Mumbling Into The Void (slight return)

 I.  This is the way the book reads on the last day. It's a day where we know we're out of the hotel at 11am but don't fly till quarter to nine that night.  In my handwriting it says: Today. Last day. Just food and bulletpoints dictated by J. (Which I'm fleshing out a bit as I go from stuff I wrote later. Cheating, I know) Awake. At 4am. Went back to sleep (This is J). Woke at 9.30. (I'd been dead quiet) [Now drunk, can't write] - I have literally no idea what any of that's supposed to mean. Think I might have been writing the night before, I definitely wasn't drunk at 9.30am. So we're summarising things that happened the day before. I've had a quick peek ahead at the bit J wrote, that seems to make a lot more sense. Carousel Bar. Finally got in. The moment it opened. 11am. Cocktails at 11am. it's a body clock thing. Honest. Met the lovely Richard and Ginabeth from Atlanta. Talked Beatles and others. I was so engrossed in the conversation tha

  J.  Started with a brisk walk down to the riverfront. It was bloody freezing! We looked for, and found, Cafe Du Monde, one of the 'Time Out' list of places to visit that Ian had on his bucket list itinerary. I was a bit shocked when we arrived as it was just this outside seating area with green plastic sheets pulled down to keep out the wind/rain. Looked really scruffy. It had one thing on the menu! One!! I was like - WTF??  Beignets and coffee. That's it. But they were bloody lovely. Fluffy donut batter, all the sugar in the world piled on top. Stressed over the amount of calories like, but - ah well, I can return to healthier options soon :) Walked down to the jazz museum. Again - for me - a little disappointing (though Ian seemed much happier with it). The 'Mint' display was on the ground floor - that was quite interesting - a history of going making in New Orleans, how they transported heavy materials (little trucks), weighed them out - huge scales, amazing si

  J. Wednesday. Oops, THURSDAY. 1st November. Writing on 1st November.  It's 5.51am.Been awake for about an hour so thought I'd jot down some memories from past couple of days in NOLA. It's our final full day today. We travel back tomorrow but still have most of that day here before we head to the airport.  But today we have a full day ahead of us plus our final night in the wonderful New Orleans.  So, memories from day 1&2 in Nola... We both loved the place from the second we got here.  Our taxi driver was another lovely man. Full of character. He was turning 70 the following day and looked amazing on it. He had a great vibe. I sneakily recorded him talking. He dropped us at our hotel - telling us that the Monteleone (pronounced Mon-telly-own) was the most famous and prestigious hotel in New Orleans.  It's first night in the French Quarter, our first impression were just 'wow'. We saw the Monteleone's famous Carousel Bar to our right as we walked in. A

Monday. Early. Flicking back through the notebook as I'm fairly sure that J's written something that's in the book before the bit I wrote yesterday. (Does that make sense?) J. 30th October. We are sat on the Amtrak in our own private room. Just had breakfast in the observation buffet car. Great views.  Back in the room now and simply feeling so grateful. We really are blessed to be able to be enjoying a holiday like this. Currently speeding through open fields of Mississippi, heading towards New Orleans. Everything was so organised. We arrived at the station by Uber (driver: Oscar) in good time, waited about half an hour/40 mins in the waiting room, with big wooden benches that you see in the movies.  The train arrived bang on time, the whistle blowing as it pulled into the station. It's massive and we were just stood on the platform with no idea where to be. The guard said to just wait where we were. So we did. Next thing, we were allowed on and we were in exactly  the

  Sunday morning. Nothing opening at breakfast time, lots of things not opening all day as it turned out, so we went for a walk. A long walk. A long walk to another state. Down to the Mississippi, along the Mississippi, to the 'Big River Crossing'. A bridge over the river. A one mile long bridge from Memphis in Nashville to West Memphis in Arkansas.  Jumped over the state line, mid-river. Got to the other side, put our feet on the soil of Arkansas, turned round, walked a mile back. Genuinely brilliant and worth every second.  Found ourselves in an Exxon station, in the middle of very little, waiting for an Uber. An Uber to take us out to McLemore Avenue and the Stax Museum.  Which was, and I hate to say this because it's Stax and everything that came out on Stax is brilliant, massively disappointing. It's on the site of Stax, in the way that the Cavern is on the site (almost) of the Cavern. It looks like Stax. In the way the Cavern looks like the Cavern. But it's no

Where were we? We'd ordered an Uber. J dropped Jules a line (swapped numbers in the queue for Graceland, me and Paul didn't get round to it until the last day in New Orleans), let her know we'd ordered. They were just about to order. We sat, waited for ours, watched them get into theirs. Which seems the wrong order. That light rain that fell as we stood at the graves? By 4, while we were in the Uber. it was a monsoon. Our driver was lovely. Her profile said she liked to meet new people, liked to chat. She missed our turn off for Sun Studio because we were having a gab. So we got to see a lot of Memphis. An incredible hospital built by an incredibly famous actor. I didn't want to ruin the conversation by pointing out that his fame hadn't actually translated to England. But that's sound, they probably haven't heard of Ken Barlow.  We park up. I start to step out. Point out to J that she should watch the puddle (which is massive). Our driver's not having th

So many things need to happen by accident (there are no accidents) for me and J to meet Paul and Jules. If the men's toilets in the Peabody (the South's most prestigious hotel) had been usable that morning, then I wouldn't have needed to dive back up to our room on the tenth floor. I wouldn't have been in the lift when the guy with the two coffee cups commented that his hands were burning, just as Paul and Jules were getting out of the lift on the Mezzanine floor; wouldn't have been there as the guy who had those brown cardboard rings round his drink advised that the first guy should have done the same as him.  And if I weren't now somebody who's okay with talking to other human beings, I wouldn't have looked up from my phone and commented, "Yeah but it'd be a shame to cover the ducks up." (Ducks being on everything Peabody related) At which point Paul's left the lift, Jules is leaving but turns round and says, "A fellow Liverpudli

  J. Our last morning in Nashville. Up at stupid o'clock again, but made the most of it by taking another early sunrise walk down to the river. Had last Nashville brekkie at Sun Diner - waffles and berries and a final walk up broadway before we head off to pick up our hire car and continue our trip to Memphis. This is truly an amazing trip. I. That's the car at Memphis. J didn't want a photo of it at all but I snook one. She just wanted rid. She hates driving abroad. And my insistence on the way down that I really wanted to drive into the centre of Jackson so we could get a photo 'because it would be funny' didn't help. It wasn't even the right Jackson. We were passing Jackson Tennessee, apparently the song's about Jackson Mississippi.  Lashed down much of the way to Memphis. Driving a nice Nissan automatic. Only issue with that was that after five minutes looking at it at the pick up point I had to grab on e of the girls and ask, "Could you tell me

 I.  No idea of the date. Thursday in October. That's all I've got. Breakfast in the hotel. Biscuits with Sock Hop Sausage Gravy and a side of bacon. That's not a 'side' of bacon, which would be huge, it's a 'side order' of bacon. But I like ordering 'side'. Very American. I'd always wondered what America meant by biscuits. What we call biscuits they call cookies. As a generalisation. 'Biscuits' it turns out, are basically scones. And Sock Sausage Gravy is a white sauce that's quite peppery and definitely has sausage involved somewhere. American cuisine, grammatically puzzling but tastes bloody lovely.  The Ryman. Jesus, The Ryman. Did the guided tour. Best idea ever. Saw the dressing rooms, walked the stage. I cried at the intro film. Johnny Cash said, "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash," and that was me gone. Because - my dad would have bloody loved all this.  Common theme of the holiday so far, Johnny Cash making me cry. Tot

On the 23rd of October ten years ago, I was supposed to write here for the final time. I was writing up until my 50th birthday then stopping. Job done. The task I'd set myself at the start of 2013 complete. Obviously that didn't happen. I enjoyed it too much, had too much to say. But, in time, it dwindled. I didn't feel the need to write here as I had so many other things to write elsewhere - - aside: I intended to write a 'What Happened Next' piece here for my 60th. Started it, semi-planned it, was going to talk about everything that had happened after the blog/partly because of the blog. But other things came up and I wasn't convinced people would be that interested. So I didn't. And none of that is the point. None of it's the reason I'm back here for this one.  J's cousin, Paula, bought us a book: a notebook, lined empty pages and a pocket at the back for memorabilia (of the paper kind, snow globes would have been an issue), nicely bound, impr