She’s just been to view a place. ‘It’s fabulous,’ her text says

Tim Dowling: Touring is taking its toll. Then my wife tells me we're moving house

I am sitting in a dressing room with the rest of the band, post-sound check. It’s the seventh of eight dates on the trot, and we’re all suffering from a sense of dislocation. What we’ve seen of Scotland has been mostly through the van window.

The promoter, a jolly fellow with a ginger beard, knocks on the door. “Do you want your tea now,” he says, “or do you just wanna go out and get fucked up?”

We look at one another. It’s 6.15pm.

“I don’t know,” the fiddle player says. “Should we?”

“You’re in Glasgow,” the promoter says. “It would be rude not to.”

In the end, we decide to stay put until the gig starts in order to minimise the potential for catastrophe. Afterwards, the venue lets us leave our stuff on stage so we don’t have to load up until morning. We’re checked into our hotel by 11.30. Friday night in Glasgow is on our doorstep, but it seems a little daunting.

“I’m knackered,” I say. “Let’s just get drunk here.”

In the back of the van the next morning, half the band is passing around that day’s cryptic crossword, taking turns reading out clues. My brain is fogged, and I’m worried I’m not pulling my weight.

“Come back to that one,” I say. “Read me another.”

“Twelve down, postman’s burden,” the bass player says.

“How many letters?” I say.

“Thousands!” he says. Everyone laughs, and points at me. It’s the second time I’ve fallen for this terrible joke in 24 hours.

“I need some quiet time,” I say.

At lunchtime, I find myself on an impromptu tour of Carlisle cathedral. A volunteer is describing the Salkeld Screen to me in pitiless detail. I feel, at this moment, dazed and incredibly suggestible: if the volunteer were to pin his badge on me and walk out, I’d probably still be giving tours here in a year’s time.

A 15-minute nap on a dressing room sofa restores my senses a little, but there can be no doubt the tour is catching up with me. More than anything else, I’m beginning to succumb to all the waiting around: my throat is scratchy, my forehead hot.

“I think I might be sickening,” I say to the bass player.

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“Let’s face it,” he says, “you’re grotesque.”

After the gig, I chat to a couple who are in the middle of moving. They spent the day packing up, then drove 50 miles to see us play. In the morning, they will return to a different, empty house. Their devotion shames me. At least I have a home to go to.

We leave our hotel at first light, so we can reach London in good time. An hour in, we stop to refuel and empty middle-aged bladders, but the petrol station has no loo. Last night, I think, you were being cheered back on stage for an encore. Today, you’re just an old man whizzing against a fence behind a car wash. I will be glad to see home.

I send my wife a text telling her I’ll be back by lunchtime. There is no reply. Twenty minutes later, I send a second text that says, “You don’t seem that psyched.”

Eventually, my wife answers, saying she’s just been to view a house. “It’s fabulous,” her text says. “We’re moving. I’m serious.” It takes me several minutes to absorb this information.

“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m moving.”

“To where?” the accordion player asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. I stare out of the window at the rain, feeling utterly unmoored. Five minutes later, my phone buzzes to announce another text.

“You don’t seem that psyched,” it says.