Sinister: Always Coming Home

[Liz Daplyn]

Well then, here we are again.  I neglect my reporting
back duties terribly, but in defence, I do have an
extensive programme of procrastination to keep up
with.

MY LIFE ON BUSES
OLYMPIC EVENTS ON CRUTCHES

To my shame, I didn’t attend the last instance of
Tigermilking, but it has been splendiferously
described by others including Steady Organiser Stefano
and the non-more-Victorian Mr Hester, Esq.  Instead, I
and the boy Robster were in attendance at a
pre-wedding thing (referred to rather inelegantly by
the perpetrators as a ‘sten’ [stag/hen] party)
elsewhere in London for two former disciples of this
forum, Mr Cabbage and Miss Vicky, who by now are
proper married (the event took place in Central Park,
New York City, no less) grownups and who can therefore
tell how long a piece of string is and advise
authoritatively on other such matters.  It was very
nice indeed, and the whole shebang is a shining
example of why Sinister is a Good Thing in many
people’s lives.

MY LOVED ONES WAIT
AS I’M ATHLETICALLY LATE

Some time ago, the aforementioned R & I tooled up to
the appointed pub in Brighton hours after the official
meeting time, having missed a nail-biting air hockey
tournament on the pier due to having a very tasty
lunch with my mum.  The rest of the afternoon and
evening were very pleasant indeed due to good company
and being able to duck out of the not particularly
welcoming (but traditionally British seaside) weather
into cosy pubs.  There was also more air hockey later,
so my visceral need to swipe a puck around a table and
crow unbecomingly in victory was satisfied.  More
Brighton later this year hopefully, if Ms Archel feels
up to hosting a mini-rabble or two
?

A couple of weeks after that and now a couple of weeks
ago there was a lovely sunny Saturday when a group of
people of this parish met up to loaf artistically in
Green Park, luckily the day before the London Marathon
and so we didn’t have to feel guilty about eating pork
pies while other slogged around the East End until
hungover the following morning.  There was a
cornucopia of fine comestibles, but Jim Purple
Trousers truly takes the gilded biscuit for his
coolbag of goodies including actual fruit and lardy
profiteroles.  I had a scotch egg.  I trust that the
burgeoning picnic season has been as good to those of
you lucky enough to have participated in such an
event.

THERE’S USUALLY A LOONY
WHO WANT TO TALK TO ME

It was nice to see strangers wandering up to be
included in the frankly unwise display of manly ball
sports that afternoon, but I suppose that’s the
inclusive camaraderie and loving rivalry of football
for you.  It was not, however, quite so nice to
witness the gents of a nearby group of recreational
Italians repeatedly using the same poor tree as a
urinal in plain view of all in the park, when there
were easily accessible facilities very close indeed in
the entrance to the Underground station.  Honestly,
some people don’t know how to behave themselves.  They
were also practising ‘poi’, which as you should
probably know is fit only for technogoths and other
such shady characters.

THE CERTIFIED INSANE
THEY ALL SEEM TO KNOW MY NAME

There was a gent on my train home last Sunday with one
amputated thumb and a lot of issues, who told me he
had left a rehab centre earlier in the day, and who
was a long way down a bottle of whisky (who knows how
many had gone before?) by the time I met him.  He was
quite nice, although a bit too insistent about kissing
my hand when he introduced himself, and his short-term
memory was all to hell from the drink.  We had a
discussion about connections between people and how
your confidence diminishes whenever they break.  I had
to move seats when he started to sway and burp prior
to copious vomiting.

ALTHOUGH MY EYES SAY
“PLEASE IGNORE ME!”

If I was being a really ‘good’ person I’d have stayed
with him, but to be honest I get a bit fed up of
vaguely lecherous drunk men approaching me in public
(although it doesn’t happen that often, I seem to get
a disproportionate volume of tramp love), even if it
is possible to have a perfectly civilised conversation
with them.  I’d rather stick with my friends or people
who I know in advance will be interesting and not
encroach on my personal space.  This doesn’t, of
course, exclude random fruitful meetings, but one has
to be wary of the general public, I find. 

In contrast, a nice new reason to be anti-antisocial
is that Mr BenApps and the lovely Rachel Fruitloop
(whose saga of transatlantic love and marriage you may
find in the archives if you wish) have relocated back
from LA-la land to London.  We performed entirely
inadequately in a pub music quiz the other week, but
this humiliation didn’t stop the evening in their
company (and that of Ken C and Miss Marianna) being
great.  As Ferris Bueller would say, “I highly
recommend it if you get the chance.”

I LISTEN TO YOUR LIFE STORY

I haven’t made official note before of how much I have
been enjoying Amy Skelton’s reports from Bangladesh. 
My dad’s living there at the moment, and it’s grand to
get another view of the country beamed into my Inbox
regularly.  You go, girl!

Take care and don’t let the bed-bugs bite.

Love,
Liz :x

p.s. to conclude my belatedness, I’d like to note that
the Avalanches remix of ‘I’m a Cuckoo’ is a bit
strange, less Thin Lizzy-like than the original, but
really enjoyable nevertheless.  The choir who become
prominent at the end sound very chirpy.



	
	
		
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