AN ACCESSIBLE VENUS
I am arrested
by the sight of Claudia clad in scarlet panties, with the usual half-amused
expression, camomile hair and cornflower eyes... she is placing her hands upon
her breasts to make them disappear. She has split up from her partner, is
available again. This is front page noise in L'EtoiIe Du Jour.
get out of bed for less then..." how many K, I can't remember. Perhaps, at a
certain age, she will take to bed for good. Or take it about with her, to shop,
to walk a dog, like Marat's bath. I may answer her advert in the Partners column
of the Western Evening Herald. 'Bedridden exmodel, 47, seeks strong-armed man to
push her around'. For now, her panties rustle on a hundred thousand newsracks
I wouldn't -
no, I wouldn't get out of bed for less than £47.90 a week, plus housing benefit,
plus an interview each fortnight, and the occasional government-funded
self-flagellation session. I can only gain self-respect from my role as a part
of an acknowledged labour-force in waiting, dragging down all proletarian
applying yet another face-pack, or bathing in mare's milk, or pouting as she
closes Conductors of Chaos. She is mine, because she makes the papers. Some nut
may even shoot her, hurt or kill the woman hidden in the image. How can I
'fancy' a tasteless, odourless, textureless and voiceless combination of cyan,
turquoise and magenta, imprisoned on a page of an ephemeral rag? And yet, I look
again. Her image lingers in my mind, her alluring smile. 'She's playing hard to
get, she smiles from time to time'. I might not recognize her if she
grace-flounced past me in the street.
knocks upon my bedroom door. "You could do with some company" she breathes.
There is nothing in life like not knowing your station, like not accepting you
are less than beautiful. For where is the advantage in accepting it? "Come in" I
smile. But someone lifts the paper from the stand, and the next face I see
belongs to the Home Secretary.