Pongo #60

Longwave 1771.1

In a few moments, we'll be speaking to none other than Kella Prewitt about her debut novel "Microscope, a thriller in which the main character, an actress named Prin Fedena, finds herself sucked into the seedy underworld beneath the glitter of fame. The press release says it draws on classical myth as well as the author's own experiences, in order to give a cautionary tale and helpful advice for those who would seek their fortune in the entertainment industry.

As well as finding time to squeeze out a couple hundred pages of life fiction, Kella has completed two films this year. The first ' Bolting For Heaven ' concerns itself with the heartache, disillusionment and occasional triumphs that accompany a young girl whose only dream is to be a famous film actress, while the second ' Married To The Lens ' is a thriller about a beautiful film star stalked by an obsessed amateur paparazzo, and promises to be one of next summer's highest grossing smashes.
If you have any questions you'd like to put to Kella Prewitt, phone us on the usual number, or email rabid@longwavemonkey.net.

And just before the lady herself enters the building, just time to treat you to a dash of Twinwing, with their new single "Crash Tinkle. Breathe it in.

Miffy

Eventually we leave the house, me and my legs and my arms, which hang all floppy like cats. I ignore the red man, the honk and the abuse and haul myself over busy junctions as if the cars are made of marshmallow and will bounce squishily off me, should we collide. I've given up keeping a wary eye out for heroes. Since there's no method in this but a complete submission to the whimsy of the traffic and fate itself, they can't observe me and guess I'm trying to get hit.

They're getting more determined, that said. Many carry round portable defibrillators, form lookout groups, patrol tall buildings in search of desperate people to talk down or tackle with tough love. All so they can get their sweating, grass-stained face in the local rag. Maybe even the nationals if the event is poignant or weird enough, or if they leave it till the second prior to their mentee's death to ka-CHUNK their lonely heart back into the rat race. They're pretty much an armed guard against anyone who wants to jump life's fence. Not on my watch, mate. Hold on buddy, I gotcha. I gotcha.

The worst of it is that they look just like anyone else. Every cab driver tells you, in answer to you asking how they survive the city slew, that you have to assume everyone else on the road is an idiot. In the same way, you have to assume everybody else is watching your movements for signs of suicidal leaning. They form love chains along riverbanks at peak topping times. They count the number of pills you have ingested that day from afar.

If you're going to do it, you have to either be secret and silent, sneaking down poison in controlled doses like you think you might just get away with it in a court of law, or else you have to go kamikaze and barrel through them, lunging for sharp objects and water just deep enough to do the trick, or else you do it the third way, which is what I'm doing. The third way is to let death happen to you, to open up your arms and invite it in like a vampire, then wait for the reply.

As I cross over Opsin Street, onto the side where a hundred places serve the same coffee with a thousand different pseudonyms, I bump into a man, and am just about to bark "Watch it when I notice he seems a little familiar. It's not anything concrete, just a flash in the eye, because I'm pretty sure I've not met him before, although I feel like I've met his dad or grandpa or something. Actually, he's quite fit, in a dented sort of way.

"Sorry, he murmurs. One of the few people I've come across today who hasn't recoiled at the sight of me. He looks briefly, with interest, at my legs, the two inch difference that means standing still is always a red carpet pose, hip dropped. One leg is finely hairy all over, which disturbs me a bit, though not enough to shave it. The other's down comes in patches.

"S'ok. There's something about him that isn't quite right. I say 'right' from a shaky standpoint. Then it hits me. One eyebrow is brown, while the other is that shade of ginger bizarrely impossible to fake from chemicals. So he dyed the brown one, says the cynic in me, but soon other oddments mushroom. He has threadlines on one side of his face, almost as if he had budget surgery to clear the other half up, with the intention of saving up for lefty next year. That's damn good surgery though. You'd not even think from one angle that '

We've been stood here, gawping at each other as city knobs bustle by, clutching pre-grated phoenix cheese ciabattas, for about a minute. He speaks first.

"I feel like I know you. Do you have a little sister?

"No, but I know what you mean, and we're both right. I think. You don't have a father or granddad around here, do you?

"No.

And that's how I end up drinking my first coffee with a real crossing sweeper. It's also how Andaw Mikpo and I end up sat in the same café we've sat in before, inches from each other. Only it's different this time, because not only do we talk, we start to listen. Outside, all the would-be heroes grimace, swing fists through the air, curse the circumstances of our meeting and pack away the heart pumps and space blankets for the time being.