Ghosts

Isaac's guitar has languished, cased, in the Moulin for three weeks.

I take a deep breath and propose a moulin night, on the condition that the guitars are unsheathed and played. 

We clear the surfaces of tables, empty the fridge of the furry inwards of bowls, fold the dried washing into a pile, light a fire, assemble all that's to hand; tomatoes, cucumber, charred peppers, feta.  boil up a pan of new spuds, mix mayonnaise and yoghurt into a dressing, feed the cats, grill Toulouse sausages, caramalise onions, lay the table, light some candles.

Once this is all done I let Bruce do the rest. I play Ghosts; I hear the sound from your guitar... and that does the trick.