Thursday, March 16, 2006

Our Lady Of The Soiled Bedsheet

Roused from my slumber again last night by what sounded like a great dane servicing a poorly lubricated hovermower on the other side of town, I turned on the television to find Margate's very own Tracey Emen wafting around in a garden, surrounded by delightful modern sculptures.

These marvellous pieces were just what I've been looking for to adorn my small patch, and Tracey was even talking to a man from Sotheby's about how one might be expected to pay millions for such an objet. Just the ticket, I thought. I'll pop over to Ms Emen's garden centre in the morning and pick one up.

Later in the programme, however, it transpired that Tracey's place is not in Margate after all, but St Ives, which is somewhere in Cornwall. Perhaps she fears that, if she were to open such an establishment in her home town, her statues would not be able to compete with the demand for gnomes waving a fishing rod that seem to be all the rage there.

1 comment:

sfdretywu said...

More likely, she wanted to put some distance between herself and any half witted, deranged relatives she may have there!
Notice how I cleverly avoided making any mention of her brother in that last missive?
Litigation is an ugly word (as is, perhaps, the culture that promotes it)!