Terse Tuesday

Small town at the end of an unmarked road. No motels. One hotel, and that built in the 1850s. Hotel bar the only place for nightlife, an old bar of polished wood and strange lights, mirrors and jumbled furniture.

Good band Saturday. No, GREAT band.

I counted: Ten musicians. Damn near outnumbered the audience, which hovered around eleven. They were pros, and they tore it up. We tore it up in turn. Especially when they played Squib Cakes.

Who plays Squib Cakes?! Besides the gentlemen who wrote it? We danced, pure in our joy.

Taken outside through the little hopper window at the footpath