“I don’t know how jazz fans can see in those dark glasses,” Rosa remarked. “Not in a basement in gloomy, old London, at any rate.” “Their eyes adjust, I reckon,” I said. “But Uncle Reg always wears them. He’s got trouble with his eyes. Some industrial injury the Trades Unions should’ve come down hard on, only the Unions in this country’ve got no teeth. Ta for that!” My pint had arrived. “Not supping, yourself?” “Not tonight, son. There you are, Rosa,” he flung the crisps on the table. “Mind if I join you? Be honest; I wouldn’t want to break up a tête-à-tête.” “Please do. You’re not breaking up anything,” Rosa looked puzzled. “We can budge up, can’t we, Magnus?” We certainly could. My leg was jammed up against Rosa’s and I caught a whiff of her scent. She smelt of lilacs in the park after the rain. I took a swift gulp of my pint and tried to concentrate on the music. “What d’you reckon to this, Uncle Reg?” I cocked my head at the trio, who were attempting a driving, hard bop sound done streets better by Art Blakey[27]. It was acceptable, but it lacked the blues edge it should’ve had.
