Sinister: ...she said, roasting a chicken

[Liz Daplyn]

Evening all.


  Cor blimey.  All I really have to say about All Tomorrow’s Parties apart 
from noting the almost universal loveliness of the people I met and talked 
to there (only some of whom I already knew – see, Your Honour, I’m getting 
better at this), is that whoever gave me this horrible throat infection is a 
cad of the first water.  And that I am a bad person for lazily drinking far 
too much and not seeing enough of the fine bands available.  But hey, I sat 
near Mark E. Smith in the pub for a bit (ah!).

  Mr Paul Field lately shirked the responsibility of losing his picnic mummy 
cherry, damn his eyes.  Well sir, I’ll see your next weekend and raise you 
the one after (4-5 May), which has not only a tasty adjunct in the form of 
the May Day bank holiday, which can be used for further sinister frolicking 
excercises, but also ME IN LONDON.  This request is obviously made for the 
sole reason that I am a selfish bastard, but could whoever does take charge 
bear this in mind?  Also that it can’t be on Saturday, as I’m then at the 
wedding that is my primary purpose for being in town then at all.

  Oh damn, just noticed that infernal rascal Carsmile has done some 
organizing for this coming weekend.  Moany old git.  So do we think that the 
previously mentioned one after would be a very good time for a secondary 
Brighton extravaganza?  Hmmmm Ms Playforth, siren of the south coast?

  Anyway, apropos of nothing in particular: there’s a wonderful old gal who 
catches the same bus as I do sometimes, and I simply can’t help staring in 
impressed awe at the precisely complementing red tones of her natty coat and 
jaunty slingbacks, not to mention an immaculately coloured and somewhat 
bouffant coiffure that disguises the thinning of her elderly follicles 
nicely as it perches over camp snooker-player spectacles.  It’d be nice to 
think that one could age as well, but to be honest, something a little 
messier and less brittle might be easier to maintain for a long innings.  
She probably wears the same flowery housecoat for days on end when she’s not 
going out.

  Still gobsmacked at being called a newcomer by the Pinefox the other day, 
and to my very face, even.  Check the archives, ‘dude’.  Actually, don’t, 
you’ll only find a scattering of my juvenile ramblings amongst the 
brilliance that drops from the keyboarding fingers of twee fuckers within 
our homely crabpot (as it were) the world over.

  Goodnight, ladies.


  Love,
    Liz :x


***
Westron wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!
***


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