When I lived in Horsham there was this busker. He didn’t have the most amazing voice, but it was fine and he played the standard old school guitar classics. He was always cheery, grateful to anyone who gave him a nod let alone tossed a coin in his case (that sounded more like a euphemism than I meant it to). Anywho, nice bloke, reasonable busker. But there was one song (which he always played) that he sung in a slightly peculiar way. He played a lot of Beatles, one of them being ‘You’ve got to hide your love away’. Good song, but when a certain part of it is played at the volume that forcibly ejects your soul from your physical form, you start to question that. Specifically, it was the “hey”. Well to be really specific, it was the

Its particularly unnerving if you’re holding a hot beverage or something breakable, as these will inevitably fall from your grasp as you instinctively reach for your phone to call everyone you love to say goodbye.

It would somehow also always arise when you least expected it. Perhaps you didn’t clock him that morning or he was midway through another song. Then suddenly

and the subsequent tremors last the rest of the day. Which can be very disruptive for work. I was an administrator at the time, which included a lot of audio typing. And my colleagues didn’t like gggeeettttiiinnnnggg tttthhheeeiirrrr lllleeettteeerrrsss bbbaaaacccckk llllikkkkkeeee ttthhhiissss.

I moved to Brighton many years ago now. Not because of him although my nerves certainly didn’t mourn the loss. And I often visit the nearby town of Lewes. I rented there for a year and a half in fact. And would like to live there again one day if I could ever afford it. You still get the artsy vibe of your Brighton but with all the character tweeness of old market towns that I like. Anywho, I was walking along the street there one day when it happened.

There he was. Looking exactly the same as he did way back when. And still as cheery.

But instead of climbing the nearest tree, I smiled. Prior exposure had somehow given me immunity to this new Lewes strand of busking. And it filled me with one of my favourite feelings: nostalgia. Not that I’m sure you could classify nostalgia as a feeling, but we’re all familiar with the oddly pleasing pangs it produces. Any associated annoyance with said busker was clean forgot, replaced with the warmest of glows.

I suppose it was a number of things: the fact that he was still happy doing what he did, even with the same old songbook. That I was reminded of a relatively happy and stable period of my life. But I think I took the most pleasure from the fact that it was a sign that some things didn’t change, which is a complete cliché I know, but I do find it oddly comforting. There have been a lot of negative changes in the wider as well as my own personal world. And a couple of changes that may yet prove to be positive but its too soon to tell. Nostalgia is a funny thing. As I’m sure you know, its got that ‘algia’ bit in it for a reason, there’s an element of pain – it translates as pain for the past or something. Huh, in looking this( up for the exact definition I found an academic article about an experiment using nostalgia to help people with pain management so there’s some pleasing irony for you).

I suppose the feeling it generates is quite ambivalent: sorrow for time lost, but pleasure at the memories evoked. With family visiting soon who I haven’t seen in a long time thanks to Covid, I suspect more of this feeling to occur in the coming days. But what will also come with it is new memories, built in large part by the next generation. Because as much as we mourn the losses, for the larger part of our lives, we always gain more than we lose. Be it friends, colleagues, acquaintances – for the most part, we keep collecting more. And that’s the biggest comfort of all.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some eggs to hide. Hey.

Important update on December post:

The antisocial behaviour from the middle finger chimney house and mooning bum mews is being investigated by the world’s leading private detective no less, spotted on the same road. Hercule Poirot-gate. He’s sure to get to the bottom of all this.