We would only go for coloUr schemes, layouts and designs that we both agreed on. the result was understated, quite stylish and neither gurly nor macho.
Then I set up home on my own. That's to say, just me and 14 and 8 year old sons. Their bedrooms were their own choice; coloUr, layout, tidiness - up to them.
For the main areas, it was down to me. I went minimalist. Some IKEA, some contemporary British designs, light shades of birch and beech. Simple, low maintenance and, though I say so myself, effective whilst still comfortable and 'livable in'.
I did, however, indulge myself in one extravagance. Juvenile perhaps. The achievement of a daydream I first developed as a spotty adolescent.
My Guitar Wall:
There are seven Guitar Hooks along the wall of my lounge, each occupied by a treasured friend. I must precede the descriptions with a lament. Well maybe not a lament (no regrets and all that), but a nostalgic contemplation of what could have been there.
The '67 Telecaster that I traded away for a dot-matrix printer at the age of 18. D'oh!
The Spanish Guitar I had made while at University in Valencia. A word to the wise. Don't misuse alcohol, watch a "Who" video with rowdy friends, and have a treasured guitar within reach. Yes, for a moment I felt like Pete Townsend rampaging around the flat I was living in. But the next morning I was fuming at myself as I picked up each splintered fragment of maple and spruce.
But that's in the past. Along with the Gibson SG (buzzy 10th Fret on the 'B' string) I sold to get out of debt, the Yamaha GB2000 Pearlescent White that I left behind at a gig never to see again, and the Columbus Les Paul copy my parents proudly gave me (I hadn't the heart to tell 'em how much it sucked - they'd saved to buy it). They are all now fond memories, like ex-girlfriends, I could choose to dwell on the sadness of loss, but prefer to remember the good times.
But to the present day.
1st there's my first ever Fender. A comely wide-hipped, round waisted spruce-top 12 string Acoustic. Her name's 'Rover' after the Jethro Tull song I used to try out guitars in the shops when I persuaded my folks that I didn't need a watch for my 21st, but a 12 string was essential. If I'm honest, she could use a bit of work tensioning the neck and re-dressing the bridge nut, but I love her just the way she is. She has a dreamy tone that's just right for quiet evenings when work has tired me out and I need to hear minor chords echo.
Then there's 'Copy'. She's a cheap, tatty Stratocaster Copy. She plays like a temperamental pile of mashed potato. Slinky at the bass end, and a top end that buzzes and clicks like an argumentative R2D2. She's the one I turn to when someone's really pissed me off and I need to attack. Full overdrive, power-chords, hooty blues-licks around 12th fret on G & B, and maybe even strum out a grinding Iommi or Paige chord sequence. I turn to 'Copy' frequently.
And my old friend John Lee. John Lee was a present from my beloved Mother in Law. He's (yes, a 'he') a 6 string Fender Acoustic. Nothing special, and never really showed much character above the lower 5 frets. Until I retuned him to DADDAD, raised the action 1/8" and invested in a bottle-neck. John Lee takes over, and within a few swoops of the glass, as he screams out a 12th fret freight-train howl, I'm black. That's right, with John Lee across my knees, I'm 70 years old, black and can lament the injustices of life like there's no tomorrow. Good old John Lee.
And how could I forget Rachael. She's stylish, elegant, exciting, and just that little bit different. With a soft green-stained laminate top, a single cut-away and a fibre-glass bowl back, she's classy. She has a long, slender neck and curves in all the right places. But more than that; she's the one who sings to me. The simplest open chord rings out with a purity that can be as mellow as a slow river on a dark night, or can jingle like sunlight on a babbling stream. There are times when I'm alone, but with Rachael, I'm never lonely.
Mandy is just plain silly. She's an elctric-acoustic Mandolin that adopted me in the local music shop. I only went in to buy drumsticks, but left with Mandy. She's a total flirt, whether she's twanging out "Losing My Religion" in her drawling Georgia accent, or twirling around the room to an old folk-refrain. Mandy can't take anything seriously. She can be a big help.
There are other friends dotted around. Put enough alcohol down me and I sound (to me at least) like Ian Anderson when I belt out "Living in the Past" on my Flute (nice 1938 LaFleur).
There's a 3/4 size fiddle that in my hand, at best, sounds like the shower scene at the Bates Motel.
My trusty Bhodran has seen me through many a smoky evening in folk-pubs. "Jaysus son, just play da feckin' t'ing!" as my right eye streams above a lip-clenched cigarette and the goatskin bumbles like rain on a tent.
But it's the Guitars that attract my eye as I walk in from work. Every one a friend.
And I can't play a Fu[Aqua][/Aqua]cking One of them until they take this plaster cast of me hand!
