Our chief weapons are SURPRISE Me, Im back in town. Well, actually I was immediately back in town under this address (and in the nursery again) at Christmas when my temporary work email died the death of the just, but Im only taking advantage now. And taking advantage it most certainly is. You beauties, youre so rarely privileged to garner my outpourings of inconsequence. So, last Sunday afternoon brought sequentially into close conjunction a bookshop, a lovely friend whom unfortunately I fancy to bits, and some nice coffee. These are all wonderful things and auspicious in this kind of relation, but none of them helps me sleep any easier. For those who haven't experienced the joy, heartache is far from being a figurative term, and there is once again a knotty fist-sized lump of cancerous hormones sitting under my ribs and preventing me from breathing properly. Fucking hell. And my hair (recently chopped off substantially on a whim and thus more than usually random) had gone all wriggly in the Oxonian drizzle, and not in a charmingly picturesque way, worse luck. This shallowly preyed on my mind as I discovered that time and space evidently dont do that much to relieve unrequited pangs. FEAR The glorious terror of rejection that we all probably partake of in this parish has nigh on the status of a full-blown phobia for yours truly, which makes it kind of difficult for me to broach the subject with this lovely friend of mine. And how do you bring that kind of thing up in conversation, anyway? Im dubious as to whether suddenly pouncing on pals is quite good manners, not to mention experience having proven that not even vast quantities of alcohol are sufficient to make me actually do anything along these lines, particularly not with someone Im really interested in. What a thrilling catch-22 situation to be in. Anyway, following the advice of Mr Paul Simon (somewhat inelegantly but concisely he put it long ago: I have my books and my poetry to protect me/I am shielded in my armour), there was nothing else to do once Id returned home but to listen to Bryter Later and to read some Robert Graves: Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher Swept off his tall hat to the Squires own daughter; So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly Singing about her head, as she rode by. Which I used for a while some time ago as an email signature, until it began to cut a bit too close. Ho hum. If the Poetry Parrot is extant, that can be a gorgeously depressing contribution for it to carry about in its satchel like the wily pigeon in Dastardly and Muttley. Personally I always felt sorry for Mr Dastardly and his faithful but grumpy sidekick Muttley. After all, small aviation businesses cant go on losing planes at that rate without running into serious economic difficulties. One would have thought. And that bastard pigeon was so insufferably smug. NICE RED UNIFORMS A tip for lads: when a girl discusses her hair with you, she either likes the way you use your walk or thinks youre gay, or frequently both in my case, which is yet one more reason its difficult to find boyfriends. Girls, of course, can discuss hair amongst ourselves without betraying any romantic feelings that may be involved. Perhaps it would be rather easier if I were a gay man, given the high feyness quotient of people Im generally attracted to. Although, short of habitual transvestitism, I dont think Id be happy about the decreased range of socially acceptable footwear available. Do boys ever feel the need to buy/wear impractical yet pretty footwear? Straw poll. ----- Having composed this offline before catching up with digests, Im now moderately gobsmacked to notice that the biorythms of the list are all in sync or something. Everyone has so much interesting and brave (particularly gender-related) stuff to share. Now that just sounds icky and substandard Oprah-ish. Eh, somebody shoot me. I, however, with extremely cold hands and a persistent headache from paint fumes, offer nuggets neither interesting nor brave, but instead trivial as the day is long. I found a 17mm diameter ballbearing yesterday, in a flowerpot in the office where I was spending the day as temporary receptionist (dont laugh please, I have my transferable skills). The flowerpot was next to the watercooler, and the lovely rusty ballbearing lurking just beneath a fallen geranium leaf, which as you may know smell lovely, so when I picked this up to rub between my fingers and so alleviate some portion of my ennui, I discovered the aforementioned piece of tooled metal (dodgy-sounding but technically accurate, I think), which is now in my twee corduroy pocket. Small found objects like this are instantly easy to bestow affection upon, through their perfection of form and gracefully apparent aging. If only human beings were more commonly so. AN ALMOST FANATICAL DEVOTION TO THE POPE Some of my weekend was passed with devout Christians, unexpectedly and unusually. They were perfectly pleasant company, as indeed anyone with beliefs other than ones own can be upon casual acquaintance, and I was on my best behaviour and didnt even have to bite my tongue once, but just sat in my corner making origami penguins. Of course, having been singing nice anthems by Wm Byrd earlier had had an effect, as music always helps to sooth the savage Liz. Take note. Ill end on a big shout out to the Delightful Incredible Super-sexy (such a) Cutie (Oh!) Laura Llew for her Present Exchange toils and for simply being great, since this is the first opportunity Ive had to express my admiration for her milkmaidish community spirit. Hurrah! People of the South Coast of Great Britain: please feel free to avoid me in Brighton on the 9th if my mad starin eyes come your way. I simply must leave Wales at every opportunity, you see, lovely as the valleys and sheep are. Its a large enough space in which to experience cabin fever, but nevertheless. Liz :x P.S. Currently imagining Robin Stout in a diamond power suit. Cor. _________________________________________________________________ Send and receive Hotmail on your mobile device: http://mobile.msn.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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