The incident came as a surprise to me, as I had been in Avalanche records a moment prior, choosing a Belle & Sebastian over a Right Said Fred record. Even more odd was that Stuart Murdoch and Richard Fairbrass were bare-knuckle fighting outside in a cube. Odd.
I trundled to the bus stop, thinking how human existence was a continual pull between deprivation, disappointment and disgust, vs. illumination, incandescence and love. I was, at the time, in love with a woman named Biro. Her legs were pens – each toe a different colour and font – and I took her with me to lectures and libraries.
Trouble was, one day her ink ran dry, and she took off with a sleazy octopus named ψ. This is when I first spotted Trixie. She was leaning over a muskrat from Portugal, helping it with its benefit claim form. I was hopping up and down, hoping to get off with a one-legged girl on a pogo stick.
It never transpired. What I did notice was a tattoo on Trixie’s leg that read DÉCOR IS FUTILE. I learned from a friend that she was at war with interior designers. This war lasted months. Her house was painted when she was out, design plans were smuggled into her drawers, men fired paint at her in the street.
One night, an agent planted a quarter of dynamite in her cheek. The dynamite had been deactivated, but if she resisted any longer, they could reactivate and blow her brain out for good.
The reason the trigger was pushed? For weeks, the interior designers started stealing petunias from Nicola Barker’s garden, which was out of order. Trixie responded with this controversial protest painting:
The interior designers lost it. They pushed the trigger, and that was that. They are still terrorising the lovely author’s petunias and being general nuisances to every experimental novelist in the UK. Trixie is OK – she had a bad migraine for weeks, but her brain was sold back to her on Ebay.
But enough silliness. How are you, sweetie pie? Have you been burped today?