Sinister: oh Sheffield, so much to answer for

[andrew thorpe]

Hey Sinister,


As soon as I put the phone down on the hook, and stopped trembling I grabbed 
for a pad of paper and started writing but I couldn’t get past ‘hello 
sinister’.  I contented myself with the promise that I’d write better 
tomorrow when my head was clear.  It’s been 3 days, and it’s taken me 10 
minutes to write this.  I find that I can only write about something after 
it’s happen.  And it’s still happening.

As I put my pen down I went to my parents bookcase to look for Charles 
Dickens ‘A Tale of Two Cities’, I had the line "It was the best of times, it 
was the worst of times,” ringing in my head.  Have you ever felt so 
exhilaratingly happy, and disturbingly scared at the same time?

Before I grabbed for the pad of paper I was on the phone with my    err, 
well I don’t really know who I was talking to anymore.  (No, not my 
girlfriend, but I don’t like to say ‘ex’ its not a proper word, I don't like 
the way it sounds and certainly doesn’t reflect how I feel).  Her.  The 
girl.  I think you get it.  After an hour of me rambling on about nothing, 
she very politely, told me to go.  We talked about chocolates, the 
Polyphonic Spree, Dostoyevsky, as if it were August, but the great extent of 
the conversation was me just rambling on and on.  I was so anxious that 
there would be an awkward silence – with the noise of each other breathing 
the only sound to be heard, or a pregnant pause to an ill thought out remark 
on my behalf, I just kept on rambling and rambling on, throwing any word in 
sight down the phone.  I don’t think she minded, I don’t think she knew what 
to say either.

It was so wonderful to hear her voice.  I could have just curled up on my 
bed, and let her voice creep like a snake into my ears, actually I think I 
did.  I didn’t really care what she was saying, it all sounded like music to 
me, corny I know, but truthful.


I stood with the phone in my hand, my finger poised over the last digit of 
her number for almost as long.  I was so nervous.  I couldn’t press the 
button down for the shaking of my hand, or for the fear of her words (or 
perhaps it simply was the vodka I was drinking).  What would she say, after 
I pressed down 3.  Would she be glad I phone?  Did she hate me?  I wouldn’t 
blame her.  I wondered whether she’d be in, or out enjoying herself, 
forgetting about me.  I wondered who would answer the phone, her or one of 
her sisters, her parents - would they recognise my voice, would they raise 
an eyebrow, would they tell me to put the phone down?

What I thought about the most was myself though.  Was this the right thing 
to do?  If I put the phone down I could still escape.  If I waited just a 
couple more months perhaps the tears would stop, and then later the pain.  
But I couldn’t last a couple more months, I could hardly last an hour.

Throughout the conversation I had to keep biting my lip, whenever she 
mention university, her new life - her life without me.  I’d missed so much, 
and what had she missed?  Nothing.  At the slightest mention of a person I 
didn’t know, let alone a man I became insanely jealous, (and my lip very 
thin,) but as quickly as we changed topics it evaporated.

Can I do this?  Can I be her friend, just her friend only her friend.  I’ve 
spent too long with her to know anything else, to want anything else.  I 
just want to hold her hand, hear her voice, but still...

Well it doesn’t really matter if I can or can’t, as soon as I picked up that 
phone, no as soon as I sent that letter I pushed myself into it.  And I 
can’t walk away again.

I had the grandest plans in September, but as September changed into 
December all such plans had dissolved, and all I could do was write her a 
letter.  For the past three months I’d been painting her a painting.  I 
wanted to do the most honest, beautiful and poetic thing I was capable of, 
but as is customary for me, I ran out of time, and all I had left was a 
letter.  At the time it seemed like the most poetic beautiful thing I’d ever 
read let alone written.  Actually, no it didn’t, but it was all that I could 
think of, quoting from Byron to Nick Drake, and as soon as I clicked on the 
SEND button what confidence that was left in my body vanished.

I checked my inbox every hour, even though I knew it would be empty 
(sinister didn’t count at the time), but to my surprise she replied the next 
day.  I was so ecstatically happy, but just as I was about to click on it, I 
was overcome by a rush of fear.  I paced up and down the hall for about half 
hour until I had the courage to open the damn thing.  As soon as I read all 
two sentences of it the fear had streamed out of my body.  She said she’s 
missed me!  Oh, joy!

I read it again, and again, and as I did the fear started to creep back in.  
Why had she used the past tense, yes she missed me, but does she miss me, 
how does she feel now?  And why did the first sentence emphasis ‘friends’ so 
heavily, and why the passive voice?

I closed the window, I shut the computer down, I stopped thinking about it.  
Until the next day, today, when I phoned her.  I had to phone, her I 
couldn’t think of anything else to do, I had to do something.  But I have no 
idea what I’ll do now.  I just hope I can remember how to be her friend



Sorry, I should have waited, my head still isn't clear


cheerio andy



ps terrible news about joe strummer,

pss I heard b&s on the radio, number 20 in the festive fifty not bad, 
although I still haven’t made my mind up about the song, lovely trumpet 
nonetheless

ppps yes, that was my poor attempt to include some content, sorry again



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