2004-03-16..8:51 a.m.

Listening to Lazy May by the Essex Green just makes me want to be enveloped by a lover and drawn deeply into a prelude to sex. The song simply exudes a delight in being longingly kissed and taken over, arching your back into teeth caressing your nipple, teasing your neck, lapping into your belly. It�s the primality of the drums, the articulated slur of Chris Ziter�s honeyed voice, the twang of the guitar against the accenting harmony. It sends me into shivers. When they play it live, he always singles someone out in the audience, and for that song, they become his lazy May. It�s funny to watch, girls clamour silently, demurely to be that person, to become the only other being in the room and have those vocals slide down between the breasts to coax the navel. A decidedly sensual experience. If you ever get the chance to see them, try to talk to him after the show. He�s one of the nicest guys ever and has this unaffected way of looking directly into your eyes like there is nothing in the world he would rather be doing than be chatted up by you at that moment.

Probably because of thing between the American Drummer Boy and me more than anything else, Chris and I ended up chatting after they played at the Arts Caf� in January. Which was funny because he had just sung that song to this delicate and lovely little blonde thing in a green sweater who had been standing next to me in the crowd, and out of the corner of my eye I could see her wondering how I managed to calmly banter like he�s no big deal and get a beer out of it too. I don�t think he�s even aware that he�s doing it, but I�ve seen them several times and at every single one, the whole vocal fondle thing occured. Heehee. I�ve been vocally fondled! I feel so used.

The Shins (who the Essex Green and James Hindle � also a lovely lovely bloke � opened for that night) are playing at the Water Rats sometime in the coming weeks. If you want to claim you saw them in a grotty club before they hit it really big, I hope you got your ticket. The gig�s been sold out for ages, with not much hope of a second date. They�re already garnering the uber-hype British press is so renowned for, which means they�ll be hitting the NA scene (despite being from New York, they�re rumoured to be bigger over here. Same thing happened with the Strokes and the White Stripes et al, but who am I to predict the weather?) with a vengeance soon, and then we won�t be able to see them for anything less than �20 at Wembley or Ally Pally.

One of the lines in the Essex Green song Sorry River, �I fooled you just to trick myself,� which has been on alternating repeat with The Mardi Gras Rescue by the Broken Family Band ever since the thing with Michael last week. I don�t really find all that much comfort in that, but it�s strangely affirming to know that I�m at least aware that this is largely self-imposed fretting and stewing.

I opened my email inbox to find no letters this morning. Poo. I had no emails yesterday either, but one from my mum complaining I don�t write enough (pah!), and one from this friend of mine that made me nearly choke on a piece of pear I was snacking on. It was all full of private jokes and things that I was chuffed and pleased with myself he�d remembered, and signed off saying �bye bye writer girl� because I send �novels� instead of emails that he then feels all inadequate to return and spends ages trying to emulate my writerly rhythms. Aw! Sweet! It�s so silly the way small things like that have such a profound effect on a girl�s happiness. It�s like when R�s calls me precious, or when Ben refers to me as Gorgeous. They�re miniscule and daft, and shouldn�t do so much, but they mean them and that�s nice.

meepie meeperson