Actually, I was striding up from the village centre in my black suit jacket and, bypassing a pair of lovers and their dogs, I imagined that, in red chalk lines some 6" long was scrawled upon my back: "this tink doesn't even have time to look out for himself; let alone you". I'd say the 'o's were 3" diameter but more 3" major axis and 2" minor axis. Ovaline, and not the work of your average thug. I infiltrated a private party at nice'n' sleazy's. I know this because the words 'private party' were prominently displayed on the door, and the charming hostess of said do introduced herself with a big smile and invited me to leave. Nothing much going on at the garage either, so I was kinda stuck. So I had a chat with a well dressed urchin-psychopath and we discussed mental health issues. I promised that, if I did get to meet the titan of Edinburgh publishing, a Mr. John Calder, at the book festival on Tuesday evening, I'd put in a sly pitch along the lines: 'two blokes, same age, intelligence, looks... one saves the other's £20 for a hostel and they go into sleazys for a pint and get talking'. Nobody's written anything on my black suit jacket, by the way: I just checked, and there was no sweat lost over hostesses in store-rooms piled high with ageing Marshall's Amps either, covered in that wrinkly vinyl and more's the pity. No rejoining Harry &Co. either, because I lost the mobile number. Still, the 13th note was a nice new place I've never been before. I shall return. Grouch St. Judes was white russian country and I chose to loose there one poem using lots of words beginning with the letter 'p' and one copy of the 'spectator' magazine. Somewhere else I was sitting by myself and thought to hell with this so went to talk to some girls. I sat on the floor and we started a conversation. But Mr. big bouncy man had other plans. So did several others of his ilk in various establishments untill it was actually quite late at night. So I caught the train home to this Sunday afternoon, listening to Die 12 Cellisten der Berliner Philharmoniker and some wartime woman singing 'Stardust' over Glenn Miller's big band. Content? Storm in a teacup: like the gulf of Corryvreckan in the Powell-Pressburger film 'I know Where I'm Going'. I suspect the latter is more project than fact, and that more stories begin before the end is designed. Gordon ;p +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+