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…”
“Hang on… what time do things need to kick off?”