Sinister: tea and biscuits with your uncle ian

[ian]

(come away from yer uncle stevie, you know he gets excited easily.)

i can never find my photos..

i think this bunch of ink polaroids got wet.. a shame, because they're new
ones.  covered in...well it smells like cranberry juice, but i suspect its
something stronger.
this one looks like somebody stood a bottle on it.  you can just about make
out the faces, but they're not quite as they were when i took the picture.

most photographs end up like that, sooner or later.  many years of selective
memory condensed into a moment.  those not in the picture can view it
dispassionately, but those involved never see the image as it truly is.
they see the past, and they feel the joy and sadness that comes with looking
back..

i'll show you mine later, if you want.  have a cup of tea and a biscuit
first.  i got them in especially.  they're your favourite.

i hope you won't mind if i hum indistinctly to myself, i've been doing that
a lot lately.  it has been a hard week:

look at this letter, i got it last friday:

'dissatisfied?
directionless?
frequently innebriated?
do people see you coming, and cross the street?
do people see you coming, and throw themselves under buses to avoid you?

i have THE ANSWER.  solve all your problems in one easy move.  simply send
twenty new pounds sterling to the address below'

well.... did you ever read a letter and think that it might have been
written for you?  i was a little suspicious, especially when i saw the
brighton address - i used to know a Scurrilous Southern Get who lived in
that town - but on closer inspection, the name and address ('Roochool
Ployforth, House of Ployforth, Brighton') were clearly those of somebody
else entirely.
i needed that twenty quid, there's a HandiFist in the window of clonezone
that i'd had my eye on, but i also need The Answer.  because i've been
looking for it for a while.

also, i looked forward to having all my problems solved in one easy move.
attempting to solve them all by going through lots of complicated, difficult
manoeuvers is really starting to get me down.

so, i sent off the 20 quid.  of course i did.  wouldn't you?

no, you probably wouldn't, would you?

this morning i received the reply.
on the inside of a packet of curry flavoured condoms, someone had written:

'The Answers to Life

1. Accept that all existence is misery
2. Get over it

xxx
Archel'

that's FORTY quid i'm down, because i sent off another copy to see if i got
two different answers.  i wonder what 'Little Old Lady Across The Road From
Ian' (cunning disguise, non?) will make of her delivery?  i don't think i'm
going to bother breaking into her house to get it back.  not now i know who
it is from.

of COURSE there's a revenge plan.  just don't ask me what it is yet.

i've been pondering that message all day.
i sat next to a lady on the bus.  she looked at me oddly.  must have been
the buzzing.  i looked back at her, and enunciated clearly:

'all existence is misery.'

she said nothing, but moved seats at the next stop.  later, i saw her
getting off the bus, her face looked wet, and her eyes were red.  odd,
because it wasn't raining.

i've heard that said before.  there are those that believe that this life is
the hell, the lower level, the punishment for being bad, whatever you like
to call it.  the spiritualists believe that this is the 2nd of seven levels
of existence, which become less unpleasant as you progress.  some of the
buddhists seem to believe that the only goal of the wise is freedom from the
cycle of death and rebirth - freedom from this mortal life.  perhaps a
none-existence.
  the christians believe - well, its never easy to tell.

this is how my day went:
the bus moves up a street.  pubs on either side. there are people inside
each of these buildings, annihilating their brain cells and poisoning their
bodies in the aim of...whatever it is people look for.

past the side-road with the gun factory.  they test hourly.  on a still day,
you can hear the shots ringing half a mile away.  a woman stumbles up the
street, cigarette in her hand burning down to her fingers as they rest
insecurely on an empty pushchair.  she mutters to herself, and people move
away.  past a thousand birmingham houses, blue screens flashing on faces
thinking 'there must be something better than this'.

existence is misery?  its hard to see much happiness around me.

so i've come home.  and i dig out my ink polaroids..

these are the ones that have people you know in them.  i'll save the old
ones, and i'll look over them when you're gone.

this is an old one.  i'm coming up from camden tube station.  remember it?
i was about to meet you.  but i was scared.  like the sarah cracknell
t-shirt?  i made it myself.  i thought you might like it.  oh, its fallen
apart now.  i never thought it would last long.
no, the flares don't fit very well, do they?  they never did.  still don't.
doesn't stop me wearing them, though.
you were standing by the railings.  i walked away, up the street, and
summoned up courage, before walking back and standing close to you, and
muttering something.

and you responded.  bless you.
of course, i'd met you before.  but this was the first time we really got
talking.

oh, you don't want to hear an old man reminisce.  its okay, you can go now.
play with your friends.  i'll sit up for a while, and look at these.  they
make me smile.  they remind me that life isn't about misery after all.  oh
yes, misery is a part of it.  some would say a vital part.  but there's joy
too, and there's joy in these polaroids.  i'm glad you were there with me in
some of them.  you remind me that life isn't so bad.

say hi to your mum.  tell her i'm thinking of her.


i wish i was your real uncle

xx
ian


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