There is no point in me blogging about the demise of REM.
Firstly, I am often reminded that I have absolutely no taste in music whatsoever, and as such am unsuitable to comment.

Secondly, I am not terribly thorough in my research into bands I like, whereas the opposite is true when it comes to just about any of my other enthusiasms.

Thirdly, I don’t go to concerts because when you are shorter than five foot, that unified swaying becomes the ominous movement of an oncoming crush, and nobody wants to be the girl in the medical tent hyperventilating at a White Stripes gig.

However, were I to write a post anyway, it might say something like the following.

Although a band splitting up doesn’t automatically remove the songs I love from the planet, it gives them a further tinge of sadness which, frankly, REM songs don’t need.

Michael Stipe was among the first men I ever had a crush on and I have harboured a certain proclivity for bald men ever since.

Some of my most important, saddest, happiest and precious memories play out to REM songs. Never albums: I have always been a playlist girl. There are scores of songs I know all the words to, others that I hear the same way I read novels, luxuriating in the lyrics. (Always been a lyrics girl too, which makes the whole thing even worse.)

None of this matters, I am just a little sad that they won’t be doing this together anymore:

Of course, because I am about to shed this location like a skin and slither down south, I am knee-jerk scared by any alteration of the fabric of the universe. This bit just sharded off and stuck, so I popped it here.

So this post has little or nothing to do with music, and everything to do with the fact that I am stressed, haven’t packed, am uncharmingly nervous of London and having a parade of nightmares involving the application of makeup in front of a pack of wolves.

Like this.

I know, mys sub-conscious is hilarious, and I would be happy to offer it a sketch show if I hadn’t woken up scratching my own face in a frantic parody of makeup application last night.

In an attempt to still my fractious mind, I saw Jane Eyre tonight. A lovely colour palette, and I can’t wait to see it again. (I have arranged to, this isn’t a habit.)

I very much sympathise with Mr Rochester this evening, since its past 1am and it feels like my mad woman has been running around the corridors of my head for hours. She however is not carnal, wanton, or even Other. She is very much Self, and I wish she’d piss off.

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