Smoking Women (1)

SMOKING WOMEN (1)

Cigarette advertising might be banned, but the women in adverts still hold their hands in ways to suggest they're having a smoke. 

Broom (15)

BROOM(15)

I was sat in my chair with no thoughts about cleaning (despite the fly-shit on the walls and the ceiling).

The one with the Hoola-Hoop had my attention:

'This life that I'm living was not my intention.

'I have failed, but I managed as best as I could; I behaved pretty well and learned how to look good, but, things never worked out quite the way that they should.

'I was doomed from the start, it would seem. And, whenever I tried to redeem myself or my life it all ended in strife; it's a nightmare. (I wish I could dream.)'

'Did you ever dream?' I asked.

'Well, therein lies the problem, my sense of direction has never been very acute. (The fact that I couldn't read maps or road plans was ignored on the grounds I was cute.)

'But, as a woman starts ageing, her beauty starts fading; I suddenly found I was old. My poor navigation had no mitigation. Not cute, just an idiot, I'm told.

'So, I reached for the slap and began to make-up. I would put on a face, after all. I would never admit I was so ill-equipped. I would masquerade boldly; walk tall.

'By the end of the day, though, it's easy to see through foundation and powder and rouge.

'It's not easy to paint out a bruise.'

Broom (14)

BROOM (14)

I was white-washing walls (so the office looked bright) when the one with the hoola-hoop gave me a fright.

Collapsed in the corner she was, with her mouth a bit slack and her eyes almost crossed.

I said:

'hey, why not give that ring a quick swing?'

She said:

'I can't, I'm just feeling too thin.

'I am thinking too many portraits have been taken of me; the result is I'm feeling quite shaken. (My image is all and my soul is forsaken.) I'm blurred at the edges, you see. And, I'm no longer quite sure I'm me.'

I study her hard and I see what she's saying; she is out of focus, her seams are all fraying. The woman is wasting away. Her colour is gone; she's all grey.

I said:

'Well, please, no truck with the negative; you really have to be positive, and don't worry you're now monochrome. We can always hand-paint you, re-touch and highlight you. There's really no reason to moan. At worst, we can always gold-tone. Yes, that's what we will do to ensure that we fix you.

'And, if gold is too dear then selenium, I hear, will turn you a purplish-brown. (My God, why on earth do you frown?)

'It's a solution, isn't it?'

Broom (13)

BROOM (13)

I was stood on a stool with my new feather-duster, detaching old cobwebs with what power I could muster when the one with the hoola-hoop swooped into sight, gyrating those hips with immense speed and might.

She said:

'You know those old photos of French boulevards; the ones where you really do have to squint hard? The ones that took ever so long to expose; so long that one wouldn't be wrong to suppose that Parisian roads - nay, all capital streets - were devoid of life; yea, untrodden by feet?'

I tried to look cool but, I have to admit, I've a deep-seated loathing of all arachnids.

'Yes. You know about Talbot and that French guy - Daguerre? The first to go public; the first who would dare to suggest they could turn three dimensions into two . . . '

The sight of a spider got me all of ado.

'Well, I often retreat to the fire escape, for a smoke and a think and a bit of a break. . .

'CCTV's always interested me but, now I can see, that my own institution's got its eye trained on me. It's installed an old camera: a pin-hole, in fact.  (Made out of a beer can and some sticky black tape.) My fear: though the camera is less than precise (and it takes several months for the pic to take shape) is that, despite long exposures removing all trace of the people who pass at a brisk walking pace, I am - regular - sat on the stairs . . .

'Now, won't it be awful if after six months, a latent image has registered me sat, all hunched-up? The untrained observer might wrongly deduce that I'm under-employed, and at a loose-end when, in fact (for the record) I actually spend more time than I paid for at work.'

Broom (12)

BROOM (12)

I was trying to construct a kind of prayer as I brushed off the dandruff from the back of my chair. (Is it art or love that I strive for, I thought. Or, am I more interested in the bike I just bought?) Who cares, I'm most sad that I'm losing my hair. At this rate, just two years and my pate will be bare.

So, I turned to my girls (who know much of this world). I said, 'tell me, my dears, what's it mean to get old?'

The one with the hoola-hoop winced as she said, 'your skin starts to sag and your face gets all red.'

The one from Exotica was somewhat oblique: 'Enlightenment; that's the thing we all seek.'

The artist who always remains on the train, was slow to reply (no signal again). The one who is always delayed on the track said, 'you get old and the world wants to give you the sack; it will never forgive you the youth that you lack.'

And, I suddenly thought, what becomes of the dead (and I felt myself miserably consumed with a dread). Do we know if we've landed in heaven or hell? If only the dead could come back and re-tell of what happens to them when they croak their last breath. (God, I'm scared to death of dying.)

Broom (11)

BROOM (11)

Well, it's the end of the week.

I can hardly speak.

It's not just my vocal chords; I tell you, I'm asking the Lord how his potentially wonderful creation resulted - post-industrially - in such a spectacular abomination. . .

I'm exhausted and depleted; I'm feeling quite defeated.

And, it has to be said that despite their unfriendliness (their evident uncleanliness - their total lack of female-ness) the women on my team (for all their confrontational prowess) seem to have it right.

They have an innate kind of existential insight that I think I might lacking.

I so desperately want their backing: their endorsement and support. (I think I need them more than I ought.)

The one with the Hoola-Hoop asked me the other day: is it for love or for art that you generally pray?

I had to say I never pray, but she's made me nervous.

Should I be praying?

Broom (10)

BROOM (10)

I began to defrost the mini-bar (discard the old cheese and the mouldy jam jar). The refrigerator was stinking, but, it's still got me thinking . . .

This is what I'm currently pondering:

The girl from Exotica loves the thought of the one with the Hoola-Hoop's mobile institute . . .

I mean, how is that for a team?

I confess, these young women exceed all my dreams. Yes, they moan and they snipe (don't use feminine wipes) but I feel like a cat with the cream. (I'm so happy I think I might scream.)

The fly in the ointment - my one disappointment - is the artist who runs for the train. I am tired of her old refrain. Yes, of course, we regret British Rail was disabled but that shouldn't determine how her days are timetabled.

Get a Student Rail-Card and cheap tickets aren't hard to acquire, to purchase or buy. (So, right now, I am asking 'just why' the artist can't make a nine-forty-five start; why the artist can't leave after three. Why the artist is always quite testy and tart; why the artist seems not to like me.

All I want is a happy family; a convivial community.