Torpid Tales: Chapter 5 The Scatologist in our Midst

A neighbour rushes over. Its horrid he says. He points at a small half alley with a hanging wooden gate. Look. Following the gesture one can see a small mound of scented apricot nappy sacks. They are gapping open and inside is dog pooh. Piles of pooh. We ponder. Who picks up pooh and lobs it into no man's land? Days later a knock and the neighbour with high colour in his cheeks has sighted the scatologist. It's a delicate matter it being the landlord of the local pub. Best call the Council we concur. The Council Men are upset. They elect to put a medium height wooden board across the alley to hide the shame.

Torpid Tales: Chapter 4 The Artist Arrives

Arrival of The Artist. Seduced by the possibility of outsider art and the price of property The Artist arrives. Once the successful redesign and open plan abode has been completed (a snip) thoughts move to one’s Practice. There follows a series of exchanges that are to be continued:

Barber: well yes there is a cellar but its no good
The Artist: can we take a look?

The cellar is well sited and easily accessible but the height is a tad under six feet and the exposed nails and beams would be a slight obstacle with The Artist just over six feet in bare feet.

Regeneration Officer: give me an economically viable reason to take you seriously.
The Artist: Shoreditch

The shops in the High Street remain boarded up three years later, a pepper corn rent and network of artist studio not considered of interest. Average High Street charity shop (now debunk) rent £7000 per annum.

Foreshore Officer: the coastguards tower what do you want that for ………. (explanation: I am an Artist) Oh well its not very big and a bit damp

Twelve months later the not-suitable-site sells at Auction for £84,000 to Another Artist

Auction House Owner: well the upstairs may be what you are looking for

The Artist views the large open plan space wracked with history and totally appropriate and salivates. A week later after a hand shake a builder moves in. The Auction House owner alerted to the potential reneged. Too much work for you love.

Councillor: the toilets?
The Artist: yes (thrilled) can we take a look.

The space is beyond perfect and already white. The museum objects to its store for unwanted items being let and the search continues.

Boatyard Owner: well follow me (the journey is through a dark storage area for an opera house's props; around a redundant workshop space that is insecure and then up a short flight of steps into a huge open loft space) you can have it for £100 a month just needs a bit of tidying.

The artist looks at the most perfect space which is covered in great piles of bird droppings and considers Art versus Parasite and gracefully declines

Wealthy Boy-Landowners’ Son: well we will be developing the stables but not until the tawny owl has had her young

To be continued…

Torpid Tales: Chapter 3 Just West Of The Front

Top Tips
Top tips for establishing a successful residents' association
1. Invite the neighbours
2. Invite all the neighbours not just the ones you like or think are nice or are 'home owners'
3. Do not appear fickle or be swayed by neat borders or frottage in reaching a constitution
4. An agenda, coherent minutes and a solid chairperson are good but preferable to have a host with
5. Enthusiasm
6. Alcohol
7. A clean toilet
8. One household is not a residents' association unless a very large HMO
9. Do not appear fickle or swayed by nice borders in determining boundaries
10. Councillors can be useful and are very good at smiling

Torpid Tales: Chapter 2 A Tad Inland

I am punk
I am a suburban anarchist
I rebel and refuse
to pay my gas bill
until
until
the final final reminder
(as if I forgot)
even at the last they
THEY
defy and deny and I
fearing cold
not so bold
cough up.
A teeny frission of glee.
No interest from me.

Torpid Tales: Chapter 1 The South Coast

Grey. Midwinter. Vague horizon. Stumbling. Dog. Walking dog. Its always, always the dog walker. High tide. Flat water. Languid. Dog bristles. Bobbing movement dead ahead. Another grey day. Movement. The greyhound man gestures. Last week he breathes. Last week a body. Its grey.

First Things First

Welcome to Manque Manque

a blog for failure