This doesn't seem to have gone first time. Maybe I should take that as a sign, but I'm not going to. Attempt #2 xx Ian Ian Anscombe wrote:

Well, hello Sinister. Its nice to see you again. I'm not sure if I ever posted to you drunk before. It seems almost unfeasible that I didn't, and yet I don't remember such occurrences. I'm not really sure that I'm drunk. I've had such a measly amount of alcohol that I should be more sober than a Londoner waking up to find they've voted for a ridiculous Tory Twat to be mayor, but it doesn't feel that way.

Anyway...what was I going to say? I have no idea. I'm sure there was a point to this but fuck knows what it was. And fuck is strangely absent, so I have to recreate my own points from scratch.

the sinister picnic then... that was nice, 10 years on. It was a strange situation, walking up primrose hill, very late, but having driven to London myself - the first change of many. I saw a little indieboy, lovely hair and his equally cute indiegirl walking up the hill. The weather was just right, that mix of sunshine and cloud that seemed to grace every sinister picnic, and always made me think of such events. I felt like I'd been walking ages, and was looking forward to seeing you all sitting at the top. It was a far cry from the first time I attended - seeing you all outside Camden station and actually walking away initially, before coming back to say hello. And yet, it still felt exciting. Perhaps this is one of the benefits of not living in London - meeting your fellow Sinikids still feels somehow eventful, and unique, and different from real life.

Perhaps that was the ghost of Sinister-picnics past, the indie couple walking up the hill. It reminded me of the people that used to come - some of them were us, although I never really had the hair, or the clothing, or the girl for that matter - but you all seemed so styled, and cool, and vaguely intimidating. What does the ghost of Sinister-picnics present resemble? A strange, many-limbed beast. Yes, there's still a bottle of something alcoholic in one hand, but there are new limbs. One holds the hand of a small child, and though I'm sometimes slightly jealous this seems a marvellous thing. One might hold a professional qualification, quietly tucked away for the occasion, a picture of a partner, or a sense of self-belief that didn't exist before. Oh yes, we've grown, as I think a singer once opined. And we're not so much joined together by a strange mutual relationship with a band any more. But that's okay.

I saw a new post, from a fragrant princess, the other day, and she asked:

...

I promised you a long time ago that nothing would be lost right?

and Eric said something that ties in with it:

If You're Feeling Sinister: the first boy I really had feelings for, the boy that gave me a mixtape whose side A contained an entire album from this strange band called Belle & Sebastian that he loved. I never fell in love with the boy, but my relationship with the band is still going strong, almost 10 years later.

Mine isn't - really. But Eric highlighted something. We do have a relationship when we fall in love with a band. I don't think I ever had such a deep one with a group of musicians. And I felt a bit hurt when they started seeing other people, but they'd warned me from the start that this is what they would be doing. I can't reconcile the glibness of recent releases with the incredible tenderness and fondness for the outsider apparent in the early days. I guess me and those musicians grew apart, but I met a lot of beautiful friends through this relationship, and those are people I can honestly say I'll never forget. Ally said something standing on the hill, looking out over London, about it all seeming the same, but different, us being old now. And I felt simultaneously a pang for a feeling of belonging I'd once experienced, and a gladness that I didn't have to chase after that any more. You see, ghost of picnics present, I like you as you are. I hope we'll keep meeting like this. When will I see you again?

I think I've been very idealistic about Sinister over the years, partly because it was the first place I felt really accepted. I chose to ignore the cliques and the fashions, because they didn't suit my idea of what I...we....were about. Taking a step back and realising I've taken my place in those groups is an interesting perspective. There are people I rush to speak to at picnics, and people I've somehow fallen into the pattern of not speaking to. Some of us did eye-contact and a passing comment. I wanted to say more but that old fear still exists. Fear that its not okay, for some reason, to talk to someone - and why shouldn't it be? We've fallen into strange self-defeating patterns of not speaking - comfort, or fear, or some combination of both. Maybe this lack of chasing belonging isn't such a great thing after all.

I'm not sure if any of this is new. Any club has sub-groups. The strange occasional assumption that longevity is some sort of marker of quality or verity is an odd one. The excitement created when a member of some golden age that only existed for...eighteen months, eighteen weeks, eighteen minutes??.... pops up still makes me smile and sigh in equal measure. The people I've loved here haven't been experienced through that age, though they may remember it, so many newer people have given something of themselves to our collective as the last 11 years unfolded. We've experienced friendship in the present, and we've changed the present through that friendship - and its this, not some marvellous, mythical past, that make Sinister live on.

Gayle said nothing remains the same, Honey said nothing is lost. In a strange sort of way, they're both right. You don't really lose something when you choose to let it go. Its through trying to keep everything the same, clinging, terrified of it slipping away, that we lose things. We lose them here, and now, and all we have is a past when it was really ours to look upon. I'm glad we've grown, and we're old, and there's still enough in the present to keep us meeting on hills, miles from home. I'll meet you again, strange, many-legged picnic monster - and I'm not even going to attempt to name-check your parts. I'll only miss one, and every part is vital. And, in a nod to tradition, this isn't the e-mail I intended to write, but what the hell... I kiss you, Sinister list. In a nice, platonic way, of course. I hope I'll see you again soon.

xx Ian

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