Sinister: And the "quick, invent an award so they can win someth ing this year" award goes to...STEPS!

[Alder, Lucy]

What's the first sign of madness?  Growing hairs on the palm of your hand?
Hunting high and low for your specs while they're on the top of your head?
Or HEARING VOICES?  The other night, being thoroughly worn out and in
desperate need of some beauty sleep, I brushed my teeth, pulled on my
pyjamas and climbed into bed, wrapping the duvet round me to make a snuggly
caterpillar of myself.  I shut my eyes and awaited Mr Sandman.  Suddenly,
through the darkness, I heard something.  No words, only the sibilance of a
whisper, which continued for several minutes.  At first I thought it was
robbers in the back garden, come to moider me in my bed, but then I realised
the sound was coming from inside my room.  Mice?  Surely not - they live in
the kitchen and living room but, as far as I'm aware, they haven't mastered
the stairs yet.  And besides, these noises were too hooman.  Maybe it was a
ghost.  There's a presence outside the cellar door, of this I am certain.
But it's a cold and eerie presence, not warm and snuggly like my bedroom.  

Only one explanation remained - the voices were the product of my mind.
Cripes, I thought to myself, this is most strange.  I sat up in bed and
thought about things for a while and the whispering continued.  Were these
good voices or evil?  Would they tell me to blow up the Houses of Parliament
or just to run naked through the streets of Harringay?  As I waited for an
answer, I started to hear snatches of music.  Now this was weird - were the
voices trying to inspire me into putting my (ahem) talent as a saxophonist
to good use by forming a Kenny G-inspired indie soopergroop?  Or, when
crossing my bombsite of a bedroom in the dark, had I KICKED THE PLAY BUTTON
ON MY MINIDISC AND WAS I SCARING MYSELF SILLY FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER?  I
think you know the answer.  Ho hum.

Lately, I've been thinking that I might be able to make a bit of cash
accompanying tourists around the most delightful area of North London, the
bit with the postcode N4, namely Harringay.  Come Up The Passage Tours
would, obviously, spend a good deal of time getting to know the famous
Harringay Passage, widely considered the best place to acquire old sofas and
shopping trolleys with locked wheels.  Then, the group would stop off at the
renowned pound shop, Moominland (true!), for inexpensive souvenirs such as
mousetraps, fingerless gloves and Brillo pads.  Finally, I'd take them to
Sainsbury's to do a bit of celebrity spotting in the vicinity of the fish
counter.  Lixi, I looked out for you last night - were you hiding behind
that big pile of crabs?  Liquid refreshment would be provided by the Olde
Ale Emporium, purveyors of Black Wych Stout (great stuff).  Anyone
interested?

Slightly worried to find our idol wearing socks and sandals in Select this
month...

Juicy Lucy










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