Last night, well into the earlyhours, a special one-off performance by The Young Brothers ably supported by The Velvet Doonicans (aka Arnie and Tim).
Made me think what a proud moment that would be. To be one of the city's best loved musicians (Southampton's version of Ian Dury) and on stage as a support act to your son's excitng and talented new band, seeming for all the world that they are on the brink of something really special.
Seen the boys six times now, and they just get better. I've watched Foxx play in small venues to smaller crowds.
Late to start though - they didn't appear on stage until nearly 11, but then played on till well after 1am. Superb stuff.
During the evening, the invisible woman that floats around in the corner of all our lives took on the kookie form of Kayleigh on the door. Sat just behind us (myself, matt, AB, DR, C and Mr B, Mr and Mrs Vicar) mostly by herself.
Red hair and red lips
Red eyes and breasts of snow
I've always had a taste for that gothic look, which is decisious combined with the beautiful light of madness. On the knife edge of eccentric. One hand on the handle of the mad/sane door.
Once I decided to speak to her she would not shut up. I have this curious effect! Cock your head to once side, nod and listen. Smile appropriately and engage with her eyes.
Features merging
faces blurring
Gone now as a specific, but always to remain as a shadow. A crease in my shirt sleeve, dust on the back of my hand.
We all host Invisible Women whether we admit to their presence or not.
Oftentimes it is our mother, then occasionally someone between an 'ex' and the 'next'.
Our daughter's sister or a distant friend. Frequently someone we have never met, and yet always somehow known to us in one way or another.
These people, the Invisible Women and the Hidden Men with whom they dance, form the essence of our personalities, or histories and our future.
I believe all meetings and partings are within each of us at birth. As we move through live they begin to take some form and order, and we drift or slide from one to the other, confusing them, separating them, loving and leaving.
Some of them have names. Like Sally.
I wonder now if her time has gone in the frame, and who will come along next to wear that dress. Missed a week at the pool while we were in Devon, and I felt her abscence last week too at the last session of term.
Perhaps she has passed my number onto KD, who texted me some days thanking me for the recent email. And then this morning I get in the post two copies of the Fulham programme from her (I left my five on the bus, along with all the contact details I collected!!) and some great pictures of Marc's recent performances at Shepherd's Bush and Wilton Hall.
Of all the gigs I have not attended, that one will be forever special.
RadioBeach has sent me three of the same programme, and k-punk has offered a copy of his wonderful 'london under london' piece.
So much is happening, so many threads.
Inspired to write now, the biography from the beginning.
But where is the time going to come from?