So yesterday afternoon, The Missus gives me a call to tell me she’s heading home. She’s been at some business meeting in Soho and has stopped by Virgin Megastore to by yours truly a treat.
“Syd Barrett’s died,” I tell her solemnly.
“The parrot’s died?” she replies confused, the rush hour noise in the background making our conversation almost impossible, “What do you mean the parrot’s died?”
I raised my voice a decibel and tried again and this time she understood. In an act of synchronicity, she was phoning to tell me that she’d just bought me the new Pink Floyd DVD “Pulse”. We watched it last night and somehow it wasn’t the same – songs like “Wish You Were Here” and “Shine On” have taken a new meaning. Before they were a raise your glass, wish you well type of ballad, now they’ve turned into elegies. I listed to those early Floyd albums yesterday afternoon and felt very nostalgic. They were the records I listened to quite early on – at about 14/15 – and remind me of a time when things weren’t so troublesome – or at least the troubles weren’t so adult, if you know what I mean.

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