Busking

I walked past a busker recently ­– a young guy, quite good-looking, quite talented. He was singing to a guitar and I thought his music was good. And that suddenly made me feel sad. No one would busk unless they thought they had talent and they wanted other people to enjoy their music. But I wonder how many buskers are ever acknowledged. I don’t think this guy, gifted though he might be, is ever going to get a record deal or sell music on itunes. He might spend all day watching people walk past with their earphones in not even hearing him or looking up in his direction. Maybe someone looks, maybe someone smiles, and maybe someone throws him a quid. Maybe not. But at least he is singing.

I am a busker, but I busking with my pencil (metaphorically). I am writing hoping that someone enjoys what I say, but even if they don’t I am going to write anyway. Because I love to; I feel like it and because I cannot do otherwise. So here I am on the pavement, with my hat out, hoping for some coppers.

And I hope I shouldn’t go back to just singing in the shower…