Sinister: A Day In The Life or: How I gave up trying to write a post that people would read and just bit the nearest bullet

[Jeremy Tweddle]

Dear Sinister,

This is the post you've all been waiting for. A Day In The Life Of A
Sinisterine!

I know that I don't represent more than 1/1599 of the list (or perhaps 1/3
if the rumour that we all have eighteen billion addresses each is to be
believed) but I figured that seeing as I'm on a list that's "about the lives
of People Who Listen To Belle And Sebastian" I should provide my very own
two-bit insight.

I got off work at 2:30pm on Friday, because our office is moving and almost
all of the few hundred employees were told they could leave whenever. So we
all scampered down the pub. In the beginning it was an odd collection of
elderly temps, professional secretaries, frustrated careerists, an engaged
eighteen year old part time soon-to-be-housewife and myself. Slowly we all
became a jumbled mess of cigarettes, pool cues and beverages. I can tell you
it was highly taxing wandering about in the sunshine with friends knowing we
were being paid to go and drink for 4 hours. In the end I managed to play a
full game of pool and somehow managed to win, though I'm certain that in my
inebriated state I failed to notice that the other team had won half an hour
ago or something. Failing that, they probably pushed the black in themselves
to get me out of there.

To add spice to the already sozzled mixture, I then had to arrange getting
to Camden and meeting up with Miss Marianna to attend another work drinks
occasion. This time for my boss from my previous job, as she was leaving to
travel around the UK in a campervan with her boyfriend. Unfortunately, by
the time I got there I was already a bit tipsy and couldn't quite work out
how to make small talk with these people that I barely knew. So I stood in
the corner with a pint and a cigarette and babbled continuously to my
ex-boss until I caught sight of Marianna and blessed her for coming just in
the nick of time. At least I tried to bless her in some way. I think it just
came across as a drunken slur and a hug. We discussed many things that I
can't remember, but seemed to find ourselves often returning to the topic of
whether or not we should leave. So we did.

I think I ate burger king or something equally offensive, but the next clear
memory is being awoken by the phone and hearing Marianna's voice say
something about "today". Gradually I remembered that we had arranged to do
"stuff". So we made our arrangements, she came over and we went off to
frolic in London.

Again, the sun was shining brightly and it was nice and warm and happy.
Marianna said she was going to sneeze so I sang T-Shirt Weather by the
Lucksmiths as it seemed fitting. We caught trains and tubes and watched
people and walked and talked. The plan was to find some replacement stuff
for the things we had stolen last weekend and then see a film. I bought a cd
or 5 (not even half of the 11 I had stolen! Bastards!)
but at least now I have The Shins and Papa M again. Things might settle down
now. We bought Marianna a phone, which was as satisfying as it was exciting,
as we then had the prospect of choosing numbers, colours, ringtones and
paying for the privilege.

We vacated the commercial whirlpool after spending far too much and decided
to walk around for an hour or two before filming. Regent St was packed with
people enjoying the first glimpse of sunlight and stripping down to their
bare essentials to make the most of it. Meanwhile we cursed our forward
planning and wished our coats were home and not on our arms. A man threw a
sticky man at a wall and he fell down in a comical fashion. I laughed and
attempted to retell the tale to Marianna. I failed. She laughed. We saw a
van proclaiming that the driver's name was Mr Softie. We sympathised but
felt that he should've done better. Mr Whippy always worked, why differ.
Something about Mr Chippy and an occupation for all seasons was mentioned,
but I lost the thread somewhere around The Commitments.

Covent Garden was decided upon as the perfect venue to see our most eagerly
awaited film of the week. The Royal Tenenbaums! I could go on and on about
the film and it's merits, but I figured I'd just say it badly and make
people hate it, so I won't. Instead I'll say that the soundtrack was
excellent, including two Nico, one VU, one Elliott Smith, one Nick Drake and
a dark horse in an early Van Morrison song that I didn't recognise for the
closing credits. We loved it.

Discussions were held as to where we could best spend a sunny afternoon in
London within walking distance of Covent Garden. In the end we gave up and
sat in Trafalgar Square sipping warm beverages and watching small children
terrorising pigeons. Amazingly, we were not shat upon by a single terrified
bird in our 1+ hour sojourn. I didn't realise that was possible in Trafalgar
Square. We watched more small children tread awfully close to plunging into
the depths of the fountain, but alas none were so inclined.

As the sun shone faintly on Big Ben and prepared to exit this long good
Friday, we made our way up to Ketners to finish our day with meal made in
Pizza Express but eaten in the Waldorf. The meal was great, but the lady who
took our bill decided to take it upon herself to take a £5 as a tip. We
stayed at the table and eventually she brought it back and we left her 10%
instead. I'm still scared of tipping, but I would've given her more if she
hadn't decided to take the full amount for herself. Cripes, I'm such a
whinger!

Anyhow, we decamped and thus ended a fabulous day of meanderings and
wanderings in a sun and tourist filled city on the cusp of a glorious summer
(supposedly). It was nice. I must do it again sometime. Anyone up for it?

Well I've hogged the spotlight for far too long and I'd say that by now I've
alienated anyone brave enough to attempt reading this bollocky drivel. So I
shall leave by saying that I'm off to Edinburgh/Glasgow/Dundee tonight to
see people, pets and gigs. I'm excited about going north again, as I've
missed it so.

As I type this, however, there's a rather scary domestic going on next door.
It makes me think of those adds that say not to beat your kids and stuff. My
imagination has conjured up the next flat as looking like a TV house with a
nasty alcoholic parent and a victimised kid. I know I'll never know the
truth in this. Though the people next door seem to make shouting a daily
family activity. The mother has the best voice for it. She has one of those
shrill and scary old cranky mother's voices. She used it best a few weeks
ago, shouting something long and indecipherable, just before throwing what I
think was a saucepan at her (I think) husband. It's odd, because the
fighting scares me and I worry about the people involved, but it's really
hard for me to relate now that I don't have a family to fight with. I don't
think my housemates would be too pleased if I shouted at them and proceeded
to heave kitchen implements at them. However, I'm sure that some of you have
been in flatshares where that wouldn't have come as a surprise.

I do worry about the kids next door, but I could have it wrong. The
screaming mother could infact be a hateful teenager that's beating her
parents. I know it's unlikely, but it's possible. I'm going to shut up now
as the hole is being dug further by my feeble attempts at clarification.

Right, I'll see some of you at the picnic on Monday, some of you at the gig
on Monday, some of you at the gig on Wednesday and the rest of you can bless
your cotton blend socks that I'll be elsewhere.

Sorry for rambling.

Jeremy

------------------------------------------

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