Sinister: running for cover, it looks like its going to rain

[sarah cracknell]

dear pop people,

i am free!

free to be once more a hipswingy-armwavey-maracashakey-type-of-girl, to roam
the planet spreading my message of funky coolness to all those whose ears
are open to the music.

i stayed in that cellar for days.  i sat and hoped he would free me.  i
pondered the spiders as they weaved their webs, i peered under the cellar
door and thought of my fans, missing their international babe. i tried to
ignore the fact that i was sharing the cellar with silverfish.  i told them
i thought they had split up, but they didn't answer.

i tried to reason with the boy that lived in the house.  i sang him quiet
songs of shiny starlets, beautiful tales of dancing girls  in spanish
sunshine.  he didn't listen.

eventually, i had to get out.  yesterday he was bringing in a star bar and a
bunch of carrots for my dinner and he let a scrap of paper fall from his
pocket.  i crept quietly across the floor and concealed it under my stylish
swishy hair until he had gone.  when i read it, tears rolled softly down my
cheek and fell like rain on hobart paving....this is what the paper said

_101 things to do with sarah cracknell:_

1. invite her to be my friend, ask her to take me to america with her and
let me join the band (problems: last time i spoke to her she attacked me
with a can of hairspray)

2. sell her.  a little bit capitalistic but the money could be used to bribe
a publisher somewhere or buy a spanish bar.  (problems: a lot of people
don't take care of famous international rock stars once they've bought them.
i'd feel guilty if she didn't get fed properly)

3. cut all her hair off and make a stylish range of cracknell cushions with
it (problems: none that i can think of)

4. ask her to stand with her arms at jaunty, rakish angles and stand her in
the window as an attractive ornament (problems: someone might break the
window and steal her.  if the glass fell on the carpet, i might have to tidy
up)

5. ask her to stand with her arms at a slightly less jaunty, rakish angle
and use her to hang my washing on (problems:  not enough arms..maybe a
transplant?)

6. put her in a boat, set it adrift and disguise her as tom selleck.
maintain my appearance as sarah, continue to appear at concerts and wave to
my adoring fans.  several weeks later, arrange for her to be rescued, but
laugh at her in public when she argues that she is the true sarah c.
(problems: she looks more like her than i do.  my tom selleck disguise isn't
very good.  rather untwee)

7. tell selected people she lives at my house and charge them ten pounds a
time to come and look under the cellar door at her
(problems......hmmm....nothing springs to mind.)

8. tell the antelopes you have their leader and you're going to tickle her
with dusty feathers until they whisper the darkness away and sing the world
back to light (problems: emily will lose her voice again)

9.  forget about it.  go out.  get pissed.  she'll go quiet soon enough...


that, my fellow fancy-dancers, was the end of the list.  i don't know what
the other 92 things he had planned for me were but i formed a plan.  i told
him he could be in my band if he brought me some maracas.  i told him i
would teach him to play them.  and i hit him over the head with one of them.

now i run through the streets of wolverhampton.  my feet are bare, but i
don't care, the wind she brushes through my hair.

now i really don't care that i'm here and he's still there.
no i really don't care but its okay..

in my solitary wanderings i notice that the best looking boys are taken
and the best looking girls are staying inside.
so, sarah, where does that leave you?

wandering around sodding wolverhampton with a tom selleck moustache stuck to
my face, that's where.

fortunately i found this computer in a skip round the back of netto.  i
sang to it softly until it was energised enough to connect me to you.  my
cosmic groovers.  remember me.  mark...the story was true.  tara, we must
smash the robot.  bob?  bob?  are you out there?

sarah c.


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