Sinister: In your head the world's gone to the fair

[Alasdair Cook]

Friends,

Gillanders = arsenic and old lace. When is a jibe not a jibe? Thank goodness 
he's off to Borneo, or some such place. Perhaps he will be accosted by 
monkeys.

If Vanessa is correct, I should be stepping into a jumpsuit about now. 
Jumping into a Stepssuit? Of course not. One cannot bring back the dead. 
There's a tear in CB's starry eyes. Jumping out of an aeroplane, the rumours 
say. Thankfully, it's not true. That's not me. There are so many other 
namesakes. David Gorman will tell you, if you're kind enough to ask. I knew 
a David Gorman once. Like the man with no cigarettes says

Gotta cadge 'em all.

At the behest of The Sinister Girls, I have been reading

'The Sopranos', Alan Warner, 1997? Like Mr Data in that final, special 
episode, 'A CLEVER man'. In any time period. Understanding the point of 
being alone and together. It is happening right now. It all came together in 
the end. I was quietly pleased.

I heard Mark Cassarotto fell in the sea. Compassion is so hard to come by 
these days. None from me. Just laughter, mainly. Like so many times before, 
wished I'd been there.

My lesson for the day is

Light fingers, heavy heart. There's no need to think about it. Clever? Non.

In front of me lies

'Dubliners', James Joyce, 1914. Yet to begin. At all. And so...
I go back, scan points 1-10 of THAT manifesto. 'Don't read him'. 'Read him'. 
Objects. Ebb and flow. The simple things. All we need. All we were. All we 
are. Banter. I'm excited in anticipation. I may be left cold, of course. 
These thing happen.

Shrove Tuesday! Mardi Gras! Came and, well, went. I demanded a pancake 
party, but it wasn't really feasible, I'm afraid. Still, I should learn to 
make them. How hard can it be? Cooking would be easy, I think, if only I 
knew how. Like so many things. Not like other things. Maple. Banana. Cream. 
Lemon. Indulgence.

'And now I'm loading wool down at the wharf'. This line just popped into my 
head, I thought I should write it down. It's evocative, in some way. That 
whole song, infact. I haven't listened to it in a while. That guitar solo, 
like crackling, static, electric and then gone.

What I have been listening to, more so at the moment, is Merritt. Terrific. 
Absolutely. Terrific. Mostly. Highway moon eyes stars railtracks.

I felt I had to write something, if only to call in all those bluffs. Bob 
Holness would be proud.

And I'm going to London tomorrow! I'm very excited by this, almost as 
excited as at the prospect of going to see Lloyd! in 2 weeks! Tomorrow will 
see some old stars of the eighties shine and some new stars of the nineties 
burn. Gasoline. Cracking.

I should pack. Hit the road. Before it hits me. Night.

You're my bunny Valentine.
Alasdair xx









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