1967 - Alone Again Or

I’m waiting on the corner. The corner by the church, opposite the tennis club.

I like waiting. Waiting is easy. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to listen. You don’t have to make conversation. You don’t have to be funny. You don’t have to be clever. You don’t have to be liked. You don’t have to be “in”. You don’t have to understand the sayings, the catchphrases, the words, the looks. You don’t have to be in the competition. You don’t have to not miss a thing. 

This is where we formed our first band. I wanted to play drums. Dave wanted to play drums. Dave was oldest. Dave was tallest. Dave was best at football and table tennis. Dave had had a girlfriend. Dave’s hair was long. He was the first to grow it long. But most of all, Dave bought records, obscure records, on strange labels, from the American West Coast.

That’s how I became a guitarist.

The church – scene and source of a great many awakenings – had been modernised. A large entrance hall had been put on the front. The grey rendered walls inside were painted white – enlightened.  All the bushes, the wooden gates and fence were taken away. It now stood exposed. The new high gloss varnished signboard with pale blue plastic lettering had been liberally vandalised by people and the weather. I miss those ancient wooden gates. Waiting to be lifted up, they seemed more appropriate. But the new low brick wall is good to sit on while you are waiting.

The LP records under my arm have been painstakingly chosen from my extensive collection of six, and even more pains taken in considering which to hold on top, to be seen.

The Lawn Tennis Club. The keys to the clubhouse are hidden in one of the tool sheds on a hook behind the door. Smell of petrol and grass cuttings, oil and metal, mowers and rollers. Clubhouse venue of marathon summer holiday table tennis rallies. I have a dispensation from the committee – all members of the same family – the same family who win all the club tournaments. A dispensation to wear my black Woolworth’s bumper boots on court. This is in response to a petition from the junior coach. I am a special case, poor family, difficult background. I find all this out after the event. It’s a fabrication. My mother would be mortified.

In the club tournament I had been drawn against the father of a friend. I was beating him – not easily, but definitely. Then he started cheating, calling balls out that were clearly in. I couldn’t believe it. Grown-ups were supposed to do proper wrong things like adultery and murder and train robberies. This was so petty, naughty. Something like scales fell from my eyes.

We phoned John Renbourn from the clubhouse. His number was in an old dog-eared south London directory that was there. Why? This was Surrey.
“Hello.”
“Hello, is this John Renbourn?”
“Yes.”
(“Put it down, quick!”)

She comes in colours. I think my temples are going to burst. I can’t speak. I grunt. She’s so easy, so confident, so friendly. Is this true? Her breath smells of some kind of exotic chewing gum or toothpaste? Everything about her is exotic. She’s from the other school. The other side. All normal rules are suspended. Unchartered waters. I can’t swim. My head swims. One grunt for yes, two grunts for no.

I think I could be in love with almost everyone.