It 's 4 a.m. The street lights wink out.

It 's 4 a.m. The street lights wink out. Dim lantern-headed ghosts with grotesque sillouhettes shrilly pipe their piccolos. A cohort of drumming fools marches up the narrow alley.

The ratt-tat-tat-tat of drum stick against drum top filled the polluted air, the stomping of the stumpy boots splashing through the puddles. They were noisy, and also, bored.

It was Glastonbury Festival in the rain. We were all pretending we were having a great time. I dreamt of my bed. My deep, deep bed and fluffy duvet with crisp clean linen and sweet

chocolates are hand-fed to me as my lover gives me a back rub. Not here in this wretched field waiting 10 hours to hear live music, while my wellies once again get stuck in the mud

of reality even more than in my psycho day-job. Clouds congealed over the Plain and thunder struck. Some were fried; others screamed. "Rise like lions" boomed the sky. "Not my gig"

said the voice of the friendly skies. But in my psycho day-job I took not notice of those things. I worked at the Bates motel. My day job was to clean the rooms. It wasn't easy

Because United Airlines flight attendants had sneezed to death from new uniforms. They had to let them wear sweat pants while they ordered new ones. It took six months! Passengers

became so disgusted by such low class attire that they refused to board the planes. They decided to stage a sleep in at the airport since they were already in pajamas anyway.

The airport officials tried to get them to stop, but with little success. The earliest passengers were smart enough to pick spots near the power sockets.The rest, however,

built a little campfire in their humble corner and warmed their hands as they waited for everyone else to board. It was a rough ride for them, but in the end they had Jamaica.