DIG if you will the picture, of me waking up with a back pain in the middle of the night. Six thirty a.m. is what I call the middle of the night anyway. My mum would disagree, as six thirty for her is half way thru' the day, you kids don't know you're born, when I was your age etc.
  (An aside: when my mum was my age, I was nine years old, running around the garden in a Dick Turpin∗ t-shirt and grey shorts with red piping, which for some reason, I thought made me look like a soldier. Imagine that uniform in the imminent conflict with Iraq: Saddam's Republican Guard all ready to fight to the death to protect their country, whilst the Americans and Brits come along in Dick Turpin t-shirts and grey shorts ready to free them of all their oil...).
  Anyway, I wake up, start drawing a bath and read a little bit while I wait for the deafening sound of the water to subside so I can turn on the radio and listen to the World Service and get in the bath. Somewhere out of the watery din and into my ears came the sound of Kim Deal's voice, "La la la aah aah da-da dah duh-uuh."
  Now it's several hours later, and I'm still la la la aah aah da-da dah duh-uuh-ing myself, after la la la aah aah da-da dah duh-uuh-ing all the way across town on my bicycle and la la la aah aah da-da dah duh-uuh-ing all the way back.

∗Dick Turpin, for those of you outside of the UK, was a highwayman in the 18th century. There's a big difference between his myth and his real life. The myth is naturally better: a dashing young fellow on his trusty horse, Black Bess. The real Dick Turpin, as it states in this rather good synopsis of his life, was nothing more than a "house-breaker, torturer, murderer, sheep and horse-stealer." And to think, my mum bought me a t-shirt with his image on it! Disgraceful, really.
Thu 27 Feb 2003