October 7, 2017
I fall asleep too late.
Too much adrenaline after a gig.
I lean crooked against the headboard, waiting for my eyelids to drop of their own volition.
I set my alarm optimistically late, so as only to allow for a final pack and a vague wash.
I’ll have time for more in Melbourne.
Dream on, or not, as is usually the case.
Too many time zones skipped over and the body doesn’t heed itself.
6 o’clock and my mind starts to tug at my scalp for attention, like a bored cat.
I go downstairs for coffee and am surprised how full it is with energetic senior citizens.
It’s like the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel with an out of season sale on.
Only in a Hilton.
Another fine buffet, though I am still gestating last nights cheese and ham on brown.
Nice addition of pickles in there, Adelaide.
Chapeau!
Back in my room and finally our shifts allow for a phone call with home.
I needed that.
Rolling stock gathered and I am very thorough with my final idiot check.
G has arranged for my Perth stranded Floyd shirt to be sent to Sydney.
That’s happy making.
In the van with our cases, we head to the airport, destination Melbourne.
Margaret Court.
Bit of a freak, her, but you really can’t hold that against a fine venue and its people – who certainly aren’t buying into that brand of Christianity.
The type that sidelines Jesus.
In the lounge, G tells me she and the crew have been mocking me over my sky glance in Rarest Birds.
Fucking shits.
I was trying to express flight.
I won’t do that again.
Dougie. When you read this I’m thinking about the next time I call you onstage to fix my mic stand.
You black-country bastard sell-sword.
Getting on the plane now.
Primed for tonight.
Primed.
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