Music is on my mind. Making, not listening. In truth, it’s seldom far away, but right now it’s more than usually present. I’ve spent the morning trying to figure out set lists for a concert in May at our local theatre. It’s not at all straightforward.

We began a dozen or so years ago as a duo, my singer friend, Dave, with me as his keyboard accompanist, playing favourites from the sixties and seventies. In recent years we’ve expanded to become a group of seven musicians, mostly aged over sixty (some, including me, well over), who put on an annual winter show in the arts centre here in my village. 

Last Christmas, for the first time, we had to face the challenges of being what is, in effect, a geriatric band. In the run-up people started getting ill and developing conditions. One member’s partner got a slot for her hip operation on the night before the gig.

Eleventh-hour personnel changes ensued. Somehow we ended up with an extra voice and a strings section, bringing our number to ten. One set of challenges solved, another created. But as we approach the end of February, on another grey day, I need to cheer myself up. I’d rather write about positives than challenges.

For example … my literary agent and old friend, Jenny, has twin thirty-eight-year-old sons from her first marriage. One of them, Davy, was diagnosed with motor neurone disease when he was just thirty. 

Last week he was selected to compete as a snowboarder in the British Winter Paralympic team. He will be going to Cortina in March as the first MND athlete ever to compete at a Paralympic Games. Jenny’s joy and pride exploded out of the WhatsApp message bringing me the news.

Closer to home, another friend, Erica, has been writing a book about her journey from the source of one of Scotland’s major rivers to its mouth. It’s a lovely book about landscape, local lore and history, the crafts and characters she encounters along the way. 

Over the last year I’ve been metaphorically walking alongside her, reading and commenting, chapter by chapter. Yesterday she heard that the book is to be published by one of Scotland’s major publishers. Another delighted WhatsApp message lit up my phone. 

Yesterday also I spent a fascinating couple of hours with Jen, the war reporter whose book festival event I recently chaired, quizzing her about the way that drones have changed the face of warfare.

This is information I need for what I’m writing at the moment. Jen has experienced it at first hand, reporting from the frontline in Ukraine. She was able to give me invaluable, if horrifying, material. 

A second important strand in my current writing project relates to the particular genetic condition of one of the characters. I heard yesterday from the society representing people affected by it, with contact details of a specialist I can talk to.

It reminded me of how important research is, not merely for the mechanics of plotting, the benefits of plausibility and narrative weight, but also as a source of energy. Knowing stuff excites me. It fuels the narrative engine and makes me want to get on with telling the story.

To complete the catalogue of positives, back to music. On Wednesday evenings I play with friends in my local pub. Depending on who is around we combine piano, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, double bass and vocals. 

The repertoire is mostly Americana. Google describes this as ‘a contemporary music genre blending American roots traditions, including folk, country, blues, bluegrass, and roots-rock.’

Last night we were already a full complement when three visiting Canadian musicians turned up out of the blue. They added a second fiddle and guitar, and an accordion, to the line-up.

It made for a glorious couple of hours of shared music-making and the connection, the sense of community, that comes with it – even when, as in my case, the pub piano faces the wall and you have your back to everyone else.

February can feel a bit like facing the wall, but without the music. But at the risk of sounding trite, experience tells me there’s always a positive somewhere within reach – even if only that it’s March on Sunday.