If you see a woman in a black hoodie crying at Brighton station, snuffling into her sleeves unashamed, take a look and make sure she has headphones on under the hood. If so, it’s probably me, listening to Josephine Foster and her band Born Heller. And if so, then I am fine, and please don’t be embarrassed or concerned. I am not sad. I’m just overfuckingwhelmed by this song. And a little tired, admittedly, and probably a bit hungry, but mostly just happy. I’ve been spending all day helping pull a magazine into shape that I think is one of the prettiest looking and finest reading magazines I ever saw. And if that isn’t enough, I get to listen to Josephine Foster as I find my way back to London in the new winter dark. While some more sane part of me recognises the danger of seeing too much of yourself in any art, this is music I know, simple as that. I read Everett’s sleevenotes for the Daniel Johnston compilation, and understand exactly what he means, as I swap the Born Heller for my other favourite song of the day, Johnston’s Walking The Cow, a song which, despite repeated plays over the years, never stops haunting me. Then I play M Ward’s cover of Story Of An Artist, which sets me off again; tears at East Croydon making the station lights go blurry and sparkle-edged. Again, I’m not sad, I’m not blue, I’m just in love with a song. If you asked me if I was OK I’d just hand you the headphones so you could hear for yourself.

Stop by at Grace’s, to hand over a minidisc and talk ideas and tell tales. Finally get home, to the sound of Feist, which I decide is my new least favourite record of the day, if not the week, but my wife is cooking to it, and she is cooking me a big dinner, and she thinks it’s a great record. We compromise with an airing of Big Star’s Radio City, and then I play her Daniel Johnston. She’s never heard him before. I hold my breath, in case she tells me to turn off that depressing shit. But instead, I think she really likes it. And then I’m on my own again, and if you think listening to Jandek right now makes me depressed or depressing you’re very, very wrong.

I’m thinking about my weekend, of the gig I played in Colchester, of all places, of the drive there in the bright autumn afternoon across the badlands of my East Anglian youth, looking strangely romantic and bleak and lovely now that I didn’t have to live there. Of the arts centre, where people sat and listened to our music; of my incipient cold that disappeared the minute I got on stage, or at least subsumed itself into my violin and bass until every note had the tinge and shake of fever and sorrow about it, and I almost toppled over at the end of one song. [Note to self: do not wear kitten heels next time you play a gig with a slight temperature. You are not used to it. Stick to the sneakers] Of the spaces and silences and the long notes and bursts of loudness. and of the way we were so pleased afterwards we all smiled and hugged, and chatted all the way back in the car, a time that I’d earmarked for sleep.

I’m thinking of the Sunday when I had to do some casual labour in a bookshop, selling Isabel Allende and yoga books to the mums of N16 and being sighed at for having sold out of the new Trinny and Susannah book already (God, I am so sorry; look, why don’t you buy a real fucking book instead, lady?) and awarding the Morgan award for most pointless book of the day to the Barefoot Doctor’s latest offering. Thinking of how I got through it my usual way - balancing on the edge of the thing you stand on to put books on the shelves, trying to get as close to falling off as you can without falling off. this is fun, honest - making myself feel good and sick with a few chapters of chick-lit - rearranging the popular science section - listening to Bert Jansch - reading Frank O’Hara behind the counter - and thinking, soon I’m not gonna be doing this anymore. Thinking of arriving for work an hour early (no-one TOLD me about the clocks! My gran used to remind us every year but now no-one bothers) and having a walk in the cemetery, thinking ‘Wheat’ would be, like, a totally cool surname to have.

It occurs to me that I can only listen to this music when I’m tired; that the detuned guitar only rings the right way around a very sleepy head.