Do you know how many photos there are of that Rufus bloke on the Interknit? A lot. Him with long hair. Him with short hair. Him looking serious. Him looking extremely mad. Him in posh suits. Him in leather trousers, just. I think she has looked at all of them this evening. Especially the just leather trousers ones. Humpf. I might as well be chopped socks.
I have mentioned that my head is coming loose. And now my bell is falling out. And it's all Wainwright's fault.
I don't use her name in this blog for several reasons. For instance, if anyone is going to become famous and exploit this for a major merchandising deal then it's going to be me so no point in confusing things.
And she is wanted by Interpol for crimes against Belle and Sebastian. She has, in the past, sneered at the gods of indie pop loveliness. In this town that still carries a mandatory death sentence. You will be taken out to the Botanic Gardens, tied to a tree, smeared with peanut butter and left to the squirrels.
I suggested we try for an insanity plea. She's got the special edition of that "Tatu" album somewhere. That should be plenty of evidence.
But now she's going round dissing Sufjan Stevens. "The musical equivalent of carob". Her words - not mine. She's a goner.
I'd be calling for help but she's got a copy of "Too much" by The Spice Girls (with collectable postcard) and she's not afraid to use it. I think if we all just back away quietly and leave her to her Rufus slideshow ...