What's the first sign of madness? Growing hairs on the palm of your hand? Hunting high and low for your specs while they're on the top of your head? Or HEARING VOICES? The other night, being thoroughly worn out and in desperate need of some beauty sleep, I brushed my teeth, pulled on my pyjamas and climbed into bed, wrapping the duvet round me to make a snuggly caterpillar of myself. I shut my eyes and awaited Mr Sandman. Suddenly, through the darkness, I heard something. No words, only the sibilance of a whisper, which continued for several minutes. At first I thought it was robbers in the back garden, come to moider me in my bed, but then I realised the sound was coming from inside my room. Mice? Surely not - they live in the kitchen and living room but, as far as I'm aware, they haven't mastered the stairs yet. And besides, these noises were too hooman. Maybe it was a ghost. There's a presence outside the cellar door, of this I am certain. But it's a cold and eerie presence, not warm and snuggly like my bedroom. Only one explanation remained - the voices were the product of my mind. Cripes, I thought to myself, this is most strange. I sat up in bed and thought about things for a while and the whispering continued. Were these good voices or evil? Would they tell me to blow up the Houses of Parliament or just to run naked through the streets of Harringay? As I waited for an answer, I started to hear snatches of music. Now this was weird - were the voices trying to inspire me into putting my (ahem) talent as a saxophonist to good use by forming a Kenny G-inspired indie soopergroop? Or, when crossing my bombsite of a bedroom in the dark, had I KICKED THE PLAY BUTTON ON MY MINIDISC AND WAS I SCARING MYSELF SILLY FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER? I think you know the answer. Ho hum. Lately, I've been thinking that I might be able to make a bit of cash accompanying tourists around the most delightful area of North London, the bit with the postcode N4, namely Harringay. Come Up The Passage Tours would, obviously, spend a good deal of time getting to know the famous Harringay Passage, widely considered the best place to acquire old sofas and shopping trolleys with locked wheels. Then, the group would stop off at the renowned pound shop, Moominland (true!), for inexpensive souvenirs such as mousetraps, fingerless gloves and Brillo pads. Finally, I'd take them to Sainsbury's to do a bit of celebrity spotting in the vicinity of the fish counter. Lixi, I looked out for you last night - were you hiding behind that big pile of crabs? Liquid refreshment would be provided by the Olde Ale Emporium, purveyors of Black Wych Stout (great stuff). Anyone interested? Slightly worried to find our idol wearing socks and sandals in Select this month... Juicy Lucy -- This communication contains information which is confidential and may also be privileged. It is for the exclusive use of the intended recipient(s). If you are not the intended recipient(s), please note that any distribution, copying or use of this communication or the information in it is strictly prohibited. If you have received this communication in error, please notify the sender immediately and then destroy any copies of it. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead 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. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+