Nine Feet Underground

I'm reading 'The Outrun' by Amy Liptrot. It's a true story  about a woman's struggle with addiction and - well, so far at least (I've not finished it), how returning to her home on Orkney and to nature is helping her defeat her demons. Perhaps. In a chapter on corncrakes (the bird, not a typo for a breakfast cereal - be honest, who could write a chapter on that?) I came across something that really struck a chord: " My friend told me about when her mother died, leaving behind a husband and three children. The family went on holiday in America, and my friend described her dad as 'just driving'. You might feel you can't go on, yet you do, just driving to give yourself something to do while things settle, shift and gain form, until the way that life is going to be makes itself clear ." I am still just driving. I need to stop beating myself up over what I think I should be doing or where I think I should be or what I think is missi

Perhaps this blog should have been titled 'Todd Rundgren Live at Hammersmith Apollo, London, 6th April 2019', which would be factually correct, if a little dull. "Before we go any further" (see foot of article) I should declare something: I am a huge Todd Rundgren fan and have been since the early 1970s.  Many fans think "Todd is God" and refer to themselves as "Todd-heads", however my love of his songs and music is not quite so fanatical.  He's made stuff I really can't get in to,  there are whole albums - especially between 'Hermit of Mink Hollow' (1978) and 'Almost Human' (1989) - which either contain no tracks I like or maybe one, perhaps two at a pinch, and occasionally something I hate (witness 'Bang the Drum All Day'). However, that is the way it should be. He has always ploughed his own furrow. That's what I like about him - it's why I like him.  He's never made any secret of the fa