Fly-by St. Albans commentary rhapsody
And so when you find yourself remaining perfectly still and attempting to align the slimming horizontal stripes on your shirt to an exact 90 degree angle to the floor whilst you string a triangle from the headphones of an imitation ipod and strike the triangle with the triangle beater at the end of an outstreched arm moving only from the shoulder as the sun rises and the sounds of classic rock reverberate through the room, your eyes fixed on the triangle, oblivious to the motions of s shambling parade of the confused around you.
Because this is what happened to me two weeks ago. Me and Anna found ourselves serving ale at the pub as dilemmas arose with the cellar, eventually meaning that a pool of ale-froth built up around our feet, and we had to persuade a couple of the regulars to go down into the cellar and move barrels about. So after some ale froth and other excitement, we finished work, and attempted to bring many regulars with us to Tommy's house. It didn't succeed.
Sounds issued from far down the street. Through the house we struggled, surrounded by a mass of people. Into the garden, where we sipped tea and dipped digestives, to help us digest. Then upstairs to playfully ruffle Dave the Machine's hair. "Hats off" Dave disappoingly has no hat, neither removed or otherwise. Somehow we are surrounded by the stumbling and the confused. Doctor Booth holds court with a glint in his eye and a bottle of wine clenched in his hand. "My boys, my boys." (This is how he refers to the glint and the bottle). I somehow end up talking to a freelance photographer and a young mother for a while. An attempt to make soup goes horribly wrong. Graham dabbles his fingers gently in his micro house. The sun rises. Andy plays breakcore. People leave. Tommy and Dave the Machine stop Andy playing breakcore. Andy plays classic rock. Me and Graham make tea and coffee in pans. Tea in a pan. Tea in a pan! Pan of tea! The coffee becomes irish. The Cheap Imitation Baileys falls into place. Potion. What happened? Pan of tea.
Because this is what happened to me two weeks ago. Me and Anna found ourselves serving ale at the pub as dilemmas arose with the cellar, eventually meaning that a pool of ale-froth built up around our feet, and we had to persuade a couple of the regulars to go down into the cellar and move barrels about. So after some ale froth and other excitement, we finished work, and attempted to bring many regulars with us to Tommy's house. It didn't succeed.
Sounds issued from far down the street. Through the house we struggled, surrounded by a mass of people. Into the garden, where we sipped tea and dipped digestives, to help us digest. Then upstairs to playfully ruffle Dave the Machine's hair. "Hats off" Dave disappoingly has no hat, neither removed or otherwise. Somehow we are surrounded by the stumbling and the confused. Doctor Booth holds court with a glint in his eye and a bottle of wine clenched in his hand. "My boys, my boys." (This is how he refers to the glint and the bottle). I somehow end up talking to a freelance photographer and a young mother for a while. An attempt to make soup goes horribly wrong. Graham dabbles his fingers gently in his micro house. The sun rises. Andy plays breakcore. People leave. Tommy and Dave the Machine stop Andy playing breakcore. Andy plays classic rock. Me and Graham make tea and coffee in pans. Tea in a pan. Tea in a pan! Pan of tea! The coffee becomes irish. The Cheap Imitation Baileys falls into place. Potion. What happened? Pan of tea.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 9:06 AM
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