Sinister: Yer maw's Greetin'! Croon like a ragged angel and be adored by millions.

[Gordon]

Actually, I was striding up from the village centre in my black suit
jacket and, bypassing a pair of lovers and their dogs, I imagined that,
in red chalk lines some 6" long was scrawled upon my back: "this tink
doesn't even have time to look out for himself; let alone you". I'd say
the 'o's were 3" diameter but more 3" major axis and 2" minor axis.
Ovaline, and not the work of your average thug.
I infiltrated a private party at nice'n' sleazy's. I know this because
the words 'private party' were prominently displayed on the door, and
the charming hostess of said do introduced herself with a big smile and
invited me to leave.
Nothing much going on at the garage either, so I was kinda stuck. So I
had a chat with a well dressed urchin-psychopath and we discussed mental
health issues. I promised that, if I did get to meet the titan of
Edinburgh publishing, a Mr. John Calder, at the book festival on Tuesday
evening, I'd put in a sly pitch along the lines: 'two blokes, same age,
intelligence, looks... one saves the other's £20 for a hostel and they
go into sleazys for a pint and get talking'.
Nobody's written anything on my black suit jacket, by the way: I just
checked, and there was no sweat lost over hostesses in store-rooms piled
high with ageing Marshall's Amps either, covered in that wrinkly vinyl
and more's the pity.
No rejoining Harry &Co. either, because I lost the mobile number. Still,
the 13th note was a nice new place I've never been before. I shall
return. Grouch St. Judes was white russian country and I chose to loose
there one poem using lots of words beginning with the letter 'p' and one
copy of the 'spectator' magazine.
Somewhere else I was sitting by myself and thought to hell with this so
went to talk to some girls. I sat on the floor and we started a
conversation. But Mr. big bouncy man had other plans. So did several
others of his ilk in various establishments untill it was actually quite
late at night. So I caught the train home to this Sunday afternoon,
listening to Die 12 Cellisten der Berliner Philharmoniker and some
wartime woman singing 'Stardust' over Glenn Miller's big band.

Content? Storm in a teacup: like the gulf of Corryvreckan in the
Powell-Pressburger film 'I know Where I'm Going'. I suspect the latter
is more project than fact, and that more stories begin before the end is
designed.

Gordon
;p

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 +-+               Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa                 +-+
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