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Jan. 22nd, 2007
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Jan. 22nd, 2007 11:34 am
Bloody hellfire. An extremely subdued birthday, due entirely to my birthday celebrations the night before, which began at 7pm in South London Pacific (pictured), and ended in cheerful disarray in my flat at 10.30 the next morning. It was superb to see everyone there—and, incidentally, an inadvertent logistical triumph. Since both I and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
cornfedpig had signally failed to book ahead in time, we hadn’t been able to reserve any areas of the bar; others had, and the place was due to fill up completely, while we had to make do with one small area of unreserved seating. Yet altogether 21 people, with the odd staggered departure and arrival, were able to arrive and make merry without disaster. The only exception was when my esteemed colleague and her boyfriend turned up after seeing “Guys and Dolls” (“Don Johnson’s in it.” “How was he?” “I think he was drunk”) and had to wait out in the cold for ten minutes. Sorry about that. Thank you everyone for a cheery and convivial night, not to mention PRESENTS.
Don’t have nightmares
Jan. 22nd, 2007 11:35 amAs is often the way with wild surmising, my wild surmising the other day was way off the mark. My downstairs neighbour was not removed from the premises in a police van; what I happened to catch sight of was the uniformed driver helping a colleague climb in the back and closing the door behind him. My neighbour wasn’t even arrested, in the event, as he willingly co-operated.
“I went outside to talk to the workmen,” he told me. “They’d parked their bloody great vans on the pavement, four of them, and two cars. You could hardly get to the front door. I went and had a word with them—I’d had a bit to drink—and they got stroppy. One of them told me to fuck off. So I went inside, came back and threw a bucket of water over them.”
Three cars, a van, at least eight officers—for a bucket of water. “That sounds right,” said a police source. “At one in the morning, those officers will have had absolutely nothing to do. The call’s come in, a load of them will have thought, ‘There could be a fight... I’ll have some of that’, and they’ve all hurried round to yours.”
Best thing is that, for the rest of the night in question and the next, the tube workers crammed their several vans into the Underground station car park, where they all just about fit, but getting them all in and out must have been a logistical nightmare. If a bucket of water (with a consequent slap on the wrist) is all it has taken to persuade them to sod off from our bit of pavement, my downstairs neighbour may turn out to be something of a—yes, admittedly wayward and pissed—hero.
“I went outside to talk to the workmen,” he told me. “They’d parked their bloody great vans on the pavement, four of them, and two cars. You could hardly get to the front door. I went and had a word with them—I’d had a bit to drink—and they got stroppy. One of them told me to fuck off. So I went inside, came back and threw a bucket of water over them.”
Three cars, a van, at least eight officers—for a bucket of water. “That sounds right,” said a police source. “At one in the morning, those officers will have had absolutely nothing to do. The call’s come in, a load of them will have thought, ‘There could be a fight... I’ll have some of that’, and they’ve all hurried round to yours.”Best thing is that, for the rest of the night in question and the next, the tube workers crammed their several vans into the Underground station car park, where they all just about fit, but getting them all in and out must have been a logistical nightmare. If a bucket of water (with a consequent slap on the wrist) is all it has taken to persuade them to sod off from our bit of pavement, my downstairs neighbour may turn out to be something of a—yes, admittedly wayward and pissed—hero.
“She was shot”
Jan. 22nd, 2007 12:43 pmOne of the hard and fast rules of cold reading is that you must never admit to making a mistake. If you guess wrong, it’s your spirit guide, the person you’re talking to or, as a last resort, reality that’s at fault.
Thanks torobotman for these:
You may have read about Shawn Hornbeck, the boy kidnapped in 2002 and feared dead until he was discovered last week living at the house of the man who kidnapped him. The woman in these clips, Sylvia Browne, told Shawn’s parents in 2003 that he was dead—specifically, “in a wooded area about 20 miles southwest of [the town where they lived]... near two large, jagged boulders that seem out of place in that area”.
Also, she predicted that the miners trapped in the West Virginia mine tragedy in 2005 would be rescued.
A reading with Sylvia over the phone, lasting for 20-30 minutes, costs only $750. The only other psychic in the world that she recommends—her son—is available for $450 a pop.
Thanks to
robotman for these: You may have read about Shawn Hornbeck, the boy kidnapped in 2002 and feared dead until he was discovered last week living at the house of the man who kidnapped him. The woman in these clips, Sylvia Browne, told Shawn’s parents in 2003 that he was dead—specifically, “in a wooded area about 20 miles southwest of [the town where they lived]... near two large, jagged boulders that seem out of place in that area”. Also, she predicted that the miners trapped in the West Virginia mine tragedy in 2005 would be rescued.
A reading with Sylvia over the phone, lasting for 20-30 minutes, costs only $750. The only other psychic in the world that she recommends—her son—is available for $450 a pop.
For reasons of tiredness, we can add to my lengthening list of animal-related mishears and typos the Legal Services Boar.