A while ago RobertPlant left a message on my phone bemoaning the fact that we had missed The Sonics when they'd recently played in Sydney. He followed this valuable info up with a series of moans which I'm pretty sure were meant to convey existential angst but came off sounding creepy. I did what I do with most phone calls from him: I ignored it. He waited a while for me to ring him up and do the wailing and gnashing of teeth and say, "Listen to this! Listen to this!" and hold my phone out so he could hear me renting my garments, and when I didn't he cracked and called me with just the slightest shred of sulkiness in his voice.
Wasn't I outraged that we had missed this great opportunity? Wasn't I now going to to spend the rest of year in a deep depression, without acknowledging that even if I had known this band were playing in Sydney I wouldn't have jumped on a plane just to go & see them?
No, as it happens, on both counts - because I haven't got the foggiest notion who The Sonics are.
RobertPlant was staggered. "Don't know who they are? You do know who they are! You do! I've played all their music for you."
"Well, I must have zoned out because I don't remember."
"You do remember!"
(At this protestation I had visions of my beloved Bloody Ern, who seemed to share a similar sense of entitlement as to what and wasn't in my memory banks when he was reminiscing on some detail of a fishing or hunting trip that I claimed not to recall. "You do remember!" he'd insist, meaty fists pounding down on some invisible surface hanging in the air. At that point I liked to shrug, just to wind him up a bit more.)
"You don't remember, huh?" said RobertPlant, like he was finally ready to concede. "I don't see why not. I don't think it was 1.30am and I'm almost certain you weren't trying to kick me out of your house so you could go to sleep."
Yes. But what dreams may come.