In the studio with John Squire. I’m not sure about his latest exhibition. Original paintings over-written with text. The words gleaned from conversations he’s secretly recorded in and around Manchester. I’ve got an image of him, bearded, on the tram heading in to town via Salford, through Timpleton, making a pilgrimage past his old stomping ground of Chorlton-cum-Hardy. Out to Hyde. Dukinfield. Wythenshawe. The same route that he found the letter to Sally Cinnamon. Then into the city centre. Mooching around pensioners, couples, workers. A microphone poking out of his sleeve, the hard disc multi-track recorder tucked in an inside pocket of his field jacket. Recording random conversations. Each new one side by side on separate tracks. Layering each other. But has he translated that into visual art? Hmm. ‘Dinner party’ does nothing for me. Sixth form stuff. Others I like. ‘Seascape’ is Turner-esque. Late period, ‘Rain, steam & speed’. I’ve been fond of Squire’s paintings in the past and have my eye on one for the bedroom wall. And I can understand why the visual arts are a release from music. Defining a moment in a different way. But you wouldn’t think that he’d give out his address, would you? I might visit him. According to Google maps’ route planner it’s 50 miles from Lodge Towers to Squire Manor. Over the Woodhead Pass, through Tintwistle, down the A523. Just call in. John, get the kettle on. Biscuit? John, why are you holding your arm like that? Are you recording this?