Sinister: Picked up a pencil and wrote

[Alasdair Cook]

Dear Sinister,

I don't have a diary.

A weekend in July; out at 9.30am, the farcical small time of late on Friday 
and overtime on Saturday, the Things To Be Done, not so important really, 
and mostly I'm in this for the money. If only they paid me any.

"Ten pence a year!", "I'm in my shorts" bellows Nick down the phone, and 
brings everything into perspective. The early morning watery air tastes of 
mountains, specific ones just now but, I suppose, they could be any. When do 
I ever see these hours, let alone accomplish anything during here? This is 
fairly strange.

It hard to motivate yourself when you're all alone; I kill whole streams of 
seconds getting hot chocolate from the machine, photo-copying is more down 
time and gazing into the distance, off to the sounds of pipe bands. More 
later. The printer doesnae work.

Four hours later, back in the flat, struggling to see the final on the 
miniscule television. One sister batters another into some kind of 
submission, smiles all round. This is all fairly unconvincing. The other 
sister is the sum of these two, quite literally. I think: Ice-Hockey 
Goalkeeper. Another star.

Out to the cafe when I really don't want to be out anywhere, and now it's 
face to face; the long march along St Vincent Street seems to stretch on 
more than it should, there's no way past so I go round. Walking the length 
of the beast is awesome, dreadful, something quite like nothing else.

Here's the worst of all worlds - loathsome self-satisfaction, deadly intent, 
steely-eyed men and hopeless drunks, pea-brained youths and women knowing 
nothing else. The face of one boy now, my brother's year at school; my 
allies in some small aspect. I remember my chat with Joe. "Turn it up, we 
cannae hear it!" shouts one. Tune out.

Morley is talking for free (nothing so unusual) next month I discover, and 
I'm interested. I've heard of people who get glued to the past, caught in 
amber. Let's see what he has for us now.

A better noise: Altered Images. The terrifying, terrific 'Dead Pop Stars', 
like drinking lemonade with spiders in; 'I Could Be Happy', 'See Those 
Eyes', so perfect and young they make my knees buckle on their hinges. There 
should be a band in Scotland now like this. I'd pay my money. They rip the 
shit, as JP says. Ha, who was talking about amber?

Big Brother: I haven't been watching it but am fond of Goss now, perhaps he 
reminds me of Certain People I Know. I get sad thinking about Cameron, there 
seems no way he will retire back to the islands now. I'm probably wrong.

The strange resurgence of video games in our house, a mess of falling 
masonry under a papier-mache sky; giant snowballs, clockhands, american 
foodstuffs, drumbeats.

Morning comes soon, but not too soon. Marcy looks like a million dollar 
chimney sweep in her urchin hat. It's amazing how quickly you can get music 
nowadays. I agree with Joni right now, songs are like tatoos.

Lotsa laughs.

Sorry, I just thought I'd write.
Love from Alasdair xx.

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