Something rather strange has happened. I went shopping for clothes on Thursday afternoon, which in itself is quite strange, but that’s not the strange thing I’m talking about. I ended up buying two pairs of black jeans from Gap, because Top Man (who, up until now have been my jeans supplier of choice) seem to now only sell trousers that already look as if they’ve been worn over a period of several years by half a dozen people who are all closely connected to the construction industry. I immediately took the jeans to a pub toilet and put one of the pairs on, to spruce up my appearance for a swanky do at Cecconi’s that I’d been allowed to attend later that evening. The other pair stayed in my bag. On returning home, I placed the new pair in the wardrobe, and removed the trousers I was wearing (steady, girls) and left them lying on the floor, because I’m an untidy bastard.

Yesterday, I was doing my laundry, and noticed that the worn pair of black jeans has completely disappeared. I can’t find them anywhere. I’ve looked in likely places – laundry basket, under the bed, wardrobe, washing machine – and I can’t see them. I’ve looked in unlikely places – in the oven, on the television, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia – and similarly failed to come up trumps. “Maybe demiabeille has got them,” suggested Jenny, although she used my flatmate’s real name, Emma, rather than her LiveJournal alias because Jenny’s funny like that. “What would Emma want with my trousers?” I asked her. “I don’t know,” she replied, pathetically. I know that demiabeille doesn’t have my trousers, but Emma, if you see them, could you let me know, and I appreciate I could have put this in an email to you or even asked you face to face, but I’m trying to divert all human contact I have via the medium of blogging, because I’m funny like that.

Last night I played on Radio 2 with Scritti Politti, which was a supreme pleasure. Mark Radcliffe, his engineer and producer were delightful, accomodating and welcoming; I engaged Mark with thrilling chat (off air) about how a record that I performed on was once his “Single Of The Week”. He remembered, bless him. This was the scene minutes before we went on air; Dave wrestles with the water cooler, while Mark prepares himself in the, er, booth, and his producer sits on a chair.

Afterwards we went for a drink in a pub called The Salisbury, and while crossing the road I bumped into besskeloid, who I’d never met before, quite by chance. Amazing! Then we got in the van and had a horribly grim journey back to London, but the less said about that the better, I think.