Mid December
As part of 'Let's be nice to the aging art slut so she won't divorce me campaign' the bedroom floor of maple has been laid (six years of waiting and more than I can say for me), the velux window in the hall ceiling has been installed (ten years of waiting) and the roof has been fixed(three years of a water damaged ceiling). Not bad for one month. The roof being fixed turned into an event out of Chaucer. In order for the roof to be fixed we had to hire scaffolding and roofers,as one does, but we didn't reckon on the flu epidemic striking so apparently, just as we started. The two week delay ran into three as roofer is laid low in bed with flu.
My next door neighbour, the ex-cop, stops me in the street and informs me that he and his good lady wife have now barricaded themselves in their front bedroom as a preventative measure against robbers hoisting themselves straight up some twelve feet and absailing into their room from the scaffold. I poo pooed such athletics being attributed to the weedy species called an East End burglar. Sad to say I ate my words that very next Saturday night. I had not accounted for the effect of "being a plain shit scared 18-year-old villain with five coppers chasing you" on a fellow.
Just as I was about to snuggle in with my pot of tea and the latest
Vogue magazine on Saturday night, after a healthy bout in the garden of
brick throwing at the local mating moggies, I hear a scrabbling and
desperate panting going on outside my window as a man's figure shoots past
up the scaffolding. Leaping out of bed I rush down stairs to nearest &
dearest, who is calmly watching the Test Cricket match from South Africa.
"Someone has got up the scaffolding on to the roof !!!"
"Don't be daft I never heard a sound."
"You wouldn't with your deaf ear to the street."
We ran to the front door. If you could call climbing over various roofing
materials, scaffolding boards and tools that now had lined our hallway for
the last three weeks, as running; followed closely by near and dear.
A scene worthy of every cop show you ever watched on TV was going on in
our street. Police cars were everywhere and followed by police men running
down the street, then followed by my next door neighbour and a few others.
People were leaning out of windows and doors calling to each other. "What's
going on?" "Don't know!" Dogs were barking. Festering
Patty, the old mongrel from two dogs down burst out of her front door and
the grasp of her owner, shot across the street and bit a plain clothes
copper in the leg; or at least she tried to as she is totally toothless.
She just gummed him in reality. Six men in plain clothes and uniforms ran
up to our door and asked every so politely if they could go into our back
garden. So we all scrabbled over all the roofing paraphernalia in the
hall, through the kitchen and then into the garden. But not before they
all wiped their feet on the front door carpet. The last one to do so
looked sheepishly at me and said "My wife kills me if I go into the
house with muddy feet."
Well, I thought the secret weapon of the force is a policeman's wife !!
Why the police were swarming down our street was for a very good reason?
The story goes that they stopped and questioned a suspicious looking car
with four men in it. Apparently four men in a car on a Saturday night can
look very suspicious. Once stopped and asked to get out of the car the men
did so, then legged it down the Mile End Road and up our street with
police in hot pursuit; soon followed with re-enforcements wailing their
way. Unfortunately everything took a turn for the worst when a very scared
and frightened villain saw our scaffolding, and somehow probably out of
sheer fright, leapt twelve feet straight up into the air and grabbing the
scaffolding bar lifted himself up and onto the structure. Meanwhile out in
the back yard everyone was peering at the moon lit roofs. Lo and behold!
the villain was leaping from roof to roof better than Dyck van Dyke in
Mary Poppins.
"Why didn't you guys go after him up the scaffolding " I
enquired.
"You got to be kidding. That only happens on TV. I couldn't do that."
They all to-a-man murmured "No way. I'd kill myself."
So they sent for the search helicopter instead - as one does.
Meanwhile in the street out front more cars had arrived and more neighbours were in the street in their robes and slippers having either woken up or pulled themselves away from the late night movies on television. People were chatting. Calling back and forth to each other. Enquiring where they were going for the Millennium break and so forth and so on. More dogs were barking. Positively mediaeval and Chaucer-like was the atmosphere. It all seemed quite normal. Like this is what one does every Saturday night at 12:30 in the morning!!!!
Then the mood changed as the helicopter arrived, going chucka, chucka,
chucka with its powerful search beam on the scene of the crime. It focused
on the roof of No.42. Out in the back yard the police were calling out to
each other and the neighbours to see where the villain had dropped down
and into who's yard. They caught the silly fool because he fell into the
water feature at No.57. The old Anderson shelters were never dismantled in
our neighbourhood after the last war, so when it was homesteaded in the
1980s they were still there. The concrete structures were too difficult to
remove in most cases and the only creative option was to make them into
water features with fish and fountains. Very bijoux! Hedgehogs that fall
into them can't get out because the sides aren't sloped. Now it seems the
valiant little Anderson shelter that saw off Hitler's bombs did it again
with another generation of villains. Out the front door and down the
street the wet and very remorseful villain, held by the scruff of the
neck, was hauled and wailed:
"I am knackered. I can't go a step further."
"Yes, you can sonny because you're nicked."
The street cheered. Back in the kitchen six policemen wiped their feet and
handed me their empty tea mugs.
"Night all. Thanks for the tea" and left except the same chap
who was still wiping the floor of excess mud. "My wife...." "Yea,
I know."
Neighbours drifted back into their homes and police cars melted away.
The neighbour next door was ranting about cutting thieves hands off as
punishment. The Ayatollah pales beside this man. Perhaps he could get a
job in the Iranian civil service. N & D said nothing till we got
inside.
"He doesn't realize it but there is probably some very big holes in
his roof tiles from all this. I'll go up tomorrow and check but if there
is I won't tell the Fascist."
Ah, I thought, signs of latent radicalism are rising from the past. He's
not completely dead yet.
So at 2:30 am we all turned out the lights and went to bed. Dogs quieted
and sleep descended once more on the street.
The epilogue to this event happened at 7:30 the next morning when the
phone ran. Cursing I stumbled out of bed to answer it.
"Wadda want."
A bright and breezy voice chirped from the other end incredibly clear.
"Hi! Its me, D. I'm in an Indian market buying pashmina's like you
asked me to and wanted to know what colour you wanted. Also what colour
would G. want ?"
"Why don't you ask her"
"Oh she's probably in bed with some man after a party. I wouldn't
want to ruin her social life."
"You mean because I don't have a social life it's okay to phone me at
7:30 on a Sunday morning."
"Something like that. After all you are married to the living dead!"
I explained what happened only five hours before in the briefest of terms before stating the colour of my choice. There was some Indian music playing in the background and a mans voice was haggling. A familiar sound, just like the East End of London. I could almost smell the curry.
January 2000 reflections on the festive season
Well I managed to duck all the aircraft falling out of the skies from Millennium Bug Syndrome. What tickles my fancy is that the Italians didn't do anything except turn the clocks on their computers back 28 years. Nice One! have we something to learn from them I ask myself ?
My last cocktail party of the Millennium went off without a hitch; not too many drunk neighbours staggered home. In fact not too many neighbours came as so many people had succumbed to the flu that is raging around and striking all and sundry down. I kicked the last two out at 1 a.m. still arguing about the validity of reincarnation and the virtues of forgiveness!!! A cheery lot they are.
Christmas Day, I had had my former student over, who is from Nigeria. He nows brings his wife and his brother. They gave me a beautiful Nigerian robe and woman's head dress which I proceeded to dance around the kitchen in during the preparation of the meal. As usual I got so tipsy that I phoned all my relatives in North America and woke everybody up. As usual we had our traditional argument when the Queen gave her speech and decided to toast the Commonwealth instead of dear Lizzie.
But it was the Millennium eve that I shall always remember. London at its finest. Three million people out on the streets for the party of a lifetime with fantastic fireworks. I get all gooey over thinking about it. Dear & Near reminds me that we landed up walking a mile home at 3 am in the morning, even though there was public transport and it was free. But drunks always forget those minor details.
I went down to the centre and along the Embankment in the afternoon to see the funfair set up in the Mall. Trafalgar Square had two huge screens set up on the side of Canada House. At first I couldn't make out why everyone was dressed as if they were going on a camping expedition with knapsacks and ladders but then it dawned on me that most people were staying for a party and had their booze in the bags. I had agreed to meet Bet and some of her friends whom I didn't know on the steps of St. Martin's Church. I had gone out for a few hours to see London before returning home to get ready for our party in Wapping. While I waited I watched the scenes relayed of ITV's coverage of the Millennium from over over the world. However at 5:30 pm. Coronation Street came on and suddenly the whole square and surrounding area turned into someone's front room!! Everybody sat down and opened out their thermos flasks of tea and watched it for the duration. The bobby next to me turned and asked his mate if he should go put the kettles on for a cuppa. Ironically, of course, but said in a deadly serious manner.
Families were everywhere and all the children were really, really
excited about being able to stay up for the Millennium. You could tell by
the way they were so well behaved and kept asking how many minutes was it
till midnight, every ten seconds or so. By eight o'clock all the bridges
over the Thames were full of people. When Bet arrived I followed her back
to a flat in St.Martin's Lane for pre-cocktail cocktails which sort of set
the tone for the evening. We, that is near & dearest and I, saw it all
from a penthouse on the Thames in Wapping. Old friends from years ago who
had made good had a wonderful black tie affair. There was a telescope
focused on Big Ben. Near the time I got all romantic and was about to give
Dearest a big snog when he announced
"No tongues".
I vowed to myself I will divorce him this year and tongued him.
On the way home at three in the morning all London was still up and
walking.
"Happy New Year" everybody I passed was saying to everybody
else.
I hope it truely is.
The next day after I staggered out of bed and travelled to St. Paul's to
hear the Millennium peal. It was supposed to be eight hours but they
managed only through to five. Still it was spectacular and a wonderful way
to greet the new Millennium. Where shall we as a race be in a thousand
years from now? I was thinking these deep and profound thoughts when the
peel stopped. The American tourist bedside me asked "When are they
going to do it again ?"
"Oh, in a thousand years from now." I answered and walked off.
London was so awash with champagne bottles that all the gutters were full. It was a reassuring sight to see so many empty champagne bottles every where. Knee deep the street cleaners told me!!! Shows just how strong the economy really is!!! Happy New Millennium Everybody!!!
January 30
Had another aurgument with my collector at a rather farty private view.
He is such a snob! Unfortunately I can't seem to not bump into him. The
following week I scarpered off class early and caught the Docklands Light
Rail home. Sticking my nose into a book I didn't look at who got on at the
next station till a few stops later. There he was - the collector.
I sat down beside him and for a few seconds we just stared at each other.
Then we both said at once. "What are you doing here?"
He was going home from somewhere and decided not to wait for the mainline
train but take the DLR as I had always gone on about its great view of
Canary Wharf. The last person he expected to see was me.
"Ditto!" I said.
We rabbited on till we reached Canary Wharf then I showed him where to get
his connection before catching mine. We decided to meet in town for coffee
the next day at Maison Bertoux. What a disaster that turned out to be. He
was 45 minutes late having walked around the block three times before
finding the door. I knew when he came in he was pissed but only after he
kept trying to put his elbow on the table and missing for the fifth time
did I realise how pissed he was. "Jus a lille farewell party in the
thity for a friend who is retiring."
"Real small I can tell. Where are you going tonight after this?"
"A small dithner party."
"Just a small one then? Because your wife will kill you if it's a big
one and your in this state."
"My wife is out of town."
"Lucky you."
"You don't like her"
"Let's say you could have done better."
"I married her for companionship."
"So that's why you're so happy and hang out with artists like me."
He gave me a very narrowed eye look and then slowly slipped under the table. At that point I got up, went downstairs and said when he finished he would pay the bill and went out into the Soho night feeling very smug.
February 19
Very busy with my new exhibition coming up very soon!!! Sharing with two other artists and they are very thick together. Think trouble will occur over the hanging???
Had a great Valentine supper. Country curator was down so he and dearest cooked a wonderful meal for me. I worked late at evening classes and really didn't expect it, complete with flowers from both!!! How lucky can a girl get!
Next day Bet phoned and as she is now totally without man in life,
ex-husband and married lover having both decamped, so she asked me to come
as her guest to the Tate Britain opening. Black tie event! !!!! Luckily I
had nothing else on that night. Have visions of moi in Yves St.
Laurent Le Smoking suit. I must find an up market dress retail and
see how much it cost. If not it's the same old stuff from the back of the
closet. Had tickets for tour of almost finished Tate building and have
asked dear & near, as the only other choice was the collector. No one
else in town. Near & Dear declined, he preferred the pub. But as I am
not talking to the Collector after another serious dispute at the opening
of Live in Your Head exhibition at Whitechapel Art Gallery I went alone;
besides he is skiing and not back until the day of the tour.
I should learn to keep my mouth shut but when seriously rich people start
criticise artists for their precarious lifestyle, I see red. How does he
know how hard it is to make ends meet and carry on some semblance of
normality like own a house, pay a mortgage, buy nice clothes that aren't
always in sales and maintain a studio and buy art materials, not to
mention having children. It's tough! But so many people think it's
romantic!
He should try living as an artist without his private income and rich
wife.
I called him "inauthentic"..... how's that for
big words and being really mean!!!
Copyright © : n.paradoxa, March 2000
N.Paradoxa : Issue No. 12, 2000