There is so much to choose from, for the installation. I take white gloves, almost to my elbows, and a black tail-coat which fits beautifully across the shoulders. A thick, pink bob wig. Bizarre shiny bunting, with fluffy balls at the tips, like a string of the tackiest thongs. A sheet of blue plastic, and nylon pink net. Playing cards, doctored for prestidigitation. An incontinence pad. Cheap, shiny jewellery. Fake, plastic, gaudy, frippery.
I am pleased with my work. The scissors leave nothing to the imagination.
I have thought, recently, of playing the hand one is dealt.
The Harrods magazine was a wonderful gift. Look at this man, how girlish his poses and features!
I am filled with envy. This is not the whole:
I was at the centre of it, in wig, coat and gloves, unable to touch, unable to feel, explaining my anger and the empty egg box. This is where I am.