Well now, Coldingham has this beautiful village hall that I’d played in twice before, and keep going back for the sweet, sweet audience and the super, super Dave who presides over it, and, delightfully from the control room at the top, them. It’s a proper village, where the post office is the centre of all knowingness and the pubs sell amazing ales and the butcher amazing pies, there is a beach with beach huts, and that is all you will ever need. We were supported by the Earl Grey Sax trio, which was awesome in itself, and I managed at last minute to arrange A Bird so we could share a finale together, which we managed to pull off with certain style and vigour, and which meant I had read Walter Piston’s Orchestration correctly and there is definitely hope for me and transposing instruments. We stayed in a nearby fantastic house of a chum, that had all the birds singing in one giant operatic swoop in its most restful of gardens, such a different vibe from this time last week when we were charging down to London on neither sleep nor vitamins. A lazy morning ensued, we made a wee video of us playing a song in the garden, virtually drowned out by by a particularly persistent blackbird, who may or may not have shat on my head, as there was something slightly crusty in my hair when we got to Hartlepool, that we may hitherto refer to as blackbird’s revenge, if you like.