Homage

I'm beginning to leave myself behind. After the whirlwind gallivanting of my post-retirement honeymoon, yesterday I spent six hours travelling to spend only two hours with my lovely niece and partner who are off to live in New York for a couple years. Well worth it but once home I fell into bed exhausted without having finished my packing for today's trip. So up early this morning to pack, to process the overnight apple bounty and to get to the train to Glasgow. Along with the scenery, the overheard accents improve all the way.

I'd been expecting at Kelvingrove Park to be standing way back among hordes of people. Tivoli was expecting us to be indoors (good communicators, we are). So the bandstand was a delightful surprise. An intimate little outdoor theatre with an excellent view of a small stage.

Patti Smith wove through the soundtrack of my tentative early adulthood but neither of us got stuck in that time and I didn't expect to hear much of it. But the last third of the show was a tribute to back then and I even remembered most of the words.

As you can see, proper cameras were banned. (Along with water bottles in case we threw them. You what? Am I more likely to throw my water bottle at Patti Smith than my licit left-over cheese sandwich or my unchecked Swiss Army knife?)

Her son Jackson played with her and their fun musical affection was clear. Made me feel wistful that I'm not good enough to play music with mine (same age, same beard, same unkempt white shirt, same flat cap...).