Mssrs Rock and Roll.

Two old men rehearsing for the first time for a gig they're doing next week. The only time one of them has touched his bass guitar in the last twenty years or so was to move it from one bit of the loft to another. It's great fun to be playing again with my oldest and dearest mate.

When a message bleeps on my phone I open it with trepidation, expecting the worst from Ireland. It's from Clare warning me to come home a different way because there's been an accident at the top of our road and everything is closed.

She happened to be walking past a minute or so after a bus and a motorcyclist collided. He was on the ground, moving but clearly in pain. When the police and medical services arrived they erected a tent around him. He must have been in much worse shape than he appeared if they had to operate in situ.

When I got back about three hours later and we walked up to the shops, a few gaupers were milling around by the barrier tape. The air was unusually still and eerily quiet. On the road in between the number eight bus and the tent, the motorcyclist's helmet sat forlornly. Next to this was a black private ambulance which slowly drove off as we arrived.

It was a strange scene. I was tempted to get my phone out and take a picture for my blip but couldn't face it. It felt wrong and I'm not Weegee in 1940s New York.
One more tiny light unexpectedly and all too easily snuffed.