mostly david ephgrave

It's common sense really, but today I felt the value of starting the day positively. I took the dog out first thing - well, what classes as first thing for me - which I do most weekdays and, despite the rain, we both enjoyed it. The only downside to dog-walking is I often find myself thinking about difficult conversations from the past that still niggle. It's the mental equivalent to coming up with the perfect witty retort days later when the moment's passed. I try to catch my rumination when I notice it and actively change the subject as I know it's unhelpful. I'm getting better at this, though it's an inexact science. While it's good to take the dog out, deciding to play the drums as soon as I got home was the real win. Changes in my routine since lockdown has seen me slow down a bit and put on weight I'd like to shift, but it's always difficult to find the right exercise to suit my back problems and - let's be honest - lethargy. Old Me spent m

For a long time, I've had a complex about giving presents. I often leave gift shopping until the absolute last minute, not because I'm lazy but for fear that I'll choose something that isn't good enough and cause offence. I get extremely anxious about it and second-guess my judgment. I can trace this paranoia to two events. One Mother's Day when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided to write a song for my mum and record it on my four-track recorder so she could have a nice version to keep. I spent a few days methodically preparing a demo, recording guitar parts and then overdubbing vocals and percussion. It wasn't my finest work, but I took the time to get it right. I can still remember the moment I played it to her. We were in my bedroom when I gave her a card and the tape. As she ripped open the package to reveal the cassette, I felt tense. I put it into my Hi-Fi and we listened in silence. Suddenly, the whole idea felt wrong. She looked irritable. And her respo

My main focus for the past few days has been organising and promoting the on-sale dates for July's proposed return of Hitchin Mostly Comedy (provided the Delta COVID variant doesn't keep us on ice) and editing the second and third episodes of The McCartney McAlphabet. Unsurprisingly, sales for Mostly have been cautious. I suspect they'll pick up once we know the Government's plans for 21st June onwards, but even bearing that in mind, the low take-up is concerning. I worry our seventeen-month closure could play havoc with a momentum we may never get back. And while we're prepared for our return to be a slow build, there's only so much we can juggle low figures when the club's not a cheap thing to run, and one too many loss-leaders will spell closure for us. (What a happy cheery chap I am.) The podcast, however, is lots of fun. Our first two episodes are now up , with number three being edited and four at planning stages. I'm really happy with how the fir

The other day, I dreamt about my dad, who passed away a little over two years ago. These dreams don't happen too often, but when they do, it can be difficult. It wasn't until I woke up that I remembered he was gone. In it, I'd bumped into him in a shop like Wilkinson, where he was browsing with a friend. I was in a bit of a hurry so it was more of a quick hello than anything. I may even have been a little brusque because I needed to get away. It was as I'd left the shop that I remembered there was something important I needed to tell him, but on turning back, I found I could barely lift my legs. The more I tried, the less I moved. I knew if I didn't hurry, he'd be gone, but it made no difference. It was like swimming against the tide. When I woke up, sadness hit me. The mundanity of the situation in the dream was bittersweet. I felt guilty for being irritable even though it wasn't real. It's not hard to decipher the meaning of my jelly legs. The prison o