my life as a artist
cold soft and blobby
Friday 8th January 2010 1:45 AM
Me, my Mum, herself and I, being amongst those six that walk seven abreast, decided that this year, instead of having a New Year, we'd get a second-hand one. New ones are so expensive that you have to pay in instalments, with interest, and you end up living on borrowed time, so me and my Mum, in the interests of interest, which we think is boring, decided to go for cheap and cheerful.
We saw one from the late sixties on e-bay, and except for a few missing days in the summer, it seemed pretty swinging, fab, gear, and we've got love. We can always buy the odd precious second from a charity shop, and you often see wasted moments from the late sixties at car-boot sales.
And what a snowy second-hand year it is too! The textorama-maker in me says that snow is a snake saying 'now', while the pacifist in me admires its organisation and soft persuasion. If you meet snowflakes on their own, they're often gentle and playful, and sometimes, if you stand in the right place, they'll fall onto the end of your nose, and kiss it. However, when they get together and organise they can get quite serious, and do stuff like close down the M3 and freeze your toilet, and then those semi-erotic moments of melting bliss soon fade, and you realise that the individuated, delicate, dancing dream of geometry that you gave your heart to, was, in fact, just a frozen drop of water in a party dress.
Dear reader, let it be said that as I write this, I am warm, as I hope you are when you read it. While the new white hair-do-on-everything makes my car look like a clipped poodle, it looks really distinguished on the caravan, and also provides good insulation. I've recently learned that if you use a certain brand of shampoo, you can have lusciously 'voluminised' hair that seems to defy gravity, and I suspect that's what's going on here.
My wood-burning stove, a Morso squirrel, is now a large, black faithful dog, cos I'm like an Inuit, innit, and after a hard day on the tundra, herding the reindeer of my mind, I like to curl up next to it for warmth. Anthracite makes its farts smelly, so I feed it seasoned beech enriched with firm, chunky morsels of tasty oak, and it's really well-behaved and loyal. I don't take it for walks, because it's heavy and cumbersome, and after all, a metaphor is just for Christmas, not for life.
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I didn't get any metaphors for Christmas but I did get some socks.
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