Hallo: Ever since they re-paved the high street I've felt like tap dancing, and yesterday, as the sun shone and the puddles dried up, I felt it more than ever. Luckily for me, I've taken to wearing trainers just in case such a feeling should grab me around the waist and try to spin me around, and they helped me to keep my toes from moving too far. Instead, I jumped onto a bench and tiptoed along, until enough people had begun to look that the feeling went away. I hadn't been back on terra firma for more than a few footsteps when a crazed pigeon came headlong towards me, aiming more-or-less at my nose. Urban pigeons belong to two schools. There are those who take care of their appearance, shiny feathers, plump chests and a sailor's swagger as they trot along the top of the war memorial. They spend their days looking out for half-eaten vegetarian wraps from Boots, and at night hang around outside Metro's to drink the pure tears of dumped teenage girlfriends. They have this town all worked out, and look down on us from under the church gables and give a disdainful "Coo". The other type of pigeon arrives in the city on a Monday and lands on top of the multi-storey car park. By Tuesday it has decided that petrol has a certain flavour other toxic liquids cannot beat. By Thursday it has realised that not only is petrol blinkin delicious, it also gives enough nutrition for breakfast, lunch *and* dinner, and that, despite the fact that its left leg is currently spinning around on the wheel of the number thirty bus to Newport, it has never felt better. By Saturday it decides, with the type of gay abandon only a brain-damaged bird could manage, to fling itself headfirst along the high street at the potato-faced passers-by. Fortunately, for other reasons, I have recently taken to wearing trainers, and they enabled me to step lithely to the left and deflect the deranged ball of feathers off my "Vote Nader" lapel-badge and towards a nearby display of garden ornaments. Gwen and Hilary weren't so lucky, their stratospheric heels and fullsome bosoms hardly helping their efforts to stay upright. I overheard Gwen say to Hilary: "Oh, I hate pigeons. I hate everything that flies, you know. Birds, aeroplanes". Hilary wobbled sympathetically. But all this is somewhat beside the point. What I should be saying is: Isn't the Books EP just a great record? Your Cover's Blown standing up for the new vibe with a determined chin and some splendid lyrics; and Your Secrets, a great recording with some heavenly harmonies. I could write you a postcard about the unusual strength of the recent singles' B-sides, but I'm sure you've noticed this already yourselves. A big hullo to all the sinipops I met at glasto, including Ian-the-dirty-vicar, Rener, Mark, Ken, Carsmile, Starry, Lixi, and a far-away but apparently real Sam Walton. It was good fun, wasn't it? I enjoyed the mud most of all. When I woke up in the morning it was like a muddy alsatian had visted during the night and had a good shake. My strangest moment of the weekend was trying to meet someone "by the big purple tent", only to realise that big purple tents were all the range in Somerset this year and the campsite was full of them. It was truly a horror. It reminded me of a story my mum told me once about a leprichaun and a handkerchief. I have never trusted small Irish men since. Like Mark H, I would also love a little snifter with sinister folks on the weekend of the Somerset House gig, though the Friday would be best for me. So if anyone has any plans, then let me know. My ticket says "7 o'clock" on it, but last week I also received a rubbish postcard announcing that the time has changed to 7 o'clock. Not much of a postcard - they could have filled the space with something exciting like a small discussion on the belle and sebastian b-sides, but oh well. Then, just the other day, I was phoned up at work by a ROBOT WOMAN, who refused to have a chat and instead told me, in the tone of voice she usually reserves for evaporating puny humans, that the time has changed - to 7 o'clock. So that's 7 o'clock then, kids. Oh yes. Heavens above, I really should go! Bye! Robin x _________________________________________________________________ Express yourself with cool new emoticons http://www.msn.co.uk/specials/myemo +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. 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