They’re putting me back to work, tonight. I’m doing the first of three nights of solo piano gigs at a small Jazz club in west London, near where I’m staying, in Chelsea, a few minutes' walk from the river Thames. I was here a year or so ago. The joint has a great piano, and a large sweeping stairway behind the stage that leads up to the dressing room. I feel self-conscious making such a grand entrance to such a small room after the introduction. It seems to take an age to actually arrive at the bottom step, to squeeze around the chairs and tables to get to the piano stool. The challenge is to get situated before the applause dies down so there isn't an awkward gap of silence before the first note. I don’t usually feel ill at ease if I’m already sat in the familiar position at the keyboard with a huge piano to hide behind, but to be exposed for what seems like an age as I walk down the stairs swiftly without tripping, feels a bit like suddenly having to stand up in front of a group of strangers with no trousers on (me, I mean, not the strangers). Last time I was here, everyone seemed to think it was a roaring success - so I don’t suppose there’s any reason this time it’ll be any different. Ticket sales are good, I’m told. As of three days ago, the last night was sold-out and the other two were heading that way. There may still be tickets available. Selfishly though, I hope not. I like playing music to a full house. Through the bedroom window, there appears to be a thin strip of blue sky. It looks as though the sun is out. It couldn’t decide yesterday. Perhaps it was scared away by the billowing swell of angry and impatient, dirty-looking autumn clouds. They appeared to have been maliciously unleashed by forbidding silhouettes of skyscrapers in the distance and hovered like birds of prey, loitering a while over the house-boats on the Thames while the sun lingered, off somewhere in the wings, having a tea break.