To the wall I glued shards of dry onion peel and to each piece I pinned a miniature fox made of blue wax. The light bulb I flecked with Bovril and silver glitter. When I switched it on I watched the Bovril thin and drip directly into the waiting mouth of the stainless steel bull frog on the lettuce leaf carpet below. The shiniest part of the frog reflected the front corner of the room which I had managed to reconstruct inside-out, such that it revealed the watery stains of the leaking roof gutter and a forest of autumn-coloured moss. It perhaps goes without saying that I pulled up all the floorboards and returned them upside down; their surfaces then matt grey and dusty.
Nailing all the furniture together so that it formed one woody tower proved a delightful, if cack-handed affair - supporting heavy weights, nails in my mouth and the hammer dangling on a piece of string from the picture hook on my forehead.
Did I bolt the washing machine to the ceiling and then fill it with potatoes and turn it on so that the owners returned while it was mid-cycle? You bet I did.
Did I spray the bare walls with honey and throw the contents of the hoover bag at them? Did I build a small post and rail paddock, carpet it with hay and fill it with ten baby zebras? Mmm? Did I sprinkle garam masala in the back of the TV? Did I make an action man with celery stick limbs and a boiled egg as head and position him in a squeaking rocking chair made of carrot slices, reading a miniature magazine on interior design? Oh yes, indeed I did, sir.
Not a tender sight, not a sweet smell, hard bare lanes, big advertising billboards, brown pollution vapour and scurrying lizards. The list could lengthen into a horrific inventory of my own souped up hell; a static anti-nature that should have me running enraged through the streets with my bare essentials…..and yet, as if destiny would insist on my regular frowns of perplexity I am not sickened and stressed in this environment. In fact, I am perversely satisfied by the experience -not sensually, of course and not masochistically. However,in the abstracted, projected movie of these moments I am simultaneously watching whilst starring in them. I am satisfied by my little hell artistically and the very consideration of the elements, the very wording of the scene, once silently uttered in my head starts to become a source of perplexing joy. The artistic consideration of the scene becomes the main experience not the sensual influx and suddenly, more confusingly, I am right where I want to be.