at Boatswain’s Clench –
it felt like everything out there was trying –
the wasps, the weather, the trees, the locals…
you see,
I’d seen an Arts Trust put a call for
applications out –
Opportunity for low-income artists to spend eight
weeks in our magic space.
A photo of a tiny wooden studio right on the river –
picturesque!
An artist? I hear you asking, but Ava,
it’s not as big a stretch as you might think –
I’d been drawing customers and colleagues
secretly for years on the order pads at the various places
where I worked,
captioning them with small verbatim quotes –
things overheard, or just their orders
‘pork and chips’
you get the gist.
I liked the order paper – rough and greyish, with
the little number at the bottom.
I’d kept them, stacks of them – and this is what I
presented to The Trust.
Post-basement, I’d been living in another
houseshare – quelle surprise! – a mix of strangers that I’d
found online:
a clutch of graphic designers, a chef we never
saw, a woman in TV.
A large Victorian house.
The bottom floor was a separate flat so everything felt
squeezed –
you must think that’s a shame, Ava!
Some part of you must hate it.
These houses made specifically for living
by some New Man with Ambition marching through the
smog as one century clicks over to the next…
bought a hundred years later
by a dickhead in a shiny suit
and chopped up into flats.
Kitchens shoved in rooms that once were bathrooms.
