May – ah, the start of the mating season. The weather is clement; stadium touring begins in earnest. A familiar, freckled hand passes the pink thermos flask…
Yes, Namibian and I are back on the road after a refreshing few days at home. He has bought me a writing pad in our short break, and – in an odd juxtaposition – six bags of crisps and two packets of polos. Isn’t he a darling?
I don’t really eat crisps…but it’s the thought that counts, and they may come in handy with a cheese and pickle sandwich on a nice country walk. Then he asks when my birthday is, knowing it to be soon.
With his remembering birthdays and purchasing thoughtful gifts, Namibian really would make somebody a lovely wife. The cab he is cleaning here – so diligently – is mine. And he can cook..
We pull out of the truck yard in darkest East Anglia, bound for Dover, the nearest port to France. As we come down the hill approaching the docks, our mate “Sweaty” (a Cockney term for a Scotsman) drives the other way, waving frantically. Using a bluetooth telephone kit to meet with legal requirements, he rings me.
‘What the hell is that Namibian doing in front?’ he shouts. Ah, that’s easy to explain: Namibian was sent ahead to buy foreign road tax, for both of us, in Ashford.
He pulled out as I got close and – voila – he is in front. I voice a little concern regarding the route, however, when Namibian tells me that we’re going to Italy on the tour. ‘Yes, we are Barny, there’s a gig in Madrid.’ You could certainly say that I’ve missed him..