You close the book, the story ends… A line from a song by Stephen Duffy.
Stay indoors. That’s what we advise. The rain is killing the roses and rotting the raspberries. The rhubarb seems to be thriving though. At night I dream of the apocalyse – it doesn’t seem so bad. A lack of cars. Having dared leave the house to purchase a strange bottle of vodka (rose flavoured?) from the Indian shop at the bottom of the road, we spend the evening trawling through old CD’s and searching for updates on these people on the internet. So the story begins. If you go to the site of the aforementioned Mr Duffy, you’ll find some old photos of mine there, when we used to spend the early Sunday mornings in caffs after no sleep the night before. With stylishly ruffled hair and black torn clothes. Yawn. Long before the rain, before the flood. There is no opportunity for gardening, so instead Martin is planning a mini-concept album. The concept is that it is anywhere but here. "What’s the worst place you’ve ever been?" he asks. "Llanelli," I quickly reply. For Martin, it’s Leicester. "It made Wolverhampton look like Sweden, a clean and pleasant place." Back on the internet we look at a film from Warsaw, where the sun is surely shining. It’s documentation about a music and dance project with a girls group from Praga. We like this small film. You can go direct to Youtube for a full screen version.