Yesterday I received an email. That’s exciting, all by itself. But this one was special.

‘Dear A Conway’, it started, which is a rather alarming form of address really. I mean, was it for me? As in Andy Conway? Or just the indefinite article, ‘A’, like, any old Conway will do? But it went on: ‘the Kindle that you were stupid enough to leave on the number 11 bus on the 18th August (wow), HAS BEEN FOUND!!!!! Come to Baker Street and get it.’

Oh, the kindle I lost and replaced, after falling out with Amazon totally (but not so ‘totally’ that I haven’t used them 19 times in the interim) on the 20th of August, has been found and matched up to my online form’s description. Of… err… ‘a Kindle’.

Transport for London have a Lost Property Office but I’ve always been under the impression that its looks like the Steptoe house and employs three old Harolds to just bury all the umbrellas and mobile phones, or flog ’em on ebay whilst sending out messages to enquirers that just say, basically: ‘lost your phone? you expect me to look for it? you’re ‘avin’ a laugh, I’m goin’ down the pub’.

And then THIS happened. What’s more, some kindly soul (bless ’em) actually picked it up and handed it in. Didn’t steal it. Didn’t smash it repeatedly against an old lady’s head, but handed it in to the correct person.

And just 6 weeks later, they’ve found it. Remember, this is TFL, delays of 6 weeks for them are called ‘Good Service’. They’ve probably had four 3-day strikes in the interim too.

Its restored my faith in humanity, in decency, in TFL, in the entire world. Until I realise that however many times I click my heels together, I can’t wake up from the dream that has Donald Trump as a presidential candidate. Its sadly only too real.

There was a gig played over the last weekend in the Desert in California. My mate who lives in New York went, with his wifey for their anniversary celebration. To see: Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Neil Young, Roger Waters and The Who. Wasn’t cheap. But the entrance fee included zimmer frames, nappies and a carer at bed-time. By all accounts it was simply brilliant. They had to air-lift all the Grecian 2000 in otherwise the desert sun shining on all that silver hair could have blinded the ‘youthful’ crowd. Pete I-hope-I-die-before-I-get-old Townsend was there, hopes apparently dashed once more. But I think they avoided performing ‘my generation’ on grounds of either ambiguity or just plain misrepresentation.

Happy Tuesday, fast well

A xxxx