One Christmas Day.

In my early 20s.

My ‘early grown up’ years, if you like.

I found myself sat around a strange table.

In a strange house.

With strange people.

Pushing turkey around a plate.

Floating.

A couple of half-mouthfuls into the meal.

I sensed myself floating.

Well, it felt like floating.

Because as the conversation ricocheted around me.

And across me.

I became aware that I hadn’t looked up from my plate for a good two minutes.

I became aware that I was pushing food around my plate.

I became aware that I felt alone.

Tears.

And it was part way through one of these plate-stares that I felt the stinging in my eyes.

And the warm tears rolling down my face.

Just a couple of them.

And I remember thinking:

I hope no one noticed that.

And I also remember thinking:

Actually.

I hope they did.

Alone.

My new girlfriend was sat to my right.

But I didn’t know her, of course.

She was new.

We were new.

And the beautiful, perfectly Christmassy room.

Packed with her uncles, aunts, mum and dad, sisters and brothers was all new too.

And I remember thinking.

That it’s funny how you can feel so alone.

When you’re not alone.

The Invitation.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

A new girlfriend inviting me to her place.

For Christmas Day.

Especially because the house I shared with my friends in Newcastle was empty over the Christmas period.

And especially as my mum’s house contained my drunk, bullying coward of a stepdad.

So when the invitation came.

I went.

Grown ups.

I want to go home.

I thought.

I didn’t say it out loud of course.

Grown ups can’t say things like that out loud.

Can they?

But then I thought to myself that.

No.

I didn’t actually want to go home.

What I actually wanted.

Was a home.

Home.

On Christmas Day in 2019.

I was sat in my home.

In an imperfectly Christmassy room.

With all the right people.

And my mind floated back 29 years.

To a 22 year old me.

A teary me.

A lonely me.

Sat in a perfectly Christmassy room.

With all the wrong people.

I thought about my journey.

From there.

To here.

I thought about the people I’d known that would make my homes over the years.

And I thought about the people I’d known that would break my homes over the years.

I tried to dilute the bitterness I can still taste so vividly.

With the pockets of happiness I remember so warmly.

During my teenage years.

And during every decade since.

And naturally.

I thought about The Smiths too.

Singing this: https://www.50odd.co.uk/home/.

Here’s a present for you.

For Christmas.

Or for any time of the year, actually.

From John Lennon.

The End. 

And do me a favour please will you?

Pass it on.

Everything will be OK in the end.

And if it is not OK.

It is not the end.

JOHN LENNON.
9th October 1940 – 8th December 198o.

Song.

And just in case you forgot how good this sounds.

Here it is: https://www.50odd.co.uk/the-end/

I don’t know a lot about Max Richter.

But when it comes to relaxing.

Rocking back in my chair.

Closing my eyes.

For just.

Five.

Minutes.

Peace.

It’s Max Richer that I want to be listening to.

Pause. 

Pausing is important.

And it’s better with Max.

Here.

Give it a go: https://www.50odd.co.uk/richter/.

1988.

In 1988.

On Tuesday the 21st of June.

At about 6.30pm.

I was walking past The City Hall in Newcastle upon Tyne.

I was 20 years old.

1995.

And in 1995.

7 years later.

On Thursday 7th December.

Mid morning.

I was wandering by Central Station in Newcastle City Centre.

Aged 27 years old.

The First Day.

On that first day in 1988.

At 6.30pm.

A guy outside Newcastle City Hall tried to sell me a ticket to see Stevie Ray Vaughan.

The concert started at 7.30pm.

I’d never heard of him so the guy (exasperated) laughed, shook his head and just gave me a ticket.

Stevie Ray Vaughan was good!

And that there ‘Wikipedia’ tells me that Stevie Ray Vaughan:

…was an American musician, singer, songwriter, and record producer, and one of the most influential guitarists in the revival of blues in the 1980s.

He is commonly referred to as one of the greatest guitar players of all time.

Which is nice.

And sad too, actually.

Because Stevie Ray Vaughan died under 2 years later.

Aged just 35 years old.

In in a helicopter crash.

On his way back from playing live with Eric Clapton.

The Second Day.

On that second day.

Seven years later.

In 1995.

As I was wandering past Newcastle Central Station.

A couple of guys asked me if I wanted two free tickets to the opening night concert at ‘The Arena’ in Newcastle.

The tickets were for that very night.

I’d not even heard of The Arena, as it goes.

And I didn’t know who was playing.

But I said yes, anyway.

And as the guy with the tickets handed them to me.

He leaned in and, still holding one end of the tickets as I held the other.

He said this to me,

You will go won’t you?

I paused.

Course!

I said.

And the guys wandered off.

RP. RT. 

Seeing the 1988 Stevie Ray Vaughan concert was really something.

Right place.

Right time.

And seeing the 1995 David Bowie concert.

For free.

On the opening night of The Newcastle Arena.

That was really something, too.