A few days into a lonely long walk, you find you have a couple of companions that never leave you (ooh, that brings to mind - "you're never alone with schizophrenia!")
Well - for me, they don't, anyway.
The first is the 'skull cinema' (a phenomena brought to my attention thirty years ago by John Hillaby on his 'Journey through Britain) where, as you stroll along through your own personal wilderness, complex surreal situations are played out in your head, which are as real as the ground is beneath your feet. Entire productions are formulated in the deeper recesses of your mind, with principal characters plucked from stage and screen: Marlene Dietrich, Bridgitte Bardot, Peter Cook and the last barmaid you met in the last wonderful pub.
You have no idea where the film is heading in its headlong rush to the closing credits but at the end of its exhausting sexual romp (ooh - did I mention that this posting was XXX rated?) you stand in wonderment and realise that the last four miles of minor road have whistled beneath your feet as your entire being has been mis-behaving with Charlotte Rampling.
The second companion is the tune that runs through your head. You have no idea where it has come from, but it drives your whole day. It is the rhythmical base-line that propels you up the mountain and helps you scamper down the other side. You find yourself, first of all, quietly running it through your mind. This is followed by a gentle humming and lastly a full blown hallelujah chorus bellowing across the fell-side. As you pass the guy struggling up the hill you are scampering down, you smirk to yourself, knowing that you have just passed on 'The Green Green Grass of Home" to the poor sap. He will be humming it to himself for days...
Something similar happened last night after an intimate evening spent with a few thousand others in Birmingham with young Julian and his incredible left hand. I have no idea how he does it, but as his left hand crashes out another walking blues riff the whole arena grins as one and just cannot help themselves as their bodies are taken over by the heady magic of the moment.
This live music thing is a heady mix. It's still there in my skull as I type this out. Not a bad base-line for a day or so.