Sinister: Liz Daplyn bakes exceedingly good cakes

[ELIZABETH DAPLYN]

Chris "Johhny Mathis' Feet" Leonard wrote:
> 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
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 was loads of food 
There certainly was!  Twiglets and crisps there were many.  Marmite sarnies
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 at kiadroch.kiad.ac.uk)

*******************
silence

.is
a
looking

bird: the

turn
ing; edge, of
life

(inquiry before snow
 
          e.e. cummings
**********************

	  


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.                 Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa
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