Dear Sinister Mailing List,

REF:The London picnic

Will someone else write something about it please, cos just now it looks like John imagined the whole thing, doesn't it? I said "john" then "imagined". Spooky.

yours concerned, mr leonard Hey, worry no longer! For I am here to put in my tres pesetas' worth about

There was loads of food There certainly was! Twiglets and crisps there were many. Marmite sarnies

Chris "Johhny Mathis' Feet" Leonard wrote: the marvellous events of yesterday. And I bake exceedingly good cakes, and so may be trusted to outline a tasty and nourishing account of the day. In the morning, after skilfully avoiding some evil Morris Dancers in Rochester on the way to catch a train and meeting Charlotte (hapless friend, she will be on the list very soon, oh yes she will) at Charing Cross, she and I went to the Royal Academy of Arts to have a gander at some aulde Russian icons. Very nice, although some of the saints were inexplicably holding TV arials. So much for culture, eh? John wrote: there were some of. Rory's birthday cake there was not much of by the time everyone present had had a bit. and bonhommie. I recovered my amazing Connect-4 powers from kiddie-land (spatial awareness, don't you know, old bean) and played Snap (or OLE! as we failed to rechristen it) with weird Spanish playing cards, but sadly failed to enjoy Buckaroo. Would the bleedin' toy donkey buck? Even with all the wee plastic guitars/lariats/sombreros loading its fragile donkey back down? Would it buggery. I shall be informing the manufacturers through my lawyer. And, of course, there was that top singalong of Mayfly, with added-value live vocal Stylophone break from everyone. Anyway, it got a wee bit windy, so we decamped to the Spread Eagle dahn in Camden Tahn, where we proceeded to spread ourselves across the pavement outside like a living carpet of beautiful Belle&Sebastian-loving flowers. And variously drink, natter, drink, play charades (oh God! Not "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" _again_...), drink, eat chips, drink and stand around telling jokes about prawns (shame on you, Tall Git!) for the next few hours. And there was an old bloke trying to sell his bike (which Susannah fell off) to us for 5 quid at one point in the evening. Charlotte and I had to go at a ridiculously early time (she to write an essay about Grecian urns or something, I to get home to dear old Rochester, from whence the Morris Dancers had thankfully departed by the time I got back), so I can't say what happened after 8:30 in the evening. Maybe the rest of our beloved party held a Black Mass outside the pub, sold their souls to Satan and are even now screaming in the depths of the deepest circle of Hell for mercy which never comes... I, intending to virtuously do some (say it quietly) *work* when I got home, got a train back to Rochester and started to walk home. However, on passing my Dad's house and seeing the lights on, I popped in and sat there drinking whisky and talking about fishing with him for a few more hours. So no work was done. Ah well, never mind... Bless all you beautiful people who turned up, and those who were only there in spirit (methylated), and especially David and Katrina for organising and stuff. ByeBye, Liz. (edaplynr3n00297@kiadroch.kiad.ac.uk) ******************* silence .is a looking bird: the turn ing; edge, of life (inquiry before snow e.e. cummings ********************** ----------------------------------------------------------------------- . This message was brought to you by the Sinister mailing list. . To send to the list please mail "sinister@majordomo.net". . For subscribing, unsubscribing and other list information please see . http://www.majordomo.net/sinister . For questions about how the list works mail owner-sinister@majordomo.net . Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa -----------------------------------------------------------------------