a twenty fifth new story...'at amber'

Shirley suggested to go with Sonny to the Grayson Perry exhibition. They had been dating two months. ‘Gray-son Perr-ee’, she said, teasing. Sonny scratched his ass, spat out of the bedroom window. ‘Sure’, he said. ‘You look good in a wife-beater vest’, Shirley replied.

At the gallery Shirley was transfixed from exhibit one. Sonny trudged behind or at her side like a child in a supermarket forced to accompany his mother shopping. In fairness, Shirley thought, Sonny only represented the average ‘art punter’, the kind who treated the experience as if it were a trip to Sainsbury’s, flouncing along the aisles, or perhaps Whole Foods (did anyone flounce in Whole Foods?), stopping as long to consider reconstituted animals entombed in plastic as deconstructed human beings a la Picasso in oils … Then there was Hirst!

Still, Sonny wasn’t one to pretend. And she knew he would say to friends after a few beers later on that the experience was ‘boring’ and again that was fair enough she decided; he had at least agreed to come.

They were stood in front of three golden pots, each depicting full-bosomed, fat-bottomed women from the community. Shirley had never considered pottery as sculpture before, while at the same time she felt sure Sonny was eying up the portrait of Kate Moss – Gah! Someone you could hang your coat off! Sonny leaned close, whispered: ‘my old school teacher is here’. ‘You went to school?’, Shirley chided. ‘Yes’, said Sonny and poked her in the ribs.

‘What did you think of the Alzheimer’s piece?’, asked Shirley, sipping wine at a nearby bar. It had been her favourite. ‘The what?’, asked Sonny’. ‘I thought it emphasised the importance of shared memory in relationships’, said Shirley. Behind them a waitress was mopping up a spillage and an old man sat forevermore alone in a dusty corner with rescue dog (?). ‘Interesting’, said Sonny, he was trying again now that they were out of the subdued hush and rustle of the gallery, with drink.

‘By the way’, said Shirley, ‘Why didn’t you say ‘hi’ to your old teacher?’. A big red London bus trundled passed the bar window. ‘Like you said’, Sonny replied, took a long draught of his beer, wiped his top lip, ‘… shared memories’. ‘You didn’t like him?’, asked Shirley. ‘I’ve tried to forget him, let’s say’. ‘Why? Did he break your little boy dream of being a Premier League footballer?’, said Shirley, wryly, then somewhat regretted it. Sonny shifted on his barstool, let his elbows rest on the table. ‘It’s worse than that’, he said.

CHILD ABUSE?! Shirley’s panicked mind shrieked. Bloody Paediatricians! Buried young bones under cold hard stones! Harold Ship - ?

‘He sold the school donkey’, Sonny interjected, rubbed furiously under his eye.

‘Who are you?!’ Shirley exclaimed, relieved and surprised.

‘They used to call me ‘the horse-whisperer’’ said Sonny, and Shirley burst out laughing.

Phew!

Sonny grinned.

‘He’s sweet like a character from Winnie the Pooh!’, Shirley gushed drunkenly to girlfriends at Amber the same evening.