Sinister: A redder shade of neck on a whiter shade of trash

[Daplyn Elizabeth]

Buenos lunes a todos mis amigos.  

  Three quarters of an hour on the way to work is a long time (some of
it, indeed, on a bus), but it's much better with a lovely portable CD
player.  And an hour at the weekend reorganising my music collection (in
the course of an almighty cleanup in preparation for Christmas
sparkliness) has led me down the memory lane of P!O!P!, if you will.

  So I listened to "At the Club" by Kenickie this morning as I wandered
towards the bus station, boarded the (luckily correct) bus, and finally
disembarked in the *industrial park* (park?  As if, tchah) whose
precincts I  have the particular joy to be working within.  The bus
passes a convent on the way, which is intriguing, but that's about all
that's interesting about my daily morning journey, apart from bringing
me into contact with schoolchildren again after a lacuna of several
years, which is of note purely due to my continually recurring amazement
at the varied habits of individual species of the aforesaid.  Picture my
amazement at just how tightly teenage girls can tie their hair back
these days.  
 
  The lad and lasses of Kenickie are a couple of years older than me, so
I was listening to the album first when I was emerging from my nasty
(navy, with pink gingham shirt) school uniform into the relative freedom
of the Sixth Form Dress Code, and entirely appropriate for those bleak
times it most certainly was.   

     "We can't work with heavy coats - they're not revealing;
     We've got to see each others' clothes, and now we're freezing..."

  Despite not coming from Newcastle (surely an oversight on the part of
the Creator) I empathise with this.  Brrr.  Although at the time I was
more interested in having the right Doc Martens and cardigans (which are
much warmer than your customary leopard-print clubgear) to wear down the
bog-standard live indie nites at Gillingham's Oasthouse Community Centre
(famed in song and story).  O the Medway Towns, how very horrible you
are.

  Speaking of sartorial matters, I have fantastic new pinstripe trews
with simply enormous turnips.  Sorry, turnups.  You know.  I may wear
them bowling *some day soon*.

***

<<A light comes on, 5 seconds pass, the light goes off, 5 seconds pass,
the light comes on, etc.
Personally I thought the judges made the wrong decision.  There was this
rather groovy photographer, who made documentaries on his family, and
besides minimalists get on my nerves.>>

  Andrew, Martin Creed is not particularly Minimalist.  Speaking as one
with a passing acquaintance with the movement, it's about being true to
materials (see Carl Andre) and spaces (Richard Serra) and architectural
form (Donald Judd) and concepts (Robert Morris).  Although Creed could
be shoehorned into any or all of these categories, it would be
anachronistic and facile.  And besides, he ripped my degree portfolio
off with that light thing, which is to say, he has good taste ;)

  Feel free to call me an arty wanker.  Many have.

**
   
  And who amongst us is going to be feeling Strangely Fruity in London
for the New Year?  Bugger 'A Child's Christmas in Wales', I'm heading
over the border.

  Spent a while last week constructing my Sinister exchange presents and
wrapping them up lovingly (OK, hurriedly, I had to catch the post).  And
after all, what can be more joyous and fulfilling than an hour with a
hot-glue gun and a project to complete?

Besos (pero solamente a _unas_ personas felizes)
   
     Liz D :x


"And people say, the games you play;
You're either weird or lonely"

     The Beatified Nicholas Drake, Esq.
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