Each of the vignettes below have three things in common. First, they are all examples of creative non-fiction. Secondly, each one is about the music known as “the blues”. And thirdly — well, I’ll let you figure that out for yourself!

I could have given Cathy a hug. But I thought that would be intrusive. I offered her a lift home instead. “I’ll play you some music, and you can start to forget about today.” We listened in silence as the singer informed us that he’d had to pawn his last suit, and his woman had left him. He’d just started saying that he was hoping to pick up some stamps from the welfare office when Cathy exploded. “Is this meant to cheer me up?”, she demanded. “Well yes”, I said. “I mean, he’s had an even worse day than you.”

So you want to play blues harmonica? It’s more than knowing how to bend notes. It’s more than knowing that turning up the reverb on the amp will get you a haunted sound. You need to be a method actor in the Strasbourg mould. When the singer says his woman has walked out, you think back to that girl you fell in love with at 19, who when she said “goodbye” left you in so much pain you wondered if you’d ever not feel it. Your harmonica cries, and everyone feels a lump in their throat. That’s playing the blues.

It’s a common misperception that all blues lyrics are the same. There are tropes: partner packing their suitcase, money troubles, trouble with the police, and the ubiquitous midnight train. But some of it is poetic, humorous, even philosophical. The protagonist of Born Under a Bad Sign assures us that if it wasn’t for bad luck, he “wouldn’t have no luck at all.” Muddy Waters declares that you can’t lose some girl you ain’t never had, which is a suitable rejoinder to lyrics like “You’re mine”: how can anybody belong to anyone? And why does the train always leave at midnight?

Every so often, Transport for London threatens to bring wi-fi and data connectivity to the tube. And every time it does so, I freeze inside. It's not just the thought of spending even more time listening to other people's conversations, or rather just one side of them, at full volume. It's the fear of being got at. I can't turn my phone off in case an elderly relative needs some help. An unforeseen consequence of the Covid-19 lockdown is not having half an hour of peace a week while travelling into London, of having no escape from these always-on blues.

The name is Tel. Doctor Tel. I became Dr Tel a long time ago, when one unaccustomed day I felt arrogant enough to award myself the appellation. Blues people, and especially blues harp (harmonica) people, often acquire an extra word in their names, a title or an adjective. Think of Dr John, Professor Longhair, Big Mama Thornton,  .... There are many more. Some years ago I signed up for a blues harmonica course -- there is always more to learn. The tutor announced "Terry" during the roll call. "Er, the name is Dr Tel" fell out of my mouth. The name stuck.

Writing a blues song usually -- but not always -- means adopting a template of sorts. Here's the first verse of a blues song I penned when I was a teacher, to help my students understand Keynesian economics:

You know I woke up this morning, and saw that my income's way too low

I said woke up this morning, and saw that my income's way too low

I said to my woman, I ain't gonna save nothin' no more

As you can see, not the most complicated rhyme scheme in the world. No need to know all about iambic pentameters and stuff.