Sinister: Lewis Carroll sucked at scrabble

[Stankin' Cooter]

My sweets:

I managed to buy the new single the other day, and I’ve been listening to it 
as well. When I first heard Jonathan David, I thought it was complete 
rubbish, and now I absolutely adore it. When I first heard I’m Waking Up To 
Us, I felt sort of indifferent to it, and now I quite like it in a vague 
sort of way that doesn’t really seem to matter, somehow. It’s a tidy unit: 
the B-sides are both worthy, and I like dogs as much as the next chap. Even 
if the next chap is someone who has a rather particular fondness reserved 
especially for dogs. It’ll almost certainly be the soundtrack to a few 
things that happen over the next little while, but it hasn’t impacted on me 
in quite the same way as some other things I’ve heard this year.

Hearing some of the earlier records was like getting fitted with a new pair 
of spectacles. Some things became clearer, and other things went all fuzzy. 
I’ve been looking through them for some time now, so I suppose I shouldn’t 
grizzle that the new record seems more like a matching jaunty hat than a new 
prescription.

Yikes, I’m writing to Sinister about Belle and Sebastian, aren’t I? I feel 
all dirty.

Let’s move on. Love and Christmas. There seems to be a fair bit of both 
about at the moment, so I’ll just briefly have my say. Because I can.

Love is a curious thing, and means different things to different people. 
There’s been a lot said on the list about it lately, and I agree with all of 
it unreservedly. For me, love happens in the summer, and I’ve certainly been 
enjoying it much more since it’s involved people I’m not directly related 
to. There’s a lot of anticipation, and wondering “what am I going to GET?”, 
but inevitably you just end up mopping the grease off your face and dozing 
in front of the telly, wondering whether you’ve seen this Bond film before, 
or whether it’s just a lot like that other one you saw that other time. I 
pulled a cracker last year, but on the inside, there was just a bad joke and 
a general feeling of bloated disappointment.

I think I had Christmas once, but it’s hard to be sure. I’d like to have one 
again at some stage, but I’ll be far more careful who I spend it with. I 
like the gifts and everything, but when it’s over, there’s just a great big 
drunken mess left to deal with. Next Christmas is going to be perfect, and 
it’s going to last forever.

I may not have that quite the right way round. After all, it’s a confusing 
time of year.

On Christmas morning this year, I’m going to wake up extra early and catch a 
taxi to the airport. Then I’m going to spend all day sitting about with bags 
and my Gameboy and a headache and small collection of the more fashionable 
phobias, alternately in lounges and on aeroplanes, heading away at varying 
speeds from the rut in which I’ve spent this past year.

What I’m heading towards is far more exciting, so I shouldn’t let the fact 
that it’s scary and uncertain worry me overly much. I’m actually hoping that 
the experience will help me to decide what to do with the next little bit of 
my life; I’m sure that in one way or another things will be clearer then 
than they are now. Or at least different. Or maybe I’ll just be less tired; 
who knows? In any case, travel seems to put a different sort of perspective 
on things. So does meeting beautiful girls that you’re crazy about.

I’ve been off the fags for two months now. As a result, I’m not nearly as 
sexy, but I do smell a bit nicer.

Um, I’ve been a bit crap about sending packages lately, and there are FOUR 
people on this list, would you believe, that are patiently waiting for items 
that are STILL sitting in neat little piles on my bedroom floor, rather than 
winging their way across various large bodies of water (and some land-y bits 
as well, I suppose) towards their intended destinations. This is not by any 
means indicative of a lack of loveliness on the part of the recipients, let 
me assure you, just of a general laziness and disorganisation on mine. I’m 
deeply sorry, and (it should go without saying) a truly awful (though 
dashingly handsome) swine.

Alright, that’ll do for now. Embarrassingly long and almost uncomfortably 
tight hugs must go to the kind few that responded so delightfully to my last 
post. You’re good eggs, the whole job lot of you. God bless your cotton 
socks. Cotton sock blessings also go to Honey for (along with, you know, 
everything else) the #sinister stats page, which is my new obsession. I’d 
like to see a punchy half-hour programme, shown weekly on the television, 
giving a rundown on the big movers in the chart, and spreading wildly 
inaccurate gossip about the celebrity #sinister types. If you didn’t know 
me, you’d think I should get out more.

Stay stuffed with breadcrumbs, sage and onion, and oven roasted until cooked 
through, yet still moist and tender.

Bulk love,
     -David.

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