Tonight was one of those nights that I thought I had impeccably planned, but everything went awry – but awry in a charmingly, memorably imperfect kind of way.

Wanted to check out Denmark Street, London’s Tin Pan Alley?

Turned out I’d been there before…just didn’t know it had a label. But had a nice walk in golden evening sunshine, and then a browse in a bookstore, which is something I haven’t done in a long time.

Planned to meet at 7?

Friend got held back by work, and so was late. So we had to miss the first act of the gig we were going for. But we ended up having a lovely dinner and lovely conversation.

Hoped to check out one of ‘London’s best live music venues, which once hosted the likes of KT Tunstall and Keane, nestled in London’s Tin Pan Alley where Jimi Hendrix made recordings and the Sex Pistols used to stay‘?

The 12 Bar Club turned out to be dank and unkempt and seedy. Like something straight out of a vintage American biker movie with a soundtrack consisting mainly of electric guitar riffs.

But when the Lemmingtons (don’t ask me who) started to play, it suddenly felt kind of cosy and nice. I guess I generally like folksy, bluesy music. Or perhaps it was the harmonica? Ah, the sound of the harmonica always, without fail, stirs up the hopeless and tragic romantic in me. (On the downside, some stinkin’ stranger said to Eugene: ‘Your wife – she is horrible! Horrible!’ Why thank you sir, you don’t look or smell very good yourself.)

After that we made our way to the Roadhouse in Covent Garden. We somehow still managed to converse over all that thumping without permanently damaging our vocal chords.

All in all, such good times. Another one of those special days I feel ought to be officially put into my record of my last days in the UK.

So if I were to ask myself – What will I miss about London? It would be these things. Trawling through London’s buzzing streets, soaking up the late-night air, lost in conversation. It is different every time, and always special.

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