I'm playing a gig in Greece but it's raining. Still, I can't complain

Many months ago the band I’m in was invited to play a gig at a literary festival in Greece. The date slotted nicely into our international tour schedule, between Brighton and Plymouth. But it butted up against my already booked holiday; I would have to fly home, spend 36 hours repacking and then fly straight to Greece. Mind you, I’m not complaining.

- Tim Dowling

“It sounds like you're complaining,” my wife says as we negotiate the duty free chicane at Gatwick. It is 4.30am, and the airport is rammed.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just worried about my banjo.” The previous evening I'd parted with it at “Twilight Bag Drop”, an automated process that gave me no confidence I would see my banjo again.

“Nothing you can do about it now,” my wife says, “so there’s no point in worrying.”

I’m also preoccupied by my roof: in the 36 hours I'd spent at home, I’d conducted several gloomy conversations with Michael the roofer about the flat roof over the kitchen, which is in even worse shape than the one at the top of the house, and when the skip in the driveway would finally be removed.

“Thursday,” said Michael.

“I’ll be in Greece,” I told him.

“This is an accident of scheduling. Mind you, I’m not complaining.”