With strings attached.

That title is about our spending yesterday doing more work on the puppet thing that I mentioned a couple of blog posts ago. We haven't made proper marionettes with strings or anything (a couple of pics of our creations have surfaced, like dead fish, on facebook and other sites, should you wish to view), but it's the best pun I could come up with right now. I'd say I've been awake for...seven minutes.

The 'string' that was 'attached' (but not really, as already mentioned) was the need to learn the skill of voice acting in under 30 seconds as we recorded the audio for our doppelgangers' demonic dance. I'll allow you a guess as to who landed the plum role of 'narrator guy'. Did you get it? It was me. If you didn't get it, have another guess. There. Is everyone on board?
So last night (friday night) - friday night - the night when most super-cool band people are gigging around town leaving a tangible trail of envy in their wake, or hanging around in bars looking to 'pick up a blinder', as I once overheard (which I assume has something to do with window fitments, a subject concerning which I have on more than one occasion been left in the dark (again I emphasise that my nightly dreams have not yet entirely ceased)), WE, keen artists as we are, spent the wee hours, and the small hours and the medium hours crouched in Trewin's attic, shovelling words into a mic and trying not to laugh at one another. This was a task, it seems, that became all too difficult when I, the anti-Stakhanov, was handed the spade. We got to the point where I had to imagine I was trying to convey a complex message to a baby in a crib on the verge of sleep, just so as not to revert to my brash 'sports reporter' voice.
We're back over there in an hour or so to finish the filming and voices, though I passed through my own door barely six of those all-too-short rotations ago.
Because of this, there's not going to be any fancy ending to this entry, no wrapping up of events, no apologies for the 'blinders' joke, or the horrible reference to obscure Soviet propaganda. Not even my name, a P.S., or a full stop