Sinister: Verity the Superagent

[robin stout]

I was standing at the back of Cardiff's number eight bus when I saw Stuart 
Murdoch come on and pay his sixty p. It was a bit of a squeeze; he had to 
stand right up there by the driver with his feet wide apart to stay still on 
the corners. I was standing just up the step at the back, where I always 
like to stand if the bus is too full, because you get to look down on all 
the people and their books and bald patches and Page Three Lovelies. Also, 
on the race round Death Junction the step gives an added element of danger.

So I decided that what he would like to hear on an early morning like this 
would be for someone to tap "I could be dreaming" on the standing-room-only 
bar they were holding on to. No one else seemed to be doing it, so I decided 
to give it a go myself. I tried to be subtle: a few people looked around, 
but when they did i was casually glancing out of the window. He didn't seem 
to notice, though. In fact he got off the bus on the very next stop, pulled 
down the cuffs on his Woolworth's uniform and headed off along the street. I 
dunno, I thought he'd have liked it; it would have brightened up his 
morning. Maybe it wasn't him after all.

Maybe the reason I keep thinking I see members of Belle and Sebastian round 
town is because I'm getting exited about seeing them next month. I am, and 
I'm getting excited about visiting Glasgow too. The last time I was there 
was, I think, when I was fourteen years old. The last time I saw my Great 
Auntie Margaret. She used to live in a high-rise flat in Bearsden, 
surrounded by other elevated old folk, all boxed up with their wood-panelled 
tellys and silver teaspoons like pharaohs in their pyramids, waiting for the 
weekend coach to the other side. But I didn't think Auntie Margaret was 
ready to go so soon. We sat behind the window, pretending we were on the 
balcony, and watched the squirrels that ran up and down the sides of the 
high rises eating the crumbs that no one would admit to leaving out but 
everyone did. They were great, and not at all timid. One even came and sat 
on the edge of the balcony, as if it was listening to my aunt tell me she'd 
heard that Paul Daniels, her favourite magician, had invented a new type of 
magic called Jazz Magic.

So, to me, Glasgow is a place of aunts and squirrels and broken lifts. It'll 
be strange to go there again, a different person almost. The squirrels will 
still be there I suppose, storing up their acorns like gifts for a trip to 
the other side. But not dear old Auntie Margaret. I wish she was.

A bit of proper content now. Stuart's been a little inspired recently, 
giving us this: http://www.banchory.net/belleandsebastian/030421.html and 
this: http://www.banchory.net/belleandsebastian/030424.html . I think his 
writing is grate.

As is that of Paulo, my new favourite Sinisterine. Gloriously random. Thanks 
for that tale about your spaghetti, Paulo. I'll be sticking to baked beans 
from now on, I think.

robin x

[ by express delivery : http://www.superatomic.co.uk/blog ]



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