I'm with Jonathan Richman (who looks more like Bob Geldof), arriving at his house for a visit. I don't know him very well but we're striking up a friendship, and since I'm in England he's brought me to see/meet his wife (have I already met her?). He pulled up to the back door and we've gotten out and I'm looking at the back yard, which is huge. It's not so big a place that you can't see anything else; the lawn goes on for a long time but there are other houses and streets and buildings to be seen. And the house itself is situated on a street, rather a nice one. The house is old, fairly large, and 2 or 3 stories, with a large set of steps up to the back door. Not a big porch, though. We go up and he unlocks the door, and we go into the kitchen, then through to the front living room. We pass the stairs. Jonathan is talking about 2 or 3 things, and I start to ask if his wife is upstairs, but then I notice the furniture and open my mouth to mention that. This house is not fancy, by a long shot - it's in good repair, I expect, but not fixed up at all; the furniture is as old as the house practically, and threadbare. He's got what he needs, I guess, and I know he's happy here, satisfied, but it is a little sad-looking. Still it's not grubby or smelly or unpleasant. I start to say something, then stop - he says "What?" and I say pretty much the above, like for a minute I was thinking this wasn't very fancy for a rock star, then I'd thought, well, he hasn't been that famous for very long, after all, and just buying the house itself was a pretty big deal. I guess if he wants to fix up the furniture, he'll do it sometime. Meanwhile I'm being made quite comfortable here myself, and I appreciate it. I'm sitting on the couch when some other visitors come - a couple who are friends and a guy who's one of Jonathan's longtime buddies - since they were kids - they come in and sit and chat. The buddy is an inveterate storyteller and he makes very cheery conversation, and they ask me how long I'm staying and how I like it, all that stuff. (I'm sort of in the middle of my trip - I hope I have this much fun for the rest of it.) I'm looking out the window at the street scene, and there are various people out there including this older man who was here earlier - he's a bit dotty, tallish, wears a baggy raincoat, matching hat, sort of wild hair. He's just the sort of dotty that he comes up and makes strange conversation but doesn't get loud or difficult. He's out there talking to some kids. It's a lovely quiet and slow summer afternoon, nobody has anything pressing to do, people are out strolling and talking. I have to leave now, and I wish I could stay and talk longer, especially to the old-buddy fellow, he's a lot of fun and seems to like me. But I make my good-byes, and go out the front door, and drive down the street looking around at the houses and trees and things on the way.