The Phantom Flute-Player in the Prestonville Arms

When publishing yesterdays post to Facebook, I was somewhat puzzled to see that the instructions to do so were in Italian, or perhaps Portugese. Clicking on 'Accepti' (or something similar....) I thought nothing more of it until I logged into Facebook later on and was confronted with the home page of an Italian, or perhaps, Portugese man, whose latest posting was a link to Tales from bridge 39... He obviously hadn't signed out, and I was much amused by the possible puzzlement on his face when he next logged in.

Down at the Prestonville last night with Em, Al and Andy. A wild night, all rain and darkness and sodden leaves fluttering about like drowned and broken wings. There is a certain quality to the darkness in the Prestonville area which I have always found intriguing. A mixture of the relative elevation (there are some quite atmospheric views down to Brighton from this hilly area) and the increasingly old fashioned orange streetlamps that illume the winding streets.
The Prestonville was busy last night, though not overtly crowded. A blues guitarist played too loudly. Though what he was playing was not necessarily offensive, I was glad when he finished. We ran into a fellow drinker from the Evening Star there, who had 'come for the music', Stu. Stu sometimes plays harmonica in a rather good band called the Sumerian Kings, a kind of industrial-psychedelic-swamp-jazz combo. When playing the harmonica he has such a look of unbridled delight on his face, he seems as if he is fulfilling all his lifelong ambitions at once.
Seated as we were by the toilet, he had to pass us every time he wanted to relieve himself. Shortly before we left, he had popped into the toilets again. Al whipped out a flute from his bag, began playing it haphazardly and ale-affected. He happened to put it back in his bag just before Stu emerged again from the toilet, looking somewhat puzzled. 'You know.' he said, 'I could have sworn I heard an instrument'. 'What kind of instrument?' someone asked. 'A flute'. He went back into the toilet again, as if to search for the location of his phantom flute player. He came out again looking puzzled. 'Maybe there are ghosts, but I definetly heard a flute playing'.
He wondered back through the crowded pub again.
I wonder if he told anyone else about his disembodied flute player.
On the way back home, Em and me came across Tony, a sudden small-hours meeting. Flat cap to keep the rain off. He said he had been drinking with old school friends and was very drunk, but didn't seem to be at all. Sudden meetings in autumnal streets, October synchronicities.
I remember the leaves in the night behind him, and the buildings beyond, and everything dark and nocturnal and timeless.

Heavy rain this morning when we woke. Our proposed walk to Friston Forest curtailed. Tea, pizza and Eastenders instead. The rain had eased by mid-afternoon, and we walked down the windy seafront to the pier. The seagulls seemed to be scattered by the wind, littering the sky in elegant but somehow beguiling fashion, an avian chaos.
They looked more like leaves than birds.