Scenario: Early afternoon in a museum cafe.

Stephen Fry has chosen a table in the back of the cafe as he’s fed up with people claiming his time (recognising him on the street, talking to him as if they know him due to his ubiquitous appearances on tv, radio and cyberspace, etc).

A bit grumpy, he’s longing for peace, quiet and private thinking. A small pot of museum tea sits behind the open book he’s not reading.

A woman’s voice interrupts the start of his reverie.

“I don’t know why they think that dick so important and worthy of our focus. Honestly …”

Stephen is annoyed. His tranquillity is being shattered – and by an insult!

He looks to his right. The woman’s back is facing him; she continues to sigh and “tsk” dismissively.

“Excuse me,” he starts to say, “there’s no need to be rude; you can just ignore that I’m here, you know …”

The woman, however, still in her own reverie, continues “… honestly, what a dick.”

Stephen repeats, “Excuse me …” and the woman finally turns around.

“Sorry! What?” she asks, confused out of her previous flow.

She stands aside to consider him and Stephen sees she has been studying one of the exhibits – a small iron display – a phallic relic from some archeological dig, mounted alongside its metal information plaque.

“Oh, uh, nothing,” he chuckles in reply. “Sorry …”.

She turns back to the exhibits and ambles away.

He has another sly look and laughs to himself.

There are fast food junkies, drunken “revellers” and I’m not sure if we’re still considered the heroin capital of Europe or not.

Whilst my heart constricts at the sight/sound of any of the above, it is the solvent abusers who really punch me in the gut.

There are a few young men with their telltale posture of face pressed against coat sleeve who are not bad at hiding their “monkey” from those who do not want to see.

The silver can (of paint? hairspray?) is just beyond the hemline of the sleeve, filling the lungs and head with fumes I can’t even begin to imagine. How anything so caustic can create such an attraction ….

A few years ago, one of the regulars near my workplace lived and then died on a diet of solvents. It’s a nasty way to go.

The short bursts that *do* come most often are titled “Things I like (number 235)”, so I’ve decided to have a go.

Things I like (No. 107):

Coming home to find the toilet paper ladder (anchored by shampoo bottle) JP has created that morning to help some anonymous beastie crawl from the tub into the big wide world.

Finally put on the radio and started to doze, but awoke to find both of us awake again. This time, I sat up to find some dusty glasses, old pens, a few coins and other odds and ends in the crevices of the bed covering. How did they get in there?

Then I really woke up again, this time alone in my consciousness.

Dozed off again and I was in some far away place with a group of about 15 friends (though don’t know them from “real” life).

We’d gone off for a holiday together, but ended up unexpectedly caught in a revolution of some sort. There was menace in the air.

Plans needed planning and possible schemes were discussed, but put on hold. Until time for action, we had to find a rhythm as a group and await word.

People chatted. Some women spoke excitedly of a potential visitor, rumoured to know one of their colleagues (or something). I barely paid attention.

In one of the common rooms I sat sideways on the sofa, legs semi-curled, feet on the cushion.

This guy sits down next to me, the side of his thigh vaguely resting on my big toe. I look and say hello and then remember a bit of the chatter I’d overheard earlier.

Beside me is George Clooney, slender and brown, dressed “smart casual”. I wonder who it is he knows and why he is sitting there.

We start to chat. I say “hello” and ask him what is happening outside. Does he have any idea what is likely to happen next?

After exchanging a few comments, I figure it is only fair to acknowledge that I know who he is.

(I’m pretty sure he is surprised that I haven’t had a shrieking or fawning response and has started to wonder, but resisted the path of “don’t you know who I am?”)

He seems like a nice enough guy, I explain, but I just don’t get the whole George Clooney attraction thing. “There are probably people I know who would go crazy if they knew I was here with my big toe just beneath George Clooney’s thigh,” I muse.

He starts to look uncomfortable and the dream ends.

I awake wondering if his discomfort is due to being told I wasn’t attracted to him or if he felt the big toe comment was just a bit too personal.

Perhaps it’s not for me to know.

Word had it that there were 800 singers registered and ready to invade Sheffield from various points in the UK and even a talented group from Germany!

There was singing; there was swinging; there was listening and even a bit of glistening. For the first time, there was even some official ukulele participation!

Some bits of this year’s mass sing and even some links to previous years in Whitby and Brighton can be found hereabouts:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WOJnz4GhWw&feature=related

(Unexpectedly, I can see my red baseball cap in a few of the vids from various years – this year in the very back on the left side. In Whitby just below the viewpoint of the person doing the vid.)