Sinister: "Whats inside..." ".....the singing kettle?"

[idleberry]

I woke up this morning, around 11.30, sleeping on Nals
floor, still fully dressed. When Patrick, Nal and I
had become aware that it was daytime, and the night
had passed us by, we tried to piece together the fuzzy
alcoholic memories, threading together shreds of
evidence of what had happened to end up that Nal was
in her bed, Patrick was on the sofa, and I'd woken up,
fully clothed, under a duvet on the floor. 

Last night was National Pop League. People, such as
work or my family, ask me where I go. I tell them its
to NPL, and then I'm usually asked what it is, and
where it is. When I explain its at the Woodside Social
Club, and its a club night, the usually just shrug and
say they've never heard of it. I try to explain, and
fail to manage, that it is not like any ordinary club
night. Nor is Winchester for that matter. Its not like
the cheesy clubs I've been to, with balconies
overlooking dancefloors, and lots of bars, and chrome
tables and chairs around the edges, and lots of random
beings. Its not like that, not to me. There is a
dancefloor, right in the middle, with pits of darkness
leading off to tables with cushioned chairs and long
cushioned benches, deep pits where I sometimes don't
like to tread, if I know my friends are in some other
darkened corner. I don't know what I expect to find in
those other corners, its sort of slightly alien, in a
supernatural way. Its never been a typical club to me,
its me going along, meeting with a bunch of friends
and friendly faces, and sitting for a natter over a
drink and a dance when a good song comes on. I think
someone described it more as a giant party, only,
theres no need to show up with anyone, becuase you
know you'll see someone there that you know, so it
takes away the stigma of turning up alone. Turning up
on your own isn't something anyone seems to notice or
remember, the showing up part is insignificant to the
rest of the night. 

So last night... yes... last night.

Something about pop pants, and not being pants that
you expect to be pop.

Something about people not talking to you when they're
wearing a hat. A broken fan (as in the whirring
cooling sort, rather than a shattered person who loves
music), a few too many drinks, a bottle of wine and
singing along loudly to music. 

"Two thousand men.. this is too long... two thousand
men." 
"Walk me to the door, walk me to the door."  

We all got a bit wierd actually, but thats alright,
cos its funny now, to us, and we can forgive ourselves
for being arses. 

Patrick and I decided to go for a walk in the park,
stopping at Queens Cafe, while Nal recovered from her
hangover. 

The day has flitted away from our hands. Theres a gig
tonight, we'll probably drag our sorry bodies along
to.    

There, hope that helps fill a lost void of posting. 

Love

idles
xx


=====
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/corduroysmoke/ starting playground gossip and passing notes

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