The band I’m in is off on its autumn mini-tour, trying to get to the Chapel Arts Centre in Bath for our 5pm sound check. We’ve played here several times, and not much has changed, except that Bath’s notorious one-way system is now lightly mined with pop-up bollards.
That night, the audience contains a number of what we sometimes call superfans: repeat customers, people who travel impressive distances, familiar faces in the front three rows. Afterwards, in what has become something of an annual fixture, I have a long chat by the merchandise table with a chimney services technician whose professional name is Mr Sweep.
“You were terrible,” he says.
“Mr Sweep,” I say. “Hi.”
“Just kidding,” Mr Sweep says. “Fantastic show. I love you guys.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I read your column sometimes,” he says. “It’s awful.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m reminded that sometimes it can be hard to know where you are with Mr Sweep.
“I’m only joking,” he says. “I never miss it. Do you want a drink?”
The next afternoon, we are making our way around Kendal’s notorious one-way system while discussing the previous night’s show.
“Is he an actual chimney sweep?” the accordion player asks.
“Twenty-three years,” I say, “man and boy.”
We pull into the car park of the Brewery Arts Centre, Kendal, a one-stop cultural mecca in the heart of the Lake District. The last time we played here, we felt like the only game in town, because the cinema was showing the Diana movie; if only by default, we were Kendal’s least-worst Friday night option. Tonight, it’s showing Spectre.
As we cross the lobby between sound check and show time, a fan presents us with a package wrapped carefully in a blanket. For a moment, I fear she’s giving us a puppy. “I made you biscotti,” she says, pulling back the blanket.
“That’s incredibly sweet,” the fiddle player says.
“There are two kinds,” she says. “Both gluten-free.”
Later, on stage, the guitarist makes a point of mentioning the biscotti. “We’re looking forward to them after the show,” he tells the audience.
“I’ve actually already had one,” I say, in a bid to upstage his gratitude.
“Which kind?” a voice shouts. It’s the woman who gave them to us, sitting in the front row.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What kinds were there?”
“You couldn’t tell?” she shouts.
That night, sharing a Travelodge room with a fat fly, I am overcome by a sense of desolation. I can’t sleep and I’m missing home. At 1am, I’m staring at the ceiling when my phone rings: it’s the middle one, who has clearly pocket-dialled me from what sounds like a fun party. I listen in for about five minutes, then fall asleep.
The next day, we drive from Kendal to Ipswich, keeping pace with a torrential storm. I nibble at a chunk of biscotti I now know to contain dried apricots.
“What’s the other kind?” the mandolin player asks.
“I think she shouted that they had cranberries in them,” I say.
At 4.30pm, we arrive at Ipswich library. Even though the reading room is still open for business – and therefore quiet – the library is buzzing with excitement about the coming evening. We’re told it’s the biggest event they’ve ever had, that it’s sold out, that we are helping to keep libraries alive. The organiser gives me a free pen. “Now you can’t write anything bad about Ipswich,” she says.
“If I do, I won’t use this pen,” I say, making a mental note to avoid the word “notorious” when describing the one-way system.
