Sinister: odd socks

[Gordon]

Sinister!

Neil Milton has already really described yesterday, and so I hope I'm
not just writing too much more. As Neil writes, the day comprises a
picnic and a gig. People turn up to these gigs spectaculary late!
Including me. I was in time for the picnic though, thoughts verging
between glacial calm and sheer terror. So once we found the patch of
grass I just fell asleep. Call it a power-nap or exhaustion or blind
panic. Whatever. One of the dedications in the acknowledgements
appending Liz Wurtzel's manic treatise on Womanhood called 'Bitch' to
refers to a day-bed in an office.

On the way home this morning on the train (only £1.50 extra for an empty
weekend first railway carriage in an otherwise busy Aberdeen- bound
train and boy did I need that solitude! (queues at the ticket office of
Moscow proportions) I thought of the old jazz standard 'What a
Difference a Day Makes' (in this case not '24 little hours ago' but
less: seeming even longer).

The gig, of the two events, was the lesser: it was fabulous. The band
who I had reckoned would be nervy and awkward simply rawked with
dexterity and finesse. So that was Jason Andreas that got them to sing
Proclaimers 500 Miles? Good on ya fella.

I'm afraid that towards the end of the show I was getting carried away
and singing; yelling along. But the band seemed to be relishing their
homelands and it was as much a rock church service as a concert. They
were on the beat.

The picnic was all people... rather too many to remember, I'm afraid.
The first person I met was an American gentleman of whom I'm afraid his
name escapes me; Will; Mr. Moore and daughter, then James and Dafyd who
helped me towards the park. Ally did look so in control of things! My
that man has nerves of steel.
On the grass I heard someone giving elaborate instructions over a mobile
phone which turned out to be Vicky, I think, then Mark who is another
good organizer. I saw Ken trying on the pink boa and remaining the
smiling friendly person of #sinister repute. It gradually dawned on me
that the person gradually dismembering a langoustine and fiddling with a
doll with a slightly stained cheek who had, just earlier, been attacked
by a plastic crab from Hallifax, Canada (owned, I should add, buy a
charming Canadian couple), was a princess and from there it was a short
step to the recognition of surrogate list mummy. The royal couple don't
act arch at all but very much at the friendly service of their
population; which is an ideal sort of situation.
Then the delightful pair of Sunnyset and her bf and the puppy-dog Belle,
who's a poser and a kisser:) Idleberry was kind enough to introduce
herself.
Trousers Stevie was quietly guiding errants like myself (although later
than that). Teams contested with football.

Paul, hello again and Richard and, an air traffic control officer? (that
was in the park talking about a research proposal but re-visited in
subject matter later with Ken.

After the gig, it was a club at the Art College. Failing to find some
people to share a cab, I took my second lonesome taxi journey of the
evening and arrived somewhat in advance, listening to some great loud
pulsing music upstairs.
Downstairs both Gail and Carey were extremely kind to me: people being
there for me, and I'm extremely grateful for the emotional support.
Thanks :)

Outside, I bump into someone who in a vague sense has seemed curiously
familiar for several hours so I'm afraid this might have sounded rather
cheesy when I said 'do I know you?' quizzically. It's Milky! And two of
her friends.

Then a stroll back to hotel room.

Then cleaner comes into room.
Then messages flash up on the TV about when to check -out.
Home now... just, and messages bought and a Father's Day Present.
(that's probably irrelevantly scatter-brained:)

Gordon


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