You know it's not good when you resort to smoking bits of stalk that you find on the floor in your room. Fortunately, tonight the bit of stalk was offset with a bit of green I found on my bedside table. It's been sat there for at least a month. I can't believe I've never noticed it, resting under my Brass Eye DVD.

The findings came as a relief, as I returned from an hour of busking in my usual spot by the art shop in Newquay. Wounds from last night's drinking were still apparent as I walked down the hill. Despite spending the afternoon laid out on the sofa watching US Open tennis and Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends, drifting in and out of consciousness; I was still feeling knackered at 11pm. Plus after last week's over emphatic singing (which resulted in the loss of my voice for a few days) my throat isn't getting the best recovery from the battery of alcohol and smoke that passes through it. Within the first song I knew I wasn't going to last long. A lozenge and some pleasant punters eased the first half hour by, but both had evaporated by the time I called it quits at around 11.45. With around enough money earned to buy an eighth, if I could only afford such luxuries.

On Wednesday, I passed two major milestones signaling the end of the summer. Before jetting down to Falmouth, I handed my week's notice in at Somerfield. To my amusal the managers were having a meeting when I arrived. Knocking on the door (which has a window in it, thus making they're presence in a meeting immediate to me), I was greeted, as a blind person or one with mental difficulties, with the observation: "We're in a meeting." Condescending tones, as store policy, added for affection. "We'll be done in an hour." Added to assert authority. "I can see that, I just need to give you this letter." I said, placing said letter on the table. I left with a grin of mirth, with the knowledge that I were to end this term of insult at the hands of middle aged, middle managers.

By about midnight on Wednesday, I decided to call it quits at the Q Bar. For the ninth or possibly tenth week in a row, nobody apart from myself made use of their Open Decks. For being the only fucker to play, I've been kept in casual employment on a free drinks all night deal. A deal that is pretty shit, in any cases, but especially so in my case of traveling over from Newquay to do so. Two jobs down in the space of eight hours. A personal best.

On Thursday, after a few hours of snooker and a few pints, I popped into Somerfield to pick up a well needed snack and my hours for the last week. In a repeat of last week's piece of managerial ineptness, I found that I had been given no hours. At around quarter to four, following a drinking and catching up session with my mate Harrie from uni, I decided to call in sick. Fuck them. If they're going to play nasty with me, I can play nasty with them. I would pay good money, and probably cringe at the possibility of hearing the drunken slur I left on the store's mobile's answerphone.

At about one o'clock. Minutes after the departure of Harrie and his friends from work. I received a call from Somerfield. (I was supposed to work at 12.30.) "Tim, you know you're supposed to be in today." Said the voice on the phone. "Didn't you get my message?" I asked in return. Apparently not. No surprise there then. A five minute chat with the manager, who I've yet to meet properly resulted in my explanation of the series of cock ups that has left me with my roguish opinion of the store. It sounded like Russell (I believe him to be called) had a hint of understanding of where I'm coming from.

And so with my only income being from busking, it's taken me til this afternoon to appreciate a simple truth. I'm a professional musician.