices. Ah, what can I say? I would never play this music in the privacy of my own study but it’s impossible to be mean about such good musicians. They play and sing their little hearts out for the best part of two hours, wrapping the audience in a glow of loveliness and chatting to their fans in the break. It’s a thoroughly entertaining evening. Just as well, really, because the other gig I bought Tom tickets for is coming up soon. Bellowhead are a fifteen piece band, a bit like folk’s answer to Arcade Fire… hmm, better get knitting.

When we bought this house the surveyor described the location as ‘severely exposed’ which I glossed over in my haste to get to the stunning view of the Preseli hills. Whilst the wind has been a feature of living here it’s never been as bad as last Saturday when I was really frightened. The first big gust took our fence off, like a shred of paper, but the next stripped the ridge tiles off the three houses opposite as quickly as tearing off a plaster. I wasn’t exactly pleased when those houses were built but, my goodness, I felt for my neighbours then.

Look, no new novel sidebar. Well, not yet, but since I’m in the Novel Racers’ race for Complete New Work it’s about time I got started. I’m very torn between an idea I’ve been kicking round for ages about a place that haunts me or going with a something in the same vein as FTT. Right, I must make a decision this week – ‘though if I was a right clever clogs like some people I could work on both. Oooh, what to do? Come on Chris!

Painting is ‘Royal Festival Hall’ by Tom Tomos