It is the start of the spring tour of the band I’m in, and I am driving down the motorway while heavy rain batters the windscreen. My passenger, the accordion player, is describing a crossword clue to me.
“Ten letters,” he says. “And the tremultimate letter is an E.”
“The what?” I say.
“Tremultimate,” he says. “Third from last.”
“Is that a real word?” I say.
“No, I made it up,” he says, “but it serves a purpose.”
“It actually has more syllables than ‘third from last’,” I say.
“Wasn’t that our exit?” he says.
There is some question as to whether I’m cut out for the life of a musician – I know I was never meant to drive musicians and their stuff around. The whole idea of loading and unloading in tight urban spaces fills me with quiet terror.
The rain stops but it’s another seven miles before we can get off the motorway and drive back through the same storm. As we approach Bath from the west, my pulse rate begins to rise.
We drive in circles around the pedestrianised city centre, looking for a way in. Finally we come to a gate attended by a woman in a hi-vis vest. I roll down the window and show her a permit I applied for 10 days before.
“That’s fine,” she says, unlocking the gate. “But you’ll have to come back out and find somewhere to park.”
After we unload, I drive alone through the pedestrianised zone, dodging walkers and cafe tables, looking for an exit. All the obvious escape routes are blocked by bollards. I would describe this as the stuff of nightmares if it hadn’t happened to me so many times in real life.
Finally, I come to a gate staffed by a different attendant. It may or may not be a different gate.
“Am I allowed out this way?” I say. “I have a bit of paper.”
“Yes,” he says. “But you need to go right up there. Don’t go straight on or you’ll get done. And whatever you do, don’t go left.”
The next morning I call my wife from a hotel somewhere on the outskirts of Chippenham.
“How was it?” she says.
“I got lost walking back from the car park in the rain,” I say. “And then I got lost again walking to the car park in the rain afterwards.”
“I meant the gig itself,” she says.
“It was fine,” I say. “How is it being alone?” By some coincidence of scheduling, the middle one and the youngest one are both away on holiday. My wife is by herself in the house for the first time, possibly ever.
“It’s great!” she says. “Can you go away more often?”
“I sure can,” I say.
“I’ve moved into a different bedroom,” she says.
“Wait, what?”
“Where are you tonight?” she says.
“Milton Keynes,” I say.
The rain follows us, from roundabout to roundabout, all the way to the next venue. The accordion player persists in trying to make the crossword come alive for me.
“OK, so it’s clearly an anagram,” he says. “The tremultimate letter is H.”
“I checked yesterday,” I say. “And the actual word for third from last is antepenultimate.”
“I’ll stick with the easy elegance of mine,” he says. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Sealyham.”
“Never heard of it,” he says.
“It’s some kind of dog,” I say. “And it’s the answer.”
The approach to the venue leads to a large car park at the rear of the building. I cannot believe my eyes.
“Is that a loading bay?” I say. “Oh my God, I love a loading bay.”
The next morning, in a change of plan, we decide to drive back to London. When I open the front door, my wife screams.
“I wasn’t expecting you!” she says.
“Yeah, it’s a surprise,” I say, dragging my bag in behind me.
“How long were you planning on staying?”
“I don’t have to be in Oxford until four, so …”
“I’ll be at the football by then,” she says.
“The what?” I say.
“I go to the football now.”
“I’ve only been gone for 46 hours,” I say. “What is happening?”
I spend the remainder of the day alone, doing my laundry and steeling myself for all the driving and parking ahead: Oxford, Salisbury, and then on to Liverpool, the tremultimate gig of the run.
