I sit. I sit on my whicker chair looking out to the medly of sap green hornbeam, dogs mercury, awthorn, hazel as someone, a stranger, brushes my uncombed hair and plats it. It feels luxurious. Another paying attention to a part of my neglected body.
‘Do you stay here?’ the photographer asks. ‘I mean really stay, sleep here?’ he repeats accentuating his anathama to it. ‘I was bought up in a terrace, always with people around me, I’d never, even if you paid me, stay on my own.’ What are you afraid of, I asked. He laughed and didn’t know.
My fathers Izinari jacket is dismissed instead a little pink number chosen, the kind one would wear to go out to lunch in Paris perhaps, far too small, too short, now. They insist on dressing me, and later I see all 4 of us are wearing red jackets. Not green! They insist on posing me, hands here, there, one leg in front of the other. Always look to camera.
The whole morning, 4 hours, to get one photograph, not even the story!
Later I am surprised to hear which of my friends reads the Daily Mail.
Kaliwood 