The girl next door calls herself Puppy and didn't make it as a stripper. She punches the boys and runs away. She poses for alternative erotica, all gas masks and kitchen knives, and she passes the photos round at parties. She is my spring sweetheart, although she doesn't know it yet. I like to have a fresh obsession in April, and the more irritating the object, the greater the frisson.
In fact, I feel the need for a full set of new pastimes this year. Handicrafts and recreational drugs are so 2009. I'll start with canal paths, and the haunting of them. I am drawn to canal paths. Nothing good ever happens there, among the jaundiced willows and the bones of prams. They are shortcuts to horror and filth, nyxy snickets to the silted heart of rupture.
I'll write about the canal paths to my new Imaginary Penpal. Her name will be Butterface Tupps and we'll swap charcuterie in hand-painted jiffy bags. It'll cost a fortune in stamps, but I never begrudge an investment in fun.
I might try and invent a new type of porn. I grow weary of holes. I might make Gormenghast out of toilet roll tubes, and I will definitely switch allegiance to sloe gin, but what I would like to do most of all this spring if find the thing, the meta-idea, the one true story that will bind all my past endeavours together. I have been collecting curiosities for too long now. I need to find a cabinet big enough for all the monkeys and monsters, the odd gods and unsavoury vittles, the human-faced cats and rutting clowns.
It's a tough one. I wonder what Butterface thinks.