Decades ago, Tina and I used to do a lot of non-folk club singing gigs in the company of Tim Broadbent, singing - what shall we call them? - the popular songs of the folk revival well known to the non-specialist audience. Sometimes they were good fun; always they were well paid.

One day were booked at a large mental hospital near Chichester; the sort of places that don't exist any more (and quite rightly so!) We were to be singing to a mixed audience of staff and patients. At first things went swimmingly and we were getting a great response. Now, this must have been pre-arranged but one by one the members of staff slipped out between songs until eventually there were just us three and the patients left. It was a locked room that we were performing in.

At first this was still OK but gradually the patients realised that that none of people that offered them their security were around and some distinctly twitchy behavoir developed amongst our audience which grew into moans and groans which grew in intensity.

We continued to sing and play with an almost manic enthusiasm as this was going on. Eventually, one of the members of staff returned, unlocked the door and popped his head in.

"Is everything all right in here?"

No, it wasn't.