...there are heroes in the seaweed/
there are children in the morning/
they are leaning out for love/
and they will lean that way forever/
while Suzanne holds the mirror...

  ahhhh, Len Cohen.  He's a card of the spiffingest variety.

Nice to see that tha Tinderstixxz are getting maseev props down Sinistah these
daze.
  My goodness me, I wonder, what is this strange ethnic jive-speak mood that
seems to have come over me?
Ahem.
Anyway.
So, to whoever put A Marriage Made In Heaven (is that really Isabella Rosselini?)
on their tape twee offering, a big smacking kiss.  Mwah.  No, do not shy away 
in fear!  I mean you no harm!

  This whole village thingy is quite disturbingly aposite at present, as my 
current artistic-endeavour-like project is a website for a fictitious town
wot I made up, namely Great Littlehampton.  It's got a butcher, a baker, and an
ethnic handicraft salesperson, which just goes to show.  So who's been reading
my mind, then?  FILTHY BACKSTABBING SINISTER BASTARDS!  I hit the caps lock 
button by accident then, but liked it so much I kept it on.  Hmmmm.

Can I be the village tramp?  Not in the sense of an easy shag (although that
could be arranged for the right money), but in the sense of an encrusted and
dribbling personage who sits on a park bench leering cross-eyedly at passers-by.
_My_ kind of occupation.  

Friends of mine who row (silly sport which is much practised in this daft and
much-villified university of mine) make tramp noises when they race.  It's very
amusing and probably on a par with girly tennis-player noises for instant arousal
of people who speculate in their idle moments about the colour of Anna 
Kournikova's pants.  So there you go.

My excessive singing activities for this term are slowing down now, having done
3 concerts in the last week or so.  Still got the Mozart Requiem to go, though.
And I've got to do evil soprano solos in a Schubert Mass on Sunday.  Blimey.  Still, it's good for the soul, wherever that item may be found in the physiology
of one who doubts its existence.  That's a predefined social going-up-to-heaven-
with-harp kind of soul, by the way.  I'm quite happy with the concept of the
Aretha Franklin variety, mmmmmyeah.  "Say a Little Prayer" as sung by Ms.F is one
of the more sublime experiences one can hope for in this wintry world.  Props to
Senor Bacharach al_so_.
 
  Love,
    Liz :x
                                                 upwardly mobile: 0771 3014742
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