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entry 08
- 7th November
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angela I bumped into Angela today in town. I've known her for ages: we worked together in a mental hospital in Surrey once, during the Thatcher years, as part of a Tory unemployment figure-fiddling package called Community Rural Aid, in which the unemployed were forced to actually work for their giros. Our job - a pointless job - was to teach some of the loonies at the hospital how to bind books: a job made harder by the fact that we didn't know how to bind books either. Not that we cared, mind. Nor did anybody else. We were only required to turn up. We had a whale of a time.
Angela's not only strikingly beautiful - a sort of latin version of Cameron Diaz - but she's also funny as well. And she's got a laugh that makes you glad to be alive; glad to be wherever she is... even in a mental hospital. She was in a relationship at the time with a bloke called Brian, who wanted her to marry him and go the whole children route - which was something that wasn't going to happen due to (a) his zero sperm count and (b) the fact that Angela didn't want kids and was secretly on the pill anyway, just to be on the safe side. Anyhow, Angela and I had an affair. It was pretty full-on for six months, but then kind of disintegrated due to various external factors. Money was one. And her heroin habit was another. Maybe I wasn't equipped to deal with it back then.
Back to now, and Angela told me how she'd recently managed to get herself off the dole and onto Sickness Benefit. (Being a registered heroin user does the trick). She also told me how she was trying to make extra money by painting and selling what she calls 'crap-o-graphs'. Her walls were covered with them. She walked me over to her latest daubing, based on the Lennox Lewis title fight in South Africa earlier this year: the one which Lennox lost in the fifth round. "The thing about Lennox Lewis," said Angela, telling me something I knew anyway, "is that he was born in London, but grew up in Canada. So is he British or Canadian?" "Um" I said. "Exactly," said Angela. "I've done a crap-o-graph, based on how British he's perceived to be depending on how well he's doing. Here, I'll show you..."
Here's another photoshop mock-up of a completely different crap-o-graph painting that she'd simply entitled 'THE SEA'. (It was in her bathroom).
Can you draw a crap-o-graph depicting something um, crap? Send it to seethru and we'll stick it up in our Crap-O-Graph gallery. See you tomorrow
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