Friday, December 15, 2006

...Baby One More Time 

I drove Girlfriend into work this morning, then did a spot of Christmas shopping.

What the hell was I thinking?
I’d imagined a light stroll around the stores, breezing hither and thither, making a few amazingly insightful and imaginative purchases, maybe buying a paper and enjoying a coffee and sticky bun in a nice little place I know.
I was going to do the whole Free Man In Preston thing, to feel unfettered and alive, nobody calling me up for favours, no one’s future to decide, and instead it was depressing beyond words. I don’t want to talk about it.

I skipped the bun and came home as soon as I could, disheartened and cross with myself, just in time to hear Adam and Ian getting spliced.
Then I watched a very good little Brit-flick on telly, at once both grim and beautiful, filmed on location in Todmorden, likewise grim and beautiful. The soundtrack was selected bits of Goldfrapp’s “Felt Mountain,” officially the world’s most erotically charged album ever, so I felt much better by the end of it, ta.

In the evening there was a coming together of some of our local “folk clubs,” or “singer’s nights,” or whatever they’re called.
It was Phoenix Nights like you wouldn’t believe, with a magician, and a hot pot supper (no vegetarian option, obviously) and a quiz (no time for answers) and loads of crazy old people, me included.
I got on that stage and delivered my “…Baby One More Time” with passion and gusto, and sat at a table of people I’ve known for less than a year and hardly actually know at all really but like very much, and got fairly drunk and a lift home, and did some Dad dancing.

Somebody was videoing proceedings - an older gentleman, followed by a kid who ran around with the camera, going mad, generally having a great time, and who I suspect may have caught the best footage - which I badly want to see. If I ever get hold of a copy, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime:

1) Which animal runs faster up hill than down hill?
2) Who lived at Dingley Dell?
3) What was Norman Bates’ hobby?

And no nipping out to the toilets to text your mate.

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