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Not Near London
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shelves.’
‘We need a sink strainer.
And an ice cream scoop.’
He nods. ‘Hey, d’you know
what that chick in front’s
doing?’
‘Iknow,’saysSuzie,relieved.
‘She’s boogy-woogying.’
Jasper’s
eyes
open.
‘What?’
‘Boogy-woogying in her
seat? Hip hop, most
like. She’s got the same
ringtone as Mum
put – ’
‘She’s
knitting,’
he
says, interrupting a bit
aggressively.
‘Wha…?
Knitting?
You’re
not serious.’
‘Wehada cool natter about
yarn-bombing, about Dave
Cole and Magda Sayeg and
Ming-Yi Sung.’
‘What, she’s a guerilla
knitter?’
‘She’s never heard of any
of ’em. Never even heard
of soft sculpture.’
‘Really? How surprising,’
Suzie says, in a tone that
is almost a sneer (to her
surprise). Neither had
Jasper heard of them this
time last year, until he read
that article in
art press
.
‘You know what she
said? She said it keeps
her soul warm. And your
feet, I suggested, cos
she’s doing this sock, this
really cool long sock. She
shrugged. But she doesn’t
look the type to knit just
for knitting’s sake. She’s
in telly. Her boss is a
producer. Crap daytime TV.
He must be gay. They’re
all gay in daytime telly.
It’s like, y’know, this camp
thing? Like
Escape to the
Country
? Totally beyond
trash?’