Larger Than Life [antikvár]

Are you good enough'? Are you'? Are you thin enough but not too thin'? More Elk Macpherson than Kate Moss? Do you go to the gym? But do you starve yourself? I hope you don't starve yourself because it's so last century to starve yourself Think of the Africans. Don't you? Don't you have a social conscience? Of course you recycle your bottles and your newspapers, but do you reycleyour tins too? I know it's a nuisance and you often cut yourself washing them out and the recycling unit is miles away, but really you should make an ejfort. Where do you get your hair done? Really? Is it expensive? Because it should be expensive, you ought to take pride in yourself but it shouldn't be too expensive, being flash isn't attractive. Are they new boots? Oh, you chose tan. You do know that olive is the new tan, the new brown, the new black. Black is a classic, of course, no matter what the maga^nes say. You do read the magat^nes, don't you? It is important to keep up. How's work going? Been promoted recently? Have you askedfor a pay rise? Well, don't let them exploit you; it's important to know your own worth. But it doesn't do to be greedy. What time did you leave the office last night? Cra^, isn't it. The Brits work longer hours than anyone else in Europe, only the Americans do more. No wonder they're all in therapy. It's important to get time to yourself I could never leave before seven o'clock, though, they depend on me. Your hands are very chapped. I know a good manicurist. Yes, it's the weather and the transport strikes, but what can you do about it? I know a fabulous girl who does a fabulous manicure and pedicure as well It doesn't do to let yourself go. No time. Make time. Do you get out much? Did you see the Tracey Emin? They said she's become appallingjy mainstream. Do you go to the theatre often? Did you catch that one, oh, what's it called? I forget. I don't go back to the office but instead drive to Hyde Park. I park and then walk. And walk. And walk. Stopping only to barf and retch unproductively en route. It's an icy cold January afternoon. There's hardly a soul around, unlike the summer when the park is heaving with revellers. The occasional tramp shuffles by, and I see the odd figure dashing home through the twilight, probably clerks who religiously leave their office at five. Not paid enough, or motivated at all, to stay a minute after clocking-out time. Oblivious to their surroundings, they don't glance left or right — the park is simply something that must be passed through on the way to centrally heated rooms and hot cups of tea. The odd mother rushes by with her toddler in a pushchair. The kids are invariably ugly, tired and dirty. The mothers are aU that, and also harassed. I suppose that pushchairs, previously beneath my notice, will soon become significant to me. Pushchairs and high chairs and baby baths and cots and nappies and it's impossible. It's alien. It's wrong. Where is the unquashable exhilaration that, surely, should be the order of the day? I'd setde for a faint flush of enthusiasm. I walk on. I walk past the Serpentine, the desolate, deserted bandstand and around the Round Pond. I walk up and down. I circle. I walk so much that I'm actually warm even though it's freezing and late. My feet and legs ache. I'm starving. And I feel sick. How's that possible? On balance the hunger is more compelling than the nausea. I'm so desperate that.