There Comes A Point When You Can

Memory, I Realize, Can Be An Unreliable Thing; Often It Is Heavily Coloured By The Circumstances In Which One Remembers.

It Didn't Hurt, Did It? When I Hit You?" "sure. Fractured Skull. Concussion, The Lot..." "but Seriously, Kath. No Hard Feelings, Right? I'm Awfully Sorry. I Honestly Am.

What Is The Point Of Worrying Oneself Too Much About What One Could Or Could Not Have Done To Control The Course One's Life Took? Surely It Is Enough That The Likes Of You And I At Least Try To Make Our Small Contribution Count For Something True And Worthy. And If Some Of Us Are Prepared To Sacrifice Much In Life In Order To Pursue Such Aspirations, Surely That In Itself, Whatever The Outcome, Cause For Pride And Contentment.

Now When I Look Back To The Guildford Of That Time It Seems Far More Exotic To Me Than Nagasaki.

My Friends And I Took Songwriting Very, Very Seriously. My Hero Was And Still Is Bob Dylan, But Also People Like Leonard Cohen And Joni Mitchell And That Whole Generation.