Sinister: All the boys think she's a spaz, she's got Bette Davis eyes

[Alder, Lucy]

I'm going to miss Stuey D for the dazzling sense of humour he injected into
the band.  Let's re-live one of those classic moments, shall we?  "I used to
think my Dad looked like Elvis.  I haven't told him that yet.  I haven't
told my Dad, either"*  That boy's a real card, isn't he?

Talking of cards, my team, the Cards (that's Woking FC, as if you didn't
know) are right down there at the bottom of the Conference.  If you don't
know the football league system in England, that's the fifth league from the
top.  It's not good that they're in the Conference, but it's even less good
that they're facing relegation and the club don't want to sack the manager
because he's a Nice Man.  Oh yeah, and the club are losing £4,000 per match,
so they sold their best player for £20,000.  Great move, that.  Rachel
Tucker, was it you who was fed up about Oxford?  I challenge you for the
title of Sinister Football Moaner.  You can't possibly be more miserable
than me.

I don't think anybody has established a Sinister Bed and Breakfast yet, have
they?  May I have the honour?  It will be twee to the foundations, but you
can forget your butterfwies and bunny wabbits - I mean twee in the
old-fashioned, New Forest pony and Devon cream tea sense of the word.  First
off, it's got to have a thatched roof.  Then, there'd be chintz curtains,
chintz tablecloths, chintz armchairs and matching chintz headboards and
valence sheets in the bedrooms.  I'd have net curtains in every room (the
sort that are shorter in the middle than at the sides) and they would twitch
regularly.  There'd be a little fire in the lounge with faux coals and an
orange glow and a load of horse brasses hanging above it.  On the
mantlepiece would reside a whole host of china ladies in lovely long dresses
with parasols.

I would sit behind the reception desk of my B&S B&B, evil-eying over the top
of my specs at the so-called married couples who came in for DIRTY WEEKENDS!
Each morning, I would my run about , feather duster in hand, gold peep-toe
slippers (of the sort one might wear on a cruise) on my feet, curlers in my
hair, terrorising the guests and inspecting their rooms for clues as to what
they'd been up to, before having a good gossip with my next door neighbour
("Ooh, Mrs Jones, they had two rooms, but her bed was COMPLETELY
untouched!").  I'd do a magnificent full English breakfast (the bread cut
with my famous bread knife, natch) and would sneer at anyone who can't
stomach a black pudding.  Of course, I'd have abide by B&B Rules and charge
for Use of Cruet.

Who was analysing dreams a while back?  I'd like to see some analysis of
people's village career choice, please.

I've got a sore back and I'm walking like an octagenarian at the moment.
Expressions of sympathy to...

Juicy Lucy


*I may well have got the wording a bit wrong - I'm at work, so I can't
search to double-check it.  Don't bite my head off, pleeeeeease?



 
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