I took the envelope containing all my Dad’s papers out of the truck and put it on the kitchen table. After showering upstairs, I came back to the kitchen and turned on the overhead light. Since the beer wasn’t cold yet, I got my shot glass and ashtray off the porch. I filled the glass, lit one of my fresh cigars, and knocked back the whiskey. I pulled Dad’s papers out of the envelope and spread them on the table.By the time I went to bed several hours later, the bottle was half empty and the ashtray overflowed with cigar and cigarette butts. Two loads of cum were drying in my bush. I’d expected to be happy when I finished going through my Dad’s papers, but as dropping two loads on myself attested, I found a lot more to be happy about than I had bargained for!Until I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t wait for my fuck-buddy Buks to rap on the door Sunday morning- even though I forgot to pick up some fucking tea bags!Sunday, October 14, 2007Before showering Sunday morning, I went. A. now,” she says hesitantly. “She’s an optometrist, I think. Some kind of eye specialist. But when I wrote this song, she was just a little girl. And I still think of her as one whenever we perform it. Here it is: Kirsten!” Indeed, it is memories of her dearest and only fruit of her womb that fill her thoughts as she plays her own pianistic tribute to the restraint and beauty of Bill Evans who was such a great influence to Lynn in those early days in Peckham and, later, North London. Those were hard days and Lynn knows only too well that a single tune, however sincerely meant, can scarcely begin to recompense for the neglect she’d actually shown her daughter. Those were days when a regular supply of smack and a series of relationships, unsatisfactory and ecstatic in equal measure, were far more important to her than a wailing child whose father had left her when Lynn was still a fifth-form pupil. Even those formative days of premature motherhood were just a momentary stumble in a.
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