Having finally decided to go to the Cyril Davies gig after all, I suddenly got all the signs that my remaining good retina was about to detach once more. Having just got over another angioplasty where yet another tube was inserted in a coronary artery, and still suffering from sore throat and a cough to kill for, this was the last thing I needed.
So off I went to Moorfields Eye Hospital. On the way I discovered that the underground wouldn’t have got me directly to the gig because of the closure of the Northern line at King’s Cross, so I thought I would probably drive there, once I’d been checked out at the hospital.
Naturally the first thing that happened when I got to the A&E department was that my eye was dilated, with the comment. “Don’t drive tonight.” Thanks very much! End of thoughts of attending the gig anyhow.
At the hospital, after the usual three hour wait and examination, the duty doctor could find no signs of a detachment, though she agreed that the symptoms were puzzling. She wanted a second opinion, just to make sure, given that I was already practically blind in the other eye, so I agreed to return the next day at 8.30 in the morning.
I returned home and decided to go for a drink. Now that is no surprise, I know. At the Inn on the Green, Dave the manager suggested that if there was a detachment, I could still go on playing, to which, having given it considerable thought, I agreed. He then suggested I could rename myself Blind Boy Vick, but I assured him that I had long ago come up with the more appropriate Blind Drunk Vick. I didn’t like the way he agreed so quickly that this was definitely apt. However, I didn’t leave straight away.
When I did finally leave for another, perhaps more sympathetic ear, in another watering hole, I made the mistake of running into my webmeister, Jason, at the Metropolitan, who suggested Blind, Drunk and Shakey. I thought this was even more over the top but I stayed anyway.
The next morning I duly presented myself at the A&E department and was sent upstairs to a ward where I joined other unfortunates. As it turned out these were even more unfortunate, because I was given the okay, after another inspection and they all had to stay for surgery. Much relieved, I went home, observing, en route, what a wonderful day it was turning out to be.
That evening, I went to a gig in the Portobello Gold as I knew the drummer, George Butler. I couldn’t determine whether the band was a punk band or a rock band or whatever. They were definitely loud, but the punters obviously enjoyed it. That gig ended early enough for me to reach the Metropolitan before closing time where I joined Jason, Jon “T-Bone” Taylor and Christin, a cello player who carries her cello to gigs on her back and refers to it as her granny. I’m still waiting to hear her perform, but I’m sure it won’t be as loud as George’s music and certainly not as noisy as the damned DJ. Anyway who wants to encourage a noisy granny into making a public exhibition of herself. And so to bed, as the scribe put it.