Pretty much the end

There have been times on this tour where I've woken up on the floor in my blue sleeping bag in a tiny room with four other girls and asked myself, "Am I still doing this?" It's amazing how many times your brain regenerates and thinks new thoughts, and when it does so around a scenario that's always changing but still the same . . . being with the same people and the same karma against an ever-changing backdrop is freaky. But I mean it this time, our time's just about up. We're staying in a beautiful apartment in London and playing our last show tonight at Bar Monsta. I need coffee in the worst way and this instant shit is . . . well, shit. But before I go find my caffeine savior, a rundown.

After Germany we spent a really surreal night at an A & O hostel in Calais in the south of France. In the morning we headed over to the ferry to get back to England, and then made it to Ipswich to play a show at a bar called the Swan, which we had set up before we left for mainland Europe the first time . . . and our van broke down 2 kilometers from the venue. We were all pretty happy it decided to poop out so close to the venue in a country where everyone speaks English (can you imagine if we had broken down in CROATIA?!). One of the guys at the bar grabbed most of us and our stuff and Rosie and I waited with the driver by the van for the tow. We waited for three hours, because it was a bank holiday, which is English for "nothing's getting done." It was also the 30-year anniversary of Ipswich winning some big football tournament. I know, that's important. So we drank Jack Daniels and sang songs about how the tow truck wasn't coming, and a guy from the venue picked us and the rest of our crap up because the tow wasn't coming and we needed to play the show.

Show went really well, and we spent the next day in Ipswich at the flat above the bar because the van wasn't going to be ready on time for our next show. We had to cancel our best net-promoted show in Brighton, but since it wasn't our fault the van company paid our guarentee and we had a free day off. We hung out with Dave from Cradle of Filth, who helped us set up the show when he saw our first (lousy terrible) show in Ipswich at this venue that shouldn't even support rock bands because they kept telling us to turn down. We ate some fantastic on the cheap food and saw a very lovely little English town, and hung out at his apartment talking about whatever our type of bands talk about (I actually have a newfound appreciation for Cradle of Filth and many things metal since this trip began thanks to Caroline). Then we got the van back and we stayed at what Caroline and I believe was a haunted Holiday Inn because we both had nightmares. Then we got back on the road.

Nottingham was a trip -- lots of Robin Hood-y stuff, a good venue, some really cool fucking people (I think actually some of my favorite on this trip) and I got a tattoo. WHA?! Yeah, the nice little Jewish girl who was programmed to steer clear of those permanent devil scars because you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetary and you risk possibly looking tacky when you're 80 got a tat (I'm getting cremated anyway). And you know I wasn't going to get one just to get one -- I thought about it for awhile while everyone talked about what they wanted, and since this trip was significant to me I wanted to do it, provided I could find the right thing.




Rosie, Caroline and Christina (got cut off) with me at the tattoo parlor.




Justin tatting me




It's a sexy gnome. The why will be another post, because everyone's ready and I have to go, but just know that I absolutely love it. See you later or when I get back.

P.S. Don't tell my dad.

mk