I sat at the bottom of too many stairs in the 1960s. As a result, like many of us I no longer have any idea where I am. Instead I experience all the young Bob Dylan’s abiding sorrow at finding himself trapped in the body of a 69 year old Midlands bloke. The ghost of eccentricity howls in the bones of his fate. I did not exactly mean for that to happen. It’s not the end I would have wished, because back then he seemed so cruel & clever & vulnerable & I loved every complicated mouthful. Still, here we are. The two of us. Always waiting for her. Perhaps, in the end, Louise would have been the sound-money bet?