The Case Of The Missing Central Heating.

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Dear ***,


Nice to hear that I vie for space in the memory banks alongside your sister's mammary banks.


'Ted Baum' is one of my less succesful alter egos. Right up there with 'Richard History' and 'Brazil Ian'. I'm as hard to find on Twitter as a bottle of Listerine round at David Mellor's house, so I'm grateful for your patronage.


Much time/music has passed since we shared a counter with the likes of **********, ****** ****,  and the breath-monster security guard, who I actually bumped into at head office - apparently he's Chief of Security now. Well, he's certainly a chief. I imagine thieves are quaking in their boots. He tapped me on the shoulder, and gave me a rough chuckle that suggested a fresh litre of milky coffee had just been consumed. Rather ashamedly I pretended that my phone was ringing and scarpered, thus removing any chance of conversation.


I watched Ms Wainwright at close distance in a sticky-floored bar at SXSW where I was playing with my band. I was in the company of Jose Gonzalez and Richard Hawley at the time. She was rather good. I then saw her support Wilco back in the UK - she was awful. That appears to be the deal, I guess.


What am I up to? A fair question.


I tend to spend most of my time either listening to The National, having a bath, smoking my pipe, or doing all three. I seem to have fallen on hard times. Think of me as a cross between Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett (minus any element of crazed genius).


My day today has, at best, been dull. The highlight so far? Paying my TV license on my return from the job centre.


I've hit mid-life hard.


Married, overweight and writing a book, I am a motorbike-purchase away from a fully blown crisis - although, to include my lovely wife in that equation seems perhaps a tad harsh.


I've just returned from a morale boosting visit to *********. He is living in *********, in the delightfully named ****** **** area.


We drank wine, we listened to Tom Waits, we played a fair amount of boules.
He has an attic, a cellar, no central heating, a cat called 'Monet' and a champagne coloured Austin Metro on his driveway.


He was depressed, but on very good form.




Must dash - I've got to check on my mini kievs.




Very best,


Pitkin


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