We fell asleep on Tuesday night in a car park in Scranton, PA, and woke up on Wednesday morning, reassuringly, in a car park in Scranton, PA. Scranton is as beautiful as you might imagine it is, and was certainly as glorious in the morning as it was in the evening. I went to a local supermarket and made myself look stupid by asking for a confirmation that the so-called “Apple Cider” wasn’t in fact alcoholic. I mean, it was sitting in the fruit and veg section, but you never know, do you, and the last thing you want after making a health-generating smoothie is to drink it and get totally “muntered off your bonce”, as they say in Tooting.

En route to Baltimore we dozed peacefully, and awoke in a city centre awash with exotic dance emporiums, advertising the talents of such young ladies as Jada Simone St Clair, who is presumably Isla’s younger sister. Incredibly, the venue we were due to play in was in yet another grim part of town – I think that’s three in a row – and a message has just turned up on the Scritti Politti Yahoo! group describing the area around the North Star Bar in Philadelphia, where we’re due to play tomorrow, as a place where “hollow-eyed characters roam like zombies.” I’m looking forward to it. We sought solace in the much more pleasant harbour area of the city, and marvelled at the local cheesecake emporiums which served massive slabs of cheesecake, appropriately enough.

At the show I met internet chum kristintracy who enacted an entire informercial for a product that “steam-fries” your food, which raised my spirits immensely. The gig itself was relatively quiet, but we did well, despite Green still fighting off a throat infection. The following setup confronts me every night, and is beginning to feel like a well-loved cuddly toy or comfort blanket, except when it goes wrong, which is often.

Post-show, we got on the bus. “I’ve made you all cocktails,” said Ralph. “What’s it called?” I asked. “It’s called the fuck-up,” said Ralph, promptly falling asleep. Dave wrote the word “LOVE” on his right hand, and it’s still there. In the early hours of the morning Ralph was discovered sleeping on a street a few blocks away. Rock’n'roll.

We’re now sitting outside a radio station in Philadelphia, WXPN, to be precise, where we’re recording 3 or 4 tunes for NPR’s World Café. As of now, we don’t have a clue what we’re going to play. This is known as riding by the seat of your pants, according to Green, who has spent much of the tour trying to stop me speculating about various things. I refuse to speculate on how this denial of speculation will pan out.