The Word Cloud

Canterbury.
Home to the students and dreadlocks of the world.
Seriously the dreadlocks of Canterbury are among the most matted and plaited in the known world.  Never mind your saints in their latter day hair shirts, flaying themselves across the cradle of Christianity.  Those dreds must itch like a bitch.

And last night in this most wondrous city.  Within its walls of grey ice and flint.  Against its nose squashed, one eyed arrow slits.  Along some of its most diagon-alley-ish pillow smooth cobbled streets, the band of the hour played on manfully with five strings and a set list containing not one but two...yes count them my friend...TWO happy songs.

The encore
when it came
was courtesy of a well oiled punter dressed in pressed.  Well tanked up on Shepherd Neame's finest.
Good humoured and beligerent in a confusing blend of quasi threat and chat up line.
We were, it appeared, 'Bleedin' Good!'
He had heard us from 'Right Down The Street.' 
He cared not that our songs actually and usually required the full six strings.
He cared not that our casual, lighthearted selves were, tonight, a tad tense, that our happy songs were lacking a certain...well ...happy.
He wanted us to play another song.
So we did.
And do you know what.  A happy song was born.  Right there in front of the paying customers.  It arrived all shiny and new.  All smiley and folky. 
All foot tappy jangly.

Later, as the barman/soundengineer/dreadhead/bookerofbands doled out our 10% of the bar, the money was suddenly insignificant.
Irrelevant.
It didn't matter.  We were smiling.
We were a band with three happy songs.
And we were bleedin' good.
Even from right down the street.