Saturday, October 09, 2004

Thong for Whoever 

Everytime I think about last night I get excited all over again.

No sooner had I pressed 'delete' and banished my crappy Beatles/Oasis tune to the Recycle Bin of life when...


As I moved away from the stairs and the sound of footsteps getting ever closer, a vision in comfy slippers and some majorly sexy undies appeared before my eyes. In these circumstances I'm fairly sure that it's impolite to greet a lady whilst drooling, but I'm afraid my manners left me for a moment as the shock of what was happening hit me. I confess that I didn't meet her gaze as I was momentarily, er, distracted. Luckily, though, my up and down appraisal of the situation took in something significant. Something huge. Something of great import. A bum like J-Lo's. Yes it could only be...

'You must be petite anglaise I take it?' I said, trying but again failing to make eye contact. Then, before I knew it she'd mumbled something along the lines of 'Hello, Big Boy, you can be strict with me if necessary' and then bolted for the door, adding 'I'll go and find a protective plastic sleeve or something'.

At that moment, the door to the ASC opened and there standing staring at us in amazement was a fully clothed (but dressed as a foxy trapeze artist) lady who could only be the famous Leanne. As petite anglaise made an exit I'll never forget, Leanne made an equally memorable entrance. Blimey.

I was just spluttering 'It's exactly what it looks like. She was all over over me.. and why have you put all Tim's groceries in alphabetical order?' when Leanne clipped me round the ear and exclaimed in a matter of fact tone 'In your dreams, Backroads. Now calm down and have a drink.'

'Yeah right...' I replied, somewhat deflated, 'a drink?... an alcoholic drink?... in here?... you must be joking... I think it's Cat Stevens bloody studio not Tim's... you're more likely to find WMD...

...and anyway she did call me Big Boy you know.'

Next thing I know, Leanne's opening three bottles of Newcastle Brown with her teeth and deftly spitting the tops right into Tim's f-hole (of his mandolin... please). Somehow she's discovered a secret stash of beer hidden behind the shelf of Q magazines. Then I remember, she's been here before.

My memories of the evening are a bit hazy from that point onwards, but I remember petite anglaise reappeared and the three of us started off singing along to some of Tim's music and compositions and then progressed to improvisations and the actual recording of tracks (which I thought were inspired at the time and made sure I backed up on CD before we left).

I keep getting flashbacks of petite anglaise standing on the futon singing her heart out into a (hairbrush) microphone while I played guitar and Leanne accompanied us on the triangle, swinging from the ceiling on a trapeze that I hadn't noticed previously.

But that can't be right. Must be my mind playing tricks on me.

posted by backroads

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