Trams

One of the girl singers from ABBA has put out a solo album. It's called 'My colouring Book' and listening to it is like staring at a colouring book where everything has been coloured in with manic highlighters, both inside and outside the lines. It's quite lovely but I have to have at least one strong, black coffee to get me through it. 'My Colouring Book' works as a nice contrast to The Shaggs, a no-talent prepubescent girl band from the Sixties who were overweight, acne scarred and sang tuneless songs about Halloween and their lost cat, 'Foot Foot.' It's rather a cruel name for the band given that none of them are even remotely shag-able.

Yesterday on the tram, I was reading a play called 'Wiping my Mother's Ass.' It is exactly as it sounds and is not a very good play. A woman with a pinched nose sitting across from me give me a dirty look when she saw what I was reading. She was reading some kind of Vodafone pamphlet. The man next to her didn't have anything to read but seemed quite intent on examining his fingernails. He was weedy and wore a suit that was slightly too big for him. From time to time, he tried to read bits of the Vodafone pamphlet over the woman's shoulder. After a few minutes of this, the pinched face woman closed the pamphlet and shoved it deep into her handbag. She gave the weedy man a sharp, angry glance and turned her neck to stare furiously out the window. The weedy man got off at the next stop and the pinched face woman reached into her handbag and went back to her Vodafone pamphlet. I went back to Wiping my Mother's ass. It wasn't that great.