Left Of The Dial

stories from the city, stories from the sea

This week: it was a dirty night. I shook the rain from my shoes as I came through the front door. Something moved in the darkness. A flick of the light-switch later and I discovered a hell of a party happening in my living room. Moffat and Middleton nursed whiskys and hangovers in the corner. Ghostface and Lupe pulled out comics from the bookcase. The Boss and Waits played three-card stud at the dining table while Little Pauly Simon kept score. Yo La Tengo argued on the couch over who'd win in a fight between Lou Reed and John Cale. The Bad Seeds were taking turns pulling legs off flies.

'Not that I'm not pleased to see ya, fellas,' I said, lighting a cigarette, 'but it's getting late and so am I if I don't get some sleep. Let me call a cab or two.' A crash outside as a tree blew over. Out went the lights. I picked up the phone. No tone.

'Well, fellas', I says, settling into a chair with an exhalation of smoke, 'looks like we're here for the duration. Anyone got any good stories?' Their eyes lit up the room.

Posted at 23:12, 29th March 2010