I am seated in the back of my friend Terry’s car, travelling towards Newcastle on the motorway. I glance out of the window and am convinced that he has taken a wrong turning and that we have strayed into the outer reaches of the Brobdingnagian empire.
The Brobdingnagian lorry
In order to take my mind off the panic that seems to be developing in the pit of my stomach, I think about how I might go about playing the Brobdingnagian steel strung acoustic guitar when I arrive at our destination. If I could find a bow of suitable size, perhaps I could play it as if it were a fretted double bass. Just as I am getting comfortable with this, another thought strikes me. What about the Brobdingnagian voice range? When I started this journey I was a bass; when I get out of the car, will I have become a soprano, in relative terms? Damn! I really should have slipped the little black dress into my gig bag. Squeak to you later, my dear blogophiles.
John's Quavering Pencil 
Leave a comment