Hello, you must
have noticed my hair.’
‘Hair today and gone tomorrow.’
‘The colour is a rust red variation
on your dear child’s red balloon.’
‘It’s not my child.’
‘Quite so; but back to hair: it was
inspired in part by cranberries, the indigenous American fruit not the faux
Irish group from the early nineties, and by a subtle blend of mid-sixties Diana
Ross and a drag queen fried of mine, Lawrence un Arabesque.’
‘What?’
‘A burlesque Arabesque friend of
mine, Lawrence . . .’
‘Piss off, we’re not interested.’
‘How can that possibly be?’
‘We’re witnessing an execution,
friend.’
‘My God, how very provincial! I
shall depart henceforth from where good taste lies unnoticed and
unappreciated.’
‘Goodbye then …. and good
riddance ….. and by the way your wig looks like bunches
of old burgundy rope dipped in a bucket of strawberries..’
