A stunning early morning as I jogged my way around the village – day one of my doctor induced quest for a fitter body. My efforts at uniting my hands and my toes amused the early bus travellers.
I shall try to avoid a parody of Bridget Jones's diary : Inches between hands and toes, 24. Length of exercise, ten minutes. Recovery time, thirty minutes.
It is exactly twenty years, 5 months and 14 days since my wife persuaded me to retire from my last sporting endeavour – chasing a misshapen pigs bladder around in the mud. I trust that, in several weeks as fitness levels increase, I shall be reporting an unstoppable surge of energy and a desire to boogie woogie woogie into the early hours.
In the meantime, I shall be spending a few evenings in the company of the Crimson King and senor Singleton – listening to such delights as Soundscapes from the World Financial Centre, Ladies of the Road, and the latest Krim studio recordings.
My early glimpses of these suggest that the presence of three Americans and an American producer have finally swung the balance of power, and this has become a very different, less European, beast. It has its own identity – not one, I suspect, which Fripp may have intended or expected, but powerful nonetheless.
Assuming that my ears are not adversely effected by the increased blood supply demanded by my aching legs, I shall report tomorrow on our first night's listening. And, more importantly, on the quality of the wine.
"We must be able to play in our sleep.
Because usually we do."
