Dougal’s studio, snowy December morning
‘Humph. How fleshy is she?’
‘I can’t remember. She’d better not be like that one last year.’
‘The one that was like a ball on two sticks. I couldn’t draw her! I gave up!’
I am in pose. It seems Dougal and his pals (Bradfordian bohemians, pushing seventy) have even booked a model for between Christmas and New Year. That’s how fanatical they are. Good for her if she’s got fat on her in this freezing place.
But they only like stick-women. They are all scrawny sticks themselves. Especially Rowan the Buddhist who lives on a barge and eats seaweed and apparently not much else, who keeps (discreetly) inviting me to his boat. But I can’t be doing with spirituality. And seventy’s like, nearly a hundred.
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