There was a woman named Sally who sang in a cover band. She wasn’t really into most of the songs but it was a living. She carried debts in her pockets like rocks, each rehearsal and gig reminding her of how much she owed. The burden following her like the Talking Heads bassline “Once in a Lifetime”, and the refrain too “And you may ask yourself, how did I get here?” It became her private joke.

Each late notice another echo of bewilderment. She lived in catastrophe fantasies, the ship of her life capsizing in storms of ruin. Greg, the drummer, had known her long enough to notice. Back when they played for beer tickets, he’d tease her out of her spirals with small jokes. One night, while setting up his kit, he tapped the rim of a tom and sang out in mock falsetto: “Pressure! Pushing down on me…” then laughed, “That’s your theme song, isn’t it?”

One night in a club with an audience of more beer bottles than audience members, a shift happened. Instead of phantom storms, she turned her attention to the immediate moment. Practising staying in the present. Not so easy, like paddling against the current. The microphone was cool and solid in her hand. Her own intonation became something to study, not to judge. A vowel darkened or a note bent slightly sharp. Even the shadows of the furniture leaning across the floor seemed to bow and sway in rhythm with her. And in this state of noticing “now”, the rocks in her pockets more or less crumbled. After the set, Greg asked, “Are you ok?” She smiled, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.” She said and for the first time, she didn’t mind Fleetwood Mac.