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Not Near London
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drawing table and serving
tea, but so what? It’s like
at uni: the Centre for
Comparative Arts Practice
and Documentation was
just Malcolm Harmer’s
memory stick.
What’s important is that
Jasper knows everyone
who matters, all the
hippest, hottest crowd,
some of them filthy rich.
In with the buzz, he calls
it. Jasper isn’t rich: just the
opposite. Geraldine and
Terence give him nothing,
these days, apart from the
odd restaurant meal when
they come up to London
and an annual subscription
to the RA. They’ve learnt
their lesson: being his
main drugs backer was not
cool. So Jasper’s Peckham
flat is, like, grim. Draughts
that disturb your hair, sills
soft as sponge, carpet like
there’s been a murder on
it. The landlord a spoilt-boy
gambler from Karachi who
does not give one shit and
charges the fucking earth.
‘Maybe we should move
to Hastings,’ they keep
suggesting to each other.
‘Or Margate. If Brooklyn’s
not available.’
Meanwhile, she is still
temping, serving in a
vodka bar three nights a
week in Clapham, taking
whatever
else,
being
exploited, getting her bum
pinched by the manager.
She doesn’t care: life
experience. Filling up the
CV. Transitional period.
She’s added four London
gallery internships
aka
slave labour. Now she’s
done with all that. It’s
knackering just to think
about. Really what she
wants right at this minute
is to roll up in a duvet
burrito with a cup of tea
and a biccie.
The train decides it’s a