I have it in my front room.
The repair on that headstock is exactly where it was and the glue has gone the colour of tea.
I have not had it restrung. I am going to, and I have been going to for four months.
Give me that. We can’t eat a guitar.
My mother said that in her own front room on the day of my father’s funeral, in front of twenty-five people, and clicked the catches shut.
She was not wrong. There was no money in that house and there was less of it coming.
But eight months later a nineteen-year-old boy spent every penny he had buying it back and handed it to her at the same kitchen table where she had asked him to go away for a year.
