It turns out that like motorcycling, harmonica playing is genetically predetermined. Talking to my dad about my Plinth Plans, he revealed that in an effort to stave off boredom in the sanatorium (every single one of the diseases of post-war childhood had a go at killing off my dad: fortunately for me, unsuccessfully) he decided to join a trio of pyjama-clad percussionists on the harmonica. I’m not sure which is the greater challenge, playing chromatic with TB or playing diatonic 26 feet above Trafalgar Square. I guess I’ll find out on Thursday!
PS That’s not my cool kit in the photo – it’s all on loan from the fabulous Steve Lockwood. (apart from the roll of prayer flags) (and the Conga Girl badge.)