New booking. Workers’ Educational Association life-class at the Bickerthwaite United Reformed Church. The group gets off to a slow start even though I was ready for kick-off dead on the hour. It is chatty, noisy. They are used to having an ongoing repartee with the model. Their accuracy must be shit if they don’t mind a model whose face is moving. I bet they’re rubbish at hands and feet.
Stop talking to me, people. I want to be inside my head. Please. Leave me alone.
Straight after modelling I go for my counselling session. Conveniently, the Mental Health Services Area Office is behind this very church. It’s a Portacabin. Beside the entrance I crouch to lock my bicycle. The rickety door slams open, clunks closed. A previous client hurries away. When I straighten up, I see that it was Bel.
I am an artists’ tool. It’s good, being a tool. It’s a raison d’etre.
I play the prelude over and over and over and over. All through the night.
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