You may or may not know that I used to be in a band. Yeah, musician in a band - a radical concept, I know. In fact, I've been in a number of bands, including 47's band, which played all of one gig (but it was fun), and my own, wherein we managed to stumble our way through a few, but with audiences averaging 6, that doesn't really matter too much.
It does say something when you play a gig and the most interesting thing that happens is the presence of marshmallow foam from Cybercandy.
During my three years at university, though, I played in the biggest band I knew since I'd been in the youth symphony orchestra at the age of about 12. I still don't know why I joined, really, but it was something typical of a wanky art student wanting to get through a creative/expressive block, and since that's the same reason I started this blog it's something that never leaves. I don't even know why I stayed so long, since I was ritualistically bullied by the musical director and my section leader. Twice a week I went to rehearse, and twice a week I waited to be yelled at or humiliated by somebody - for no particular reason; I wasn't too bad at my chosen instrument, even: I was just an easy target.
Maybe I've got a neon sign above my head that I can't see. It's masked by the glare from my halo.
But I digress. I kept going, despite the abuse - I had friends there, plus when it all came down to it, I liked the music. And we played more concerts than I'd have ever thought possible, too.
In the back room of the community centre where we rehearsed, there was a large and dusty library of titles which we had never played and never would, old and broken instruments which didn't work, and a pair of antiquated timpani, which I usually hauled out into the big hall myself since I occasionally played the things once my bullying section leader had left, bequeathing the instrumental duties to the one person left in the section (me!). Countless times I sat at the back of the band waiting to play my few notes, and even more times (could they be counted) I wondered how easy it might be to slip off into the back room for illicit sexual activities while the band was playing its 49th verse of Geordie Jack-Tar.
Particularly in my second year (my first and third were different), my nights were characterised by steamy, sweaty self-indulgence while my brain conjured up images of exactly what one (or two, to be exact) could get up to in such a room, how to do so without being caught, and the logistics of having sex on a timpani. I even considered writing a story about it, although I had no idea how - noting down my nocturnal fantasies always came out like a rather clinical bullet point list.
I haven't forgotten.
My dreams have been stranger than usual recently, although (as opposed to the odd sexual situations they tend to throw at me) they have mostly been concerned with Getting Stuff That I Need To Get Done Done, which is both depressing and worrying and more the sort of thing my mother dreams about than I do. However, two nights ago, wholly without any reason to be doing so, I found myself revisiting that back room, naked, with none other than a famous British journalist I shan't name (because you never name a journalist!) as my sexual sparring partner. While the bank played something in the other room that could have been anything. Possibly the theme tune from Ground Force. I didn't really notice, as I was more concerned with hair, skin and filthy filthy filthy sex.
I've no idea whether this is my body dealing with sexual urges in a healthy way (it wasn't a wet dream - I haven't had one of those for a while) or addressing an unresolved issue, but anyway, it was a nice (if completely baffling) situation to have presented itself. I should start a library of these things.
And then last night's dream involved me in a suit with a clipboard.
My brain is really weird.