After the Asylum with Emma Rugg

Here's a picture of me from my summer in France. One of these days, I shall be going back there, but for the Billingham camera bag to my right, still drenched with coffee dropped by an incompetent and unhappy waiter that morning, the lure of the France, the pull of evening treks up mountainsides to catch the final glimpses of sun and the first flights of bats, proved far too irresistible this week, and, even as I write this, it is is secreting itself into Andy's luggage in order to find its way back there.

Meanwhile, it successor, a vintage Billingham 205 gleaned for a song off eBay, is proving a worthy replacement being, as it is, interesting-smelling to cats.



This week saw the new bag's first field-test: a trip to Asylum (the local university's on-campus student-haunt) to cover Emma Rugg's fantastic gig there. Much as I would have liked to have tried one of its puppy-pockets, I was just too tired that evening to attend myself. I'm a well-travelled dog, I know, but homely comforts - coffee; a fresh pack of garibaldi biscuits; telly; and my favourite scarf - proved too much of a draw that evening and, though I very much wanted to go, I got irrationally fearful of puddles of beer which might damp my clean paws, or dark corners where I might accidentally left and never be found again... So, instead, I went to sleep, dreaming of Emma, in the cavernous Asylum, singing her always beautiful, ever-changing Isolated Impressions.



Imagine my surprise, then, when I woke up to find her staring right at me, in my own home! "Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: Do I wake or do I sleep?" I thought to myself, and, if I had opposable digits, I'd have pinched myself to check. But, no, she was really there and a jolly nice time we had too!