A long time ago, I was asked a simple but searching question. Robin Harrison was the aspiring guitar hero of Red Jasper who tried to seek enlightment having listened to my own angry hard rock riffs. Not because he thought he might learn something meaningful from my own interpretation on what constituted music, but rather because he couldn't understand why I was so utterly entrenched in one particular style. Especially since I was a drummer and therefore had no legal reason to be playing a musical instrument at all.

Who am I trying to kid? He was seeking an opportunity to appraise and hopefully criticise. He couldn't compete in that narrow genre I'd adopted. Ever the competitive type, he wanted a different battlefield. His need for status demanded he found some form of elevated niche.

"So..." He interrupted me in between chords, "What do you play when you're feeling mellow?"

My reply was that I never felt mellow. I wonder if he ever really understood that? We both had stars in our eyes in those days in one way or another. He wanted to be the acknowledged artiste whereas I wanted to demolish the brick wall that had caused me so many headaches over the years. No, more than that, I wanted to express anger. To as many people as I could sell records to.

Funnily enough I was in a mellow sort of mood just the other day. It's taken a few decades but I guess that's just another part of growing old. By strange coincidence I also happened to be playing guitar. So the answer to Robin's question is that I finally played something mellow. That's what music is. A form of expression. It was a shame I only had one thing to say back then.

Not Cold Enough?

So far this winter I haven't needed to wear gloves. That's quite stunning really. Where's the sharp frosty mornings, the freezing fogs, the sight of my own breath? Currently my home's central heating is switched off - that's how mild it is right now - though in fairness I am wrapped up warm.

Seeing as I look like a down-and-out, a sort of Scott-Of-The-Living-Room, I also notice the absence of reminders on television on the plight of the homeless this year. Obviously things aren't cold enough for the average person to show any concern. DW, our intrepid online journalist, dutifully spent a night sleeping rough to raise awareness in a publicity stunt. It must be said he didn't suffer unduly. Not only was the weather relatively mild, he was provided with warm bedding and a rather attractive young lady to warm him further. It isn't often I'm envious of anyone sleeping rough.

My Year Ahead

Of course the risk that I might end up homeless myself is something I won't ignore. Therefore my job search continues. Even over the festive season too, please note. I see on the newspaper headlines that there are on average twenty three applicants for every vacancy here in Britain. More than forty for customer service roles. Looking ahead then it's entirely possible that I'll be unemployed for a while yet.

That doesn't mean I intend to surrender. Anyone who thinks I'm just going to give up and return to being boring old Mister Caldrail will be disappointed. I haven't been Lord Caldrail for the last two years for nothing. As my psychometric tests reveal, I'm an individualist (What? I needed an expert to tell me that?). So much of my self-expression has been vandalised or stolen that I really don't have anything left.

As for those youths who keep telling me that I've gotten my just deserts, I have to say I haven't the slightest idea what they're talking about. Kids... Pfah! ... What do they know? Go away and discover girls.

As for those who shouted that they get their food for free, well good for you. I'm not concerned with the details of your life in any way at all. After all, you had to shout to bring it to my attention which means it wasn't remotely interesting in the first place. However, if you turn out to be the ones dipping their fingers into my larder, I'll make sure to send you the bill. Only a matter of time.