M, who's currently laid on the sofa with some kind of pain running through her leg and thus unable to dance like she used to down the indie discos of Scarborough (it was all James and The Inspiral Carpets back then), said, "I'm not sure about that 'let's party' business at the end of yesterday's entry". So, the party's cancelled. Instead, I've bought two tubs of Polyfilla and some radiator paint. I went to review a pub down an industrial back street today. Scary stuff. It was one of those places where all the locals turn round as soon as you enter the door. Then they started talking about the bar's "sex corner", where everyone talks about sex. On an evening, it becomes the "political corner", apart from when Sex Pest Steve comes in cos he can turn any conversation back round to sex. That's how he got his name. Two blokes came in with a black bin liner full of what I'm assuming to be stolen goods, followed by a lad who'd come home from school early cos he'd been in a fight. Later, I phoned up the landlady to check the opening hours. "Was your bar spy a chap with a suit on?" she asked me. "Yes". "Oh, we thought he was a bit weird."
Listening: Wire - Chairs Missing.
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