"Are you a millionaire?"

I'm pretending not to notice but I'm intrigued as she seems to be taking notes. For the second half of this flight she's been leaning forward and eyeing me across the aisle, and it's not a short trip. UK to Turkey, 2023.

I'm playing it cool though, a man on a mission. In a rave top hat and Elvis shades.

It's late afternoon as the exotic city reveals itself below us and everyone starts shuffling around as if they're about to get off in the next thirty seconds.

"My daughter has something she wants to show you," says her Dad who is occupying the aisle seat nearest me. He's a clean shaven man of about thirty five and she's around the age I was when I won a prize at school for painting a portrait of our headmistress. Seven.

She leans forward. "It's you!" she declares holding up her drawing.

And so it is.

I don't have any children but I've learned NOT to say, "Wow, that's fantastic, you're an amazing artist!"

"I'm feeling really happy looking at this", I say as she hands her very detailed drawing to me.

"I love the headband on my hat and the way you've drawn the skull pattern as a simplified graphic design is very impressive. And the glasses, and the starey eyes. You've captured the essence of me if I'm honest".

The father and daughter smile at each other. It's a triumphant, mischievous smile.

"We'd both love to know", he says, "Do you always dress like this?"

"I'm going to a party", I say, "A millionaire friend of mine is having a 40th birthday bash".

"Oh, are you a millionaire?" she asks with a matter-of-fact toss of her golden hair, ignoring the fact that we're all travelling 'cattle class'.

I always fly in my performance clothes just in case I arrive at a gig and a besuited figure with a clipboard and an earpiece says, "Are you Tony the drum guy? We've changed the running order. You're on in 5 minutes, a hundred drums on a hundred chairs according to your sketch. Is there anything else you need? Ah, hang on, you're not on in 5 minutes Tonto. You're on now."

So I'm in my bejewelled Indian wedding coat, Paul Smith leopard print shirt, black trousers and patent leather cowboy boots. The plane lands rather bumpily and people clap. Tension and release, it's what my life is all about.

"No, I'm not a millionaire, I'm a musician". I think this might raise an ironic smile from at least one of them say but in their world these two things aren't exclusive.

"I play the piano", she says proudly, gazing into a future where she's a millionaire too.

"She's multi-talented, we have trouble keeping up with her", says her Dad.

We ain't going nowhere right now though as we're miles from the terminal and no one has ordered any stairs.

"Keep playing", I say to her and, addressing her Dad indirectly, I continue with, "And make sure that 50% of what you play is songs you really like so you keep loving it when the exams loom. When you grow up you'll be welcome in any bar in the world. It's worth it. I'm just a drummer but I get invited everywhere."

Mobile phones are pinging all around the plane as people come online. I like her Dad, he's alive! And he's looking up my website and they're looking at my showreel.

"All those drums!" she says. "I knew you were a millionaire".

Seven days earlier, as I'm discharged from hospital, I ask my doctor if he reckons I'm well enough to make this trip. Pneumonia put me on my back with an oxygen mask for some considerable time this summer.

"You've got a strong consitution" he says, "You've recovered fast. Make sure you book wheelchair support at Heathrow and Istanbul and you should be OK. Officially though, no, I'd advise you not to travel."

After being on the brink of death recently the last thing I wanna do is sit in a wheelchair. I swan about Heathrow buying electrical adaptors and eating sushi.

In Istanbul I walk through colourful markets and eat on the streets. Released. There's life before pneumonia and life after. A limmo picks me up the following morning to take me to my destination. It's freakin' miles away but this guy owns a hotel up the coast so I sit back and enjoy the ride.

We sweep into the hotel complex at 2.45, time for a shower a nap and a beach deck supper before it all kicks off at seven.

"Tom! Welcome to our humble abode." How I met this guy six months ago is another story for another time. Let's just say 'serenading serendipity and chanting to chance' had a lot to do with it.

"Look, the drums are all around the pool. We've bought a hundred like you said. They can take them home as gifts. I know we said seven but are you OK to start at three? We want the kids to be involved, they're super-excited already".

That's in ten minutes.

The next hour is wild! You can imagine.

It's a 3-day party with excursions to hill top restaurants but I'm pretty much off duty now except for accompanying the DJ sometimes.

I don't mention this at all on social media.

Not a whisper.

I wouldn't want to be accused of over-sharing.

I fly back to London and get into bed.

Pneumonia, it's a slow recovery. Step by step. No overdoing it Mister Morley.