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He travels with me, a pace or two behind, and his job is to write the songs of my life.

It was down by the old Clutha River
That river so famous in song
That Colin fell in love with Maria
But he didn’t make love to her long.

‘Sounds like premature whatsit,’ I said, a joke but mildly anxious.

‘Hell no, I was thinking, you know, that you took your pleasure and then just moved along,’ said my singer, his name was Johnny Flaxbush—‘because that is what a man does, or so it seems to me, anyway, Colin.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, it was Queenstown. Maria was Queenstown, nice enough too, though I don’t expect to see her again. Now if you don’t mind just retire a little.’

You can’t let art have all the victories.

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