The phone rings. It’s Mark. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him till next week.
“Hi, Maz, yeah… any chance you want to earn a little cash on Sunday?”
“Uh… what’s the gig?” knowing that if it’s Mark then it must be a gig.
“I’ve got a three-/four-piece jazz band that needs taking from [deepest darkest Yorkshire] to Leeds, then to Chester… oh, shit, but you said you’re going to The Wendyhouse tonight… no, shit, that doesn’t work. Sorry mate…”
