It’s the fault of Richard Thompson

He said I don’t have any further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
swooping down from heaven to carry me home…

Richard Thompson: ’1952 Vincent Black Lightning’

She said, with more than a touch of bitterness in her voice, that it was all the fault of Richard Thompson. I made her an Irish coffee to keep her talking as it had been a slow day in the Green Man Pub, cold rain falling outside the doors. She was a fetching darling with her black leather jacket, Borderlands t-shirt, black jeans, and black soft leather boots, not to mention green eyes and spiky red hair. She could’ve been twenty, she could’ve been fifty — who could tell? And then she said it — ‘Do I look like an angel to you? Well I am, even if I don’t have the wings coming out of my back.’

Now you might think that I, Reynard, musician and barkeep here in this pub, would’ve been surprised, but I was not. I’ve experienced much weirder things in this old brick and stone building. She drained the cup and asked for another — paying once again in silver coin that was old when the Romans tried to conquer what would be Britain one day.

Sighing deeply, she looked up at me and spoke. ‘That man is far too good to be of mortal blood — he must be fey. How else could he have convinced so many mortals that we must arrive on motorcycles? How trite an idea!’ I kept my silence, anticipating something more. ‘I must be going,’ she said, ‘but he got that right, you know, and I am here to take someone back with me.’ She rose and left the Pub, walking out into the rain until I could see her no more…

Meanwhile the musicians in the Neverending Session must have sensed who she was as they are now playing ‘The Shaking of the Sheets’ tune from John Playford’s English Dancing Master.

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