Buenos lunes a todos mis amigos. Three quarters of an hour on the way to work is a long time (some of it, indeed, on a bus), but it's much better with a lovely portable CD player. And an hour at the weekend reorganising my music collection (in the course of an almighty cleanup in preparation for Christmas sparkliness) has led me down the memory lane of P!O!P!, if you will. So I listened to "At the Club" by Kenickie this morning as I wandered towards the bus station, boarded the (luckily correct) bus, and finally disembarked in the *industrial park* (park? As if, tchah) whose precincts I have the particular joy to be working within. The bus passes a convent on the way, which is intriguing, but that's about all that's interesting about my daily morning journey, apart from bringing me into contact with schoolchildren again after a lacuna of several years, which is of note purely due to my continually recurring amazement at the varied habits of individual species of the aforesaid. Picture my amazement at just how tightly teenage girls can tie their hair back these days. The lad and lasses of Kenickie are a couple of years older than me, so I was listening to the album first when I was emerging from my nasty (navy, with pink gingham shirt) school uniform into the relative freedom of the Sixth Form Dress Code, and entirely appropriate for those bleak times it most certainly was. "We can't work with heavy coats - they're not revealing; We've got to see each others' clothes, and now we're freezing..." Despite not coming from Newcastle (surely an oversight on the part of the Creator) I empathise with this. Brrr. Although at the time I was more interested in having the right Doc Martens and cardigans (which are much warmer than your customary leopard-print clubgear) to wear down the bog-standard live indie nites at Gillingham's Oasthouse Community Centre (famed in song and story). O the Medway Towns, how very horrible you are. Speaking of sartorial matters, I have fantastic new pinstripe trews with simply enormous turnips. Sorry, turnups. You know. I may wear them bowling *some day soon*. *** <<A light comes on, 5 seconds pass, the light goes off, 5 seconds pass, the light comes on, etc. Personally I thought the judges made the wrong decision. There was this rather groovy photographer, who made documentaries on his family, and besides minimalists get on my nerves.>> Andrew, Martin Creed is not particularly Minimalist. Speaking as one with a passing acquaintance with the movement, it's about being true to materials (see Carl Andre) and spaces (Richard Serra) and architectural form (Donald Judd) and concepts (Robert Morris). Although Creed could be shoehorned into any or all of these categories, it would be anachronistic and facile. And besides, he ripped my degree portfolio off with that light thing, which is to say, he has good taste ;) Feel free to call me an arty wanker. Many have. ** And who amongst us is going to be feeling Strangely Fruity in London for the New Year? Bugger 'A Child's Christmas in Wales', I'm heading over the border. Spent a while last week constructing my Sinister exchange presents and wrapping them up lovingly (OK, hurriedly, I had to catch the post). And after all, what can be more joyous and fulfilling than an hour with a hot-glue gun and a project to complete? Besos (pero solamente a _unas_ personas felizes) Liz D :x "And people say, the games you play; You're either weird or lonely" The Beatified Nicholas Drake, Esq. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+