Manicured nails, gold slip-ons, designer frames, pink mobile, turned-up denim pedal pushers, wedding and engagement rings; she plays with the back of her blond bob. Her nape has a button that releases endorphins. She goes in and out of a vacant stare. So pretty oh so pretty... vacant.
Whenever a man stares, she averts her eyes: a look away that screams she is the object of misplaced sexual desire. It is automatic, cold. The art gallery curator in her regards works of beauty as prone to damage by continual viewing. Post-impressions linger longer in the mind's eye of the beholder. Of all this she thinks little. It is time to move on.
She nods as an assistant signals that she is next. Conspicuous consumption takes a back seat to parenting. Evidently, you can't say I want I want I want.
- I want, don't get. If the lady hasn't got your size, you can't have.
The "lady" attends to her shop work.
- Hello, I'm Claire with an I. What's your name then?
- Go on Ashley. Tell the lady yer name.
Claire is a trained fitter; growing feet in safe hands her occupation; hands especially chosen by her employers to nurture and protect those precious early steps towards profitability. Ashley remains taciturn. Her T-shirt states her position. Life is cool so chill out!
A lone man sits in the midst of a plethora of pinkification and is pricked by his own maleness. He seeks out his son as he would an unattended baggage on The Underground. P-words pinch his consciousness. Poet. Philosopher. Paediatrician. Pederast. Penguin.P-P-PINK!
Little pink hearts on the bottom of soles of black uppers declare sensible shoes are discreetly girly, girlfriend.
The boy. The boy is bewitched by the bevelled mirror that is used for shoe gazing, ostensibly. He breathes hot breath onto its surface and, in the guise of his actual reflection, talks to a virtual friend. They are discussing the idea that God may have evolved from dinosaurs. An irreligious eight-year-old geneticist with little interest in pink, or blue for that matter. Nobody is watching him any more than they have noticed the promotional pop video for Bootleg TM. A marketized tide ebbs. It washes over everybody with a zee, not a zed.
It's 2012. Zed's dead baby. Zed's dead.
Nelly Furtado, meanwhile, vies with messianic T-shirt messages and winking fish for the attention deficit. Ms Furtado is neither a secreted doll or car lurking inside your rubber sole. She has frittered away whatever four quadrant appeal she ever had. It matters little.
- I'm the big sister! announces another T-shirt, meglomaniacally.
She is in fact her little "sister's" aunt, as a result of a complex post-modern relationship breakdown/ re-build/ breakdown (again) worthy of Daily Mail vitriolics. Hence the T-shirt's pre-emptive defensive strike.
- Wiggle your big toe for me.
- Stand up for me please, Ashley.
- Nice bit of room across the roof. No pressure at all you see. That's good. Sit back down for me Ashley. Gripping fine. Walk all the way to the foot gauge for me.
Ashley takes her first steps in her new shoes.
The Long March towards sexual political emancipation. Mrs Chairman Mao would have smiled, wryly.
Imelda Marcos, on the other hand, would've stayed for more shoes.
- I want, don't get. If the lady hasn't got your size, you can't have.
The "lady" attends to her shop work.
- Hello, I'm Claire with an I. What's your name then?
- Go on Ashley. Tell the lady yer name.
Claire is a trained fitter; growing feet in safe hands her occupation; hands especially chosen by her employers to nurture and protect those precious early steps towards profitability. Ashley remains taciturn. Her T-shirt states her position. Life is cool so chill out!
A lone man sits in the midst of a plethora of pinkification and is pricked by his own maleness. He seeks out his son as he would an unattended baggage on The Underground. P-words pinch his consciousness. Poet. Philosopher. Paediatrician. Pederast. Penguin.P-P-PINK!
Little pink hearts on the bottom of soles of black uppers declare sensible shoes are discreetly girly, girlfriend.
The boy. The boy is bewitched by the bevelled mirror that is used for shoe gazing, ostensibly. He breathes hot breath onto its surface and, in the guise of his actual reflection, talks to a virtual friend. They are discussing the idea that God may have evolved from dinosaurs. An irreligious eight-year-old geneticist with little interest in pink, or blue for that matter. Nobody is watching him any more than they have noticed the promotional pop video for Bootleg TM. A marketized tide ebbs. It washes over everybody with a zee, not a zed.
It's 2012. Zed's dead baby. Zed's dead.
Nelly Furtado, meanwhile, vies with messianic T-shirt messages and winking fish for the attention deficit. Ms Furtado is neither a secreted doll or car lurking inside your rubber sole. She has frittered away whatever four quadrant appeal she ever had. It matters little.
- I'm the big sister! announces another T-shirt, meglomaniacally.
She is in fact her little "sister's" aunt, as a result of a complex post-modern relationship breakdown/ re-build/ breakdown (again) worthy of Daily Mail vitriolics. Hence the T-shirt's pre-emptive defensive strike.
- Wiggle your big toe for me.
- Stand up for me please, Ashley.
- Nice bit of room across the roof. No pressure at all you see. That's good. Sit back down for me Ashley. Gripping fine. Walk all the way to the foot gauge for me.
Ashley takes her first steps in her new shoes.
The Long March towards sexual political emancipation. Mrs Chairman Mao would have smiled, wryly.
Imelda Marcos, on the other hand, would've stayed for more shoes.
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