Yeah well at least this week I did go out to the pub first before finally tuning in. I went with friends too. Nice ones. Including Michael, who I have a sort of George Costanza man-crush going on with. He's so funny! I find myself laughing too hard at his jokes and too long, far, far into someone else's next sentence. Next stop: offering to make him his sandwiches.
But back to brass tacks.
Lakisha wore this hideous yet beautiful, ridiculous yet brilliant orange thing. She screams magnificent defiance. Then she does the singing thing, and you can relax because you know your ears are not about to be raped by a series of nasty shrill ear paedophiles. Then we meet her Grandma ("Grandma, we goin on a train"), who was predictably zesty and full of life. Known as Ruth Morris. She came along with her Zimmer and her dance moves, and it was good to see her.
Then Melinda. I usually prefer to have more space between my two girls to give me more time to revel in the contrasts with the dross, but there you go. This week was like first being bathed in asp's milk by (let's say) some Swedish virgins, then vigorously dried off by a set of hairy Dutchmen with enormous slabs of crumbly dry dog shit for towels. Great to begin with, but you still end up feeling dirty and used.
Melinda has this quiet dignity about her. This unassuming humanity. Oh, and this enormous, embarrassing, unquenchable, heartbreaking talent.
I'll be quiet now.
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