slag monkey

The station guard was standing under a billboard in which a blonde model in a white bikini sipped a cocktail through a straw. The guard was doing a very poor job of explaining why Charing Cross was closed and why, if I wanted to catch a train at all, I would have to walk to Victoria. Irate male commuters were gathering, demanding information. The guard was being harangued on all sides by testosterone, and I stepped away from it and looked at the billboard blonde. It’s not often you get a chance to stop and really look at a beautiful billboard blonde. I was on the way back to my parents. They said I could stay with them while I got things sorted out.

I took my case and went out through the standing traffic, and as I went under one of those grand arches I noticed some graffiti. In a red scrawl someone had written the words chuff muppet.

Chuff muppet. I walked on and thought about it, without coming to any firm conclusions. Then a little further up under a window, more of the same scrawl. This time it said skunk bunny, and for some reason it made me laugh.

I carried on, smiling to myself, and up ahead I saw a boy. He turned and straightened up as I approached. On the wall behind him someone had written two huge words in red ink.

What are you looking at? said the boy.

Just admiring the artwork, I said.

He looked at me.

It’s funny, I said. And sad. All of these are funny and sad.

I didn’t do it, said the boy.

Ok, I said. I looked at the wall. Chuff muppet, I said. Skunk bunny. What on earth is a skunk bunny anyway?

The boy laughed, just for a second, like a little sman escaping.

This one’s my favourite though, I said.

The boy looked at the wall.

It reminds me of my boyfriend, I said, it sums him up perfectly. You’ll understand one day.

I carried on walking then. I didn’t look back at the boy or the words on the wall, and while I walked everything for a few minutes seemed still and clear.

The train was delayed when I arrived at Victoria. I bought coffee and a slightly dry croissant, and tried to read my book. I couldn’t read. I was very aware of trying to think something definite, but I didn’t know what it was.

Later, on the train, I dozed and thought about names. I thought about the billboard with its young blonde model, and how, very distinctly, the guard had called it Cha-re-an Cross and not Char-ring Cross. At some point I changed my seat and watched things out the window go slowly into the distance instead of rushing by. There was so much and it was all very clear, though I couldn’t tell you why.