Since the Makita and the Wrecking Bar were both in my car, it made perfect sense to get down to Ditchling and help Lou. This poison estate agent needs to give her her deposit back. Even though the shelves in her unit were perfectly functional, they were chipboard. Nobody wanted them. So it came down to Bergie and I to sling them in time.
The screws were stars but of course I’ve got the attachment. I don’t understand how anyone even slightly handy insists on specifying what head they have on a screw. I had to service a lot of that lazy shit in Paris. Took the screws out, broke the glue, carried them down. It was open house at the workshops so all the rich people who do this for fun were letting equivalent people walk around in their units while we emptied a genuine maker’s unit so some posh girl can come in and fanny around.
I tried to break the boards timed well enough not to disrupt the punters. A bit of work around them probably lent the open day visitors a sense of authenticity to craft that, frankly, was much more “mummy look at me” than “I’ve got this burning thing”. These “artists” are my age largely. The stuff they do is more about them than what they’re making.
We put the broken up mdf into the car and said a last farewell to what was a possible space. “It’s for the best, I think,” I said and genuinely meant it. “You’ll get your deposit back and I’m pretty sure your diary is gonna fill up.” Yes I tend to put a positive slant on things. But as soon as that early twenties Agric College Graduate prat estate agent got the running of the place it was the end of creative truth there. It’ll just be another load of workshops for grown up rich kids to play at being artists. He’ll gradually kill everything he can’t understand. Little turd.
We slung the shelves and went back to Lou’s. She’s working FOH dayjob nightjob at a very cool outdoor summer popup in Brighton. So I took her there. Caravanserai. She’s there as I write, no doubt being patient with fucked people. She’s been part of culture in Brighton for so long that she’s woven into the fabric. There’ll always be someone she knows. The first time I came into town, a guy came by standing on a moving car for a stunt. They exchanged first name hellos. I somehow wasn’t surprised.
We went into the venue together for ten minutes and met someone lovely who is in the costume game like her. They exchanged pleasantries. Now I’m back in London. It’s just gone nine. I really want a quiet night. I’m hayfeverish. I would be snoring and spreading had I stayed at hers, and then I’d cough on her. Better to get this season of hacking coughs out of my body before spending too much time with my beloved. Preserve the mystery?! I don’t want to hack up pollen in her face all night long.
AlBarclay 