When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state....
What do I do?
I play some traditional jazz.
I know of no better antidote to bad backs, insane archbishops, and publishers who, in another life, would have been apprenticed to pastry cooks - if they were lucky.
And so this evening, my beloveds, my house has trembled to the sound of bands you have probably never heard of - Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, Terry Lightfoot, Acker Bilk, Alex Welsh, Chris Barber, Monty Sunshine and the ragged voice of the outrageous and seriously dead George Melly.
These guys played and sang trad jazz: straightforward chord sequences, familiar riffs, everything to make an Old Scrote feel he hasn't lost total grip on existence. I even danced some.
That and garlic chicken with East Anglian new potatoes and broccoli.
I tell you, when it comes to coping, Saga hasn't even got close!
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