30.X.2026

Carl picked up Freddy in Ipswich then carried on to Eye where I piled into the car. As we’d all known each other since seventeen or eighteen we soon fell into talking about the old immortal subjects: films, records, gigs gone to. Of course, we missed Phil, who had died some years before. Another topic was how the four of us should have gone for it back in 1969 and started a band, instead of diverging to become students, plumbers, male nurses or whatever the case may be.

 

We drove to Fifield, following a testimonial someone had given about the Hunting Horn café.  The place was spread over two rooms and as it was half-term some parents had brought in their kiddies whose prattle and laughter were easily phased out of your consciousness when you dug into those old topics. Freddy was still well up on new bands—he got into the live music scene early, whereby one attends gigs, no matter how far away or expensive, rather than just slavishly collecting discs. It was the experience, man.  Carl described  some of his latest exploits as a guitarist, singer, and keyboard player on the  local rock scene.

 

Both  the rooms of the café had been done out to approximate the atmosphere of a private home, with sofas and armchairs and children’s art on the walls beside Edwardian prints, etc. The waitress brought me a little pot of houmous for my cheese scone when I asked, instead of butter, and that merited a tip later.

 

The main thing was we were well away chatting about those old times we’d had. We even considered the future looming bright, such as poor old Phil himself might have broken down in gratitude to the Lord  for having glimpses of. 

​

​