Dear Nessi

We found the Holy Grail. The cup that Power Pack and I used in our wedding ceremony. Frankie found it in a bag under his bar, along with my wedding shoes. A happy day. A cheeky day, too, it was, on Sunday.....

Let me introduce my band. We are called the Blackheath Beach Bimbos. I am the guitarist and sometimes bad singer. Miss Chaos is co-founder and bassist. Her friend, we'll call him Mr Drummer, plays, of course, the drums. Recently the Scuba Diver has started singing with us, and a friend of Miss Chaos plays rhythm guitar on a about 4 songs. We'll call him Rhythm Guitarist. And we acquired a trumpet player at the the last Ruby gig. It was one of those post-show drunk stoned conversations. When I mentioned the trumpet to Miss Chaos and Mr Drummer they weren't that keen. I couldn't find his phone number so thought nothing of it...until right before rehearsal Sunday morning I got a message from him, "I've learnt the song. I assume it's still on. See you at rehearsal." oops....

We rehearsed in the same place where Tom O'Looney and the Artic Circle rehearse. I don’t know what it is about that tiny room, deep inside an old church, that inspires lust...the very same room where I drooled over Tom, sweating, half naked on his drum kit....now others were giving each other the eyes....

So members rolled in and out, just like an Arctic Circle rehearsal. All six couldn't fit in the room at once, so we sent Rhythm Guitarist home to sleep off his hangover.

"You've got a cheeky face on today, Petra," said the Scuba Diver. I blamed it on the spliffs that Trumpeter was rolling in the corner. He's kind of like a South London crusty, with a long plait and bits of coloured string tied around his trumpet. But in fact he plays with some real pros sometimes, namely one of Mr Thomas's Pail Boys (sic).

Scuba Diver was fresh off the plane from Zurich, so went home while the rest of us went back to mine to eat, smoke spliffs, and burn homemade CDs to sell at the gig. It was tease-Miss-Chaos day, neither as fun nor fair to recount now as it was at the time, so I'll just say it was quite a good day. Lots of giggling, and sneaking looks into people's overnight bags - "she brought a toothbrush! and clean knickers! hm, are you expecting to stay over or something, Miss Chaos?"

So the cat is out of the bag. Even last night, Ms Lion Roses phoned up, asking if Miss Chaos is going out with the Scuba Diver. "We saw them walking arm in arm to the bus stop Sunday night," said the bored Lion Roses' bassist's girlfriend. It's certainly a more entertaining topic than worrying about her boyfriend in Greece, frighteningly close to Turkey and the start of World War 3. (Well, if they die, at least the band got photographed in a brothel full of 8 foot tall transvestite truck drivers first, as was reported they did yesterday).

Sunday was a good night. All the bands dressed up in honour of our band. Miss Sparrow (who was being exceptionally chummy with me, talking intimacies in the toilet while Mr Head was sound checking) and her group all wore orange plastic sunglasses. Their singer wore a wig, too. The Bootlegger, who plays in Mr Head's band, wore a grass skirt, black bob wig and shell bra.

We were a touch nervous about headlining, seeing as we don’t rehearse all that often, and all sorts of things can go wrong. I drank more than usual before playing (usual being nothing - tonight being about 2 pints of cider), plus was not exactly clear headed after the afternoon's smoking. But was in such a cheeky mood, it didn’t really matter, and I think it was better than sitting around begin soberly nervous. Had some cider with Quiffgirl and some Kiwi bloke she brought up from Slough, then popped over to the Wetherspoon's pub next door, to meet Mr Flea and his gang, and tell them, much to Mr Flea's annoyance, how Power Pack and I are listening to the Lion Roses constantly.

Didn't really get to watch Mr Head's band as I was busy in the toilet, dragging up and showing you how to work my camera. Nice shots by the way, and blurry enough I might try to stick a few on this site if I get around to it.

When we went on I thought about doing the airhostess thing and telling people where the fire exits were. Its horrendous, that fire in Rhode Island. It could have been any venue I've played at or been to in my life. Pretty f*cking stupid to light fireworks in a place like that. And even Mr Tiki Surfer fireproofs all his decorations for this Tack Shack clubs and parties.

But seeing as we had no pyrotechnics (only the smoke from my guitar, ha) I thought the better, and instead quoted Mr Stalone: "Cradle my balls" as I threw inflatable beach balls into the audience. (someone we know who worked on some movie overheard Stalone in his dressing room with a groupie once, saying: "Cradle my balls").

We got 2 encores where we had to do repeat songs as we didn't have any more. We took requests, the first being to play the one with the trumpet twice as fast. Quite a change from the rockabilly club where people rolled their eyes in disgust. Or maybe the trumpet made it better.

I could see people bopping around, vague shapes through my sunglasses. And particularly loud cheers from people with American accents near where you and Vimco were standing. Contrary to my increasing loathing of the Bush administration, I seem to be more and more pleased to run into my fellow countrymen, especially in areas of common interests like music. Its nice to see not all Americans are cowering behind their plastic and duct tape. I talked to them afterwards. They had been recording in Bain's studio, now very successful thanks to bands like the Black Lines.

A bit of dancing drinking and smoking and the evening ended all too early. Hopped in a black cab with Frankie and Suzy realised I forgot my guitar, made the cab go around the roundabout to get it. This was one night I missed living at Cocktail Road. I saw Mr Flea and friends walking down the street and would loved to have invited more people back. But as it was, Quiffgirl, her date, Frankie and Suzy were more than enough people to wake up the neighbours. At Cocktail Road we had a whole house - only flatmates to bother. At Power Pack's there are kids above and an old woman below, and the walls are not thick. It was nice to have people over but I kept telling Power Pack to turn the music down etc.

All that fun came with a price; I had to sleep half sitting up to stop from spinning.

In the morning Marani came over. She needed help drawing some hands on a record cover she's doing. It was like an old Juju Princesses cover, composite drawing. We went to Riley's so I could show her my paintings. Merl came in, weary and dishevelled from the woes of single parenthood. A guy at the next table butted in, saying sorry, he couldn't help listening to our conversation (about gigs and grass skirts), but we were in a band? And where did he know me from?

Turned out he was from a band I photographed years ago, fronted by an Israeli dyke friend of my ex. The guy was wearing sunglasses, just off a flight form New York, oozing so much jetlag and excitement he almost made me want to go to New York. He had that air of positivism that can only from going to another country, to do your thing; he had been recording over there with someone. I introduced Power Pack and then he bowed in true star-worship when I introduced Marani. We told him that the guy from Off License also frequents Riley's. He got on our nerves after awhile though, going on about how we'd bumped into each other for a reason, and making me listen to his CD which wasn't much to my liking. Poor Merl looked like she really just wanted a quiet time.

And so the day passed with Bloody Marys and a trip to the health food shop. Not unlike your day off last week. I can't imagine working a five day week ever again. I am grateful for every week I spend this way; who knows if I really will be able to avoid full time employment for the rest of my life.

Mrs Parsnip Pack