The owner of Kidzworld has found some of the pictures I have on-line. I’m of rather mixed reactions, part of me is complimented by the fact that he commented with the word “lovely” and the other is considering a quiet panic because, well, this is my boss. The man who signs the cheques but doesn’t quite understand what HTML is. He sends terrible forwards about once a week. Golf jokes, articles on marketing written by people who don’t quite understand the shifting morass which is the internet. And that, your honour, is how I met the farmers daughter.
Downstairs the whores are yelling outside, shouting at each other and slamming the front door. One of them is drunk, cursing loudly. They’re calling each other cheap, it’s an argument of verbal bitchslaps, they’re being nasty about sucking dick. I wish I could carry the simplicity of their insults in my conversation, there’s a certain filthy purity I can’t access, it’s no vocabulary required. I’m thinking about a night I had in Hollywood. Driving with Alastair up by Mulholland, how it was thick night lit simply by glimpses of the sprawling city and expensive driveways launching off like winding airstrips which went for miles. I can imagine these women there, stranded in the darkness, standing by the road in spandex shirts and tiny skirts over clunky shoes.