The Thames was moving fast that day and the band made scant progress, nonetheless they swam on. Guitar heads and drumsticks protruded from the surface as and when the beat required. Oakey Steph led the convoy in a graceful butterfly, lyrics snatched even as she gasped for air. Each time her toned arms came around her face launched above the water cutting a figure fit for Greek sculpture.
Her voice was no less commanding and drew tourists to the rails of the Southbank and the bridges under which the band passed. She sung of the city even as they battled the tide, for battle it clearly was. Any doubt would be put to bed by the rhythm pounded out by Love Joyce and Arthur. It was a rhythm without waver. Arthur held a steady backstroke motored by flippered size elevens and plucked at the bass as if born with it in his grip. Joyce, on the other hand, incorporated the buoyant drumkit into a controlled doggy paddle. Neither looked to the other.
As they neared Westminster a police patrol boat took interest but, getting no reaction to their hails, soon joined the growing trail of vessels which chugged along behind, at a safe distance. They rose and fell on both the waves of the river itself and the textures of guitar which Sal projected at the rear of the group. He twisted and turned, alternating between front crawl and a mockery of breaststroke. The water's surface was his amplifier and the results were devoid of reason but made utter sense.
Dawn broke in Kew to the song of birds and fire.
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