Was it only last week I was writing about comfort zones and their associated twin, risk-taking? Yes, I believe it was. I wrote then that most of the risk-taking section of my retirement was tied up in my musical activities. Never truer than this last Saturday morning, and then some.
Where was my comfort zone on this day? Over there, down the street and round the corner. In other words, a long way away. As I stood looking out at our audience for this my first gig for the Leeds Folk Fiddle Group, I wondered why had I allowed myself to be suckered into appearing here?
Here being St Cuthbert’s church in Bradford somewhere. I have no idea where. The Sat Nav had brought us to this obscure place on this cold, wet Saturday morning. My astonishing indecisiveness had set it up, or rather set me up. Not necessarily for failure, but certainly for a good deal more stress than I would usually experience on a Saturday morning.
I thought I had explained to our group leader that I didn’t feel ready for a public appearance having only joined the group about a month ago. In the New Year I thought I might feel comfortable. But that’s not how it turned out at all. At last Thursday’s practice I basically cast my fate to the wind. I asked how many guitarists they had for the gig and was told two. OK, that’s enough then isn’t it?
You can probably guess the rest. No, we could do with another one, so that could be you. I’ve noticed before that I have a habit of letting difficult decisions make themselves. Remarkable for somebody who claims to be such a control freak and I’m not sure what it means. Maybe something like, well if I’m going to put myself in clear and present danger, it won’t be through my doing. Greater powers than I made the choice. Sounds a bit thin but it’s all I have.
But there I was looking out over this unplanned for audience and wondering why. I didn’t have my own music, I’d lost my glasses a couple of days before and was wearing an old pair that had not only gone out of fashion but also out of relevance to my current eyesight. The lighting was poor and I don’t like standing up to play my guitar. Some of the songs I was about to play I’d never played / seen before. The only good news was that probably nobody would be able to hear me.
And of course it’s not just the moment that’s stressful. Getting to this moment had been ridiculously challenging. There’s a whole back story to my appearance. Not only have I agreed, in lackadaisical fashion, to appear but also, in order to be a part of the performing group, I had to wear their uniform. In essence this was black shirt and trousers, black shoes all with a red tie. Sounds OK, you’re saying but wait, there’s a problem.
I don’t have, never have had a black shirt (I’ve never been either a member of the Mafia or a waiter) and any black trousers I’ve had are long gone. So in order to appear at this gig, that I don’t really want to take part in, I have to spend (£40 as it turned out) money on buying these two items of clothing. Only the fact that I had kept all of my work ties, ten years after I stopped wearing ties, meant I didn’t need to buy the tie.
So Friday found me in one of my least favourite situations – shopping for clothes and, worse still, trying on ‘trousers’ in the shop’s changing cubicle. Just getting to this point had been problematic. I decided to buy a pair of black jeans. At least this way there was a chance I might wear the damn things at times other than the gig. So I walk into the shop and there must have been over a hundred pairs of black jeans hanging on the rails.
I walk round, reality dawns. I read the labels – skinny fit, or even spray-on, I kid you not, every single pair. I’m grumpy already. I say to Mrs Summerhouse who has accompanied me for reasons that may become clear, there’s nothing here I’m off. She says I’ll find something and she does, they are black jeans but with a button fly. I hate a button fly. Try them on, she says. I’m grumpier still. They’re still tight. I pull them on, I hate them but I might as well show them to my support team as I have them on.
Reluctantly I step outside into the shop expecting to see Mrs SH who will give me an opinion on how they look. Wrong, she’s nowhere in sight. Eventually, by now super annoyed, I spot her over the other side of the bloody shop looking at dresses. Now is it just me or is it reasonable to expect that this woman should fulfil the very purpose she is here for? No I thought it wasn’t.
We agree they’re not right and I return to the changing room. I can’t get them off they’re so frigging narrow, I pull my socks off trying to get the jeans off. I fall over several times. Now I’m really grumpy. For the first time in my life I realise I really have turned into Victor Meldrew. I say, I don’t believe it, but not as a joke or a parody, but for real.
Mrs Summerhouse returns with another pair. These are billed as ‘stretchy’ and are even narrower. Most of you won’t remember a comedian called Max Wall, he wore black tights and big boots with his jacket. Very humorous he was back then. This is how I will look in these ‘trousers’. It’s not the image I’m after. I refuse to try them on. Mrs SH buys them anyway. I buy a black shirt without any drama. We leave the shop with both.
Needless to say these are the trousers (and shirt, Al Pacinco would be proud, and tie) I’m wearing as I stand staring out at the audience. I don’t think that putting all this together I could feel more out of my comfort zone. But we’re off. 1,2 / 1,2,3,4 – let the performance begin. The shirt and trousers appear in the above picture but fortunately I’m at the back so you’ll just have to take my word for all of the above.
*Remember this in Ireland