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When I go home to Orkney I'm often asked: "are you still at the music" and "what is it
like? Do you busk or play in pubs?".

This I attribute to never having had a music video to put on the telly. Not that I expect to get one on the telly if I made one, but if I did make one and it was on the telly I would immediately be validated to the tune of a rumoured solid gold Rolls Royce or something.

The point of my whining? None. I don't even believe it myself but I felt I should put
something vaguely negative in before I write about what an unbelievably lucky
sod I am and how much I love this job...

I am going to get up tomorrow morning and get on a train with some of my favourite
people and sit and watch the beautiful country whizz by while listening to some
amusing patter and probably dipping in and out of The Guardian's Quick Crossword.

Upon arrival my friends and I will muck about in front of some cameras and keep
morale high by discussing dinner.

Then there'll be the main event (always with Lau): the meal itself. Aaaaaaahhhhh
oooooohhhh yuuumm etc.

The following day will be our gig at The Junction, I love playing gigs, I love the preparation involved in the sound check, the opportunity to iron-out any sticky bits of the
gig and the comfort attained from knowing that you've done your level best to
get everything "just so".

The performing itself is a mysterious experience and almost impossible to describe so I'll leave it be, suffice to say that afterwards there is generally a feeling of elation which is hard to better even with the help of doctors and off licenses.

I get paid for this? I get to travel around the world and play the guitar and people
give me money? Clearly, this is not a proper job.

Following the gig in Cambridge we're off to northern Spain for a few
days to do some playing and let someone else think about our dinner. Last time
we went the quality of the food was so high that Martin actually cried, he was
sitting there chewing his cipperones with tears rolling down his face. I'm not
sure I can take it. I may have to fill-up on bad kebabs before I leave.

So there it is, we're lucky, lucky boys and very glad we practised.

For those of you who are finding my tone inanely positive, don't worry, inside I'm still
a dour Scot who hates sunshine and children's laughter. This whole thing is a
terrible trial for me and I can't wait to get back to deep-fried pizza and
chips.

Cheerio for now.