Sunday, January 28, 2007

Burns Night

Well, of course with a name like McCookerybook, what do you expect? Sis cooked a giant Haggis, factory-farmed in the Scottish Borders, we had neeps and tatties, McMum and McDad flew down from Edinburgh on a dragon's wing, and we ate and drank ourselves very silly. Good job I was wearing red- we were just telling Paul (plays sax and clarinet for me and used to be a Horn) what a charming Italian waiter he was, and he tipped a glass of red wine on my kilt, sporran and shirt. The pink fur sporran repelled the stain, the red shirt soaked it up invisibly and I don't know what the kilt did- I got it from the Cancer Care shop for £3.00, it's red and green and clashes beautifully with the sporran. It's going back there because I think it's a children's kilt and it started giving me major problems about the midriff as soon as I ate a morsel of food. It also has some elaborate holes that can only have been created by starving moth grubs, so off it goes, tomorrow. I could swear my stomach hissed with joy when I undid it.
All sorts of starry little things are happening- I have just written a small article for Nude Magazine for their 'Bands that Bombed' section about the Chefs (it's great, you should get hold of a copy), which I hope they will print. And King Kurt are coming for lunch to discuss a reissue. We're all doing it, aren't we?
And life... Gina and myself are going to go skating together, I'm going to record Sara's song for her on Thursday morning (wake up, voice!) and, I hope, play it for her at her party on Saturday. I think the Mad Professor has forgotten me, though. It's all ups and downs and ups and downs; but level and even would be so terribly boring!


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