by Isobel Poltroon
I go out on Valentine’s Day to buy my cleaning lady a plastic bucket with a filter on top to squeeze out the mop. She’s worn out the old one, we’ve been together so long. The shop windows are a sickly mess of pink and red, somewhere between an abattoir and a little girl’s bedroom. The shops are full of men whose women set their price at a bunch of red flowers and a meal deal.
by Isobel Poltroon
Read my blog. It’s like saying kiss my arse, isn’t it. But read my blog anyway.
It starts in June when a Notting Hill fixer asks me if I’d like to be artist-in-residence under the Westway for four weeks. Unpaid, obviously. Pretentious, yes. And Banksy got there first. But it represents escape from a house which I am told is like something out of Harry Potter by those who are in a position to know.
Before I start I have this fanciful idea that in I’ll be able to draw half-naked people exposing themselves to the sun. But inevitably it’s all about parkas, damp dogs and feeling like an extra in Moby Dick.
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