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I
bought a new bouzouki for
myself the other day
It
was beautiful to look at and a joy to play
I
took it home and after I’d been playing it a while
Decided
that the strings were just too high to suit my style
What
I needed was a luthier and I knew just the place
So
I put my new bouzouki in its new bouzouki case
And
set off for the bus stop – and all of this is true -
Picture
me with my bouzouki waiting in the queue
The
bus arrived at 8.05 I sat down at the back
I
put my new bouzouki on the forward luggage rack
And
I remember thinking how easy it would be
To
leave it on the bus – leave it on the W3
I
took out my book to read and soon I was engrossed
The
journey to the station took 10 minutes at the most
Chapter
one was gripping and the next thing I knew
I
was stepping on a tube train and starting chapter 2
We
were pulling into Holborn on the Piccadilly Line
When
something started nagging at the back of my mind
I
remembered my bouzouki and it dawned on me
I’d
left it on the bus – left it on the W3
Off
the train and down the platform, up the stairs and down the escalator
To
catch a northbound train to take me back to where I started from
But
when I got to Finsbury Park 10 minutes later
There
was no bouzouki and the W3 was gone…
The
lady at the ticket office at the station
Clearly
didn’t fully understand the situation
She
shrugged and said “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss
It
can’t have been that special if you left it on the bus”
I
said “is it my fault if I’m a little absent minded?
It’s
a beautiful bouzouki and you have to help me find it”
She
said “I’ve had no bouzouki handed in to me
It
must still be on the bus – still be on the W3”
She
said “if you’re lucky (if you catch my drift)
And
the driver hands it in at the end of his shift
It’ll
end up at the depot some time today
That
is if he doesn’t take it home to play”
I
said “ how many drivers are there on duty
At
any given moment who can play the bouzouki?
Just
waiting around for a fool like me
To
leave one on the bus, leave one on the W3”
I
described the missing item which she noted it on a piece of paper
I
told her it was like a balalaika or a giant mandolin
Fifty
seven phone calls, some sleepless nights and three days later
One
of the drivers handed my bouzouki in
Now
me and my bouzouki are back where we belong
But
I still don’t know what happened on the three days it was gone
Maybe
it just travelled round unnoticed in between
Finsbury
Park and White Hart Lane and Tottenham and Wood Green
Or
maybe the bouzouki-playing driver took it home
But
didn’t like the string height or didn’t like the tone
What
became of my bouzouki is a mystery
When
I left it on the bus, left it on the W3
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