Fagburn: Marilyn & Me

I often spend my afternoons looking round charity shops.
It's my favourite thing to do.
I have measured out my life seeing other people's old coffee spoons.
I guess it's like how straight men go fishing or trainspotting.
Pleasantly idling, mind just for once relaxed, never knowing what you may find.
At last! Nothing to do.

Today I saw this round the corner - and screen-printed vinyl all stretched over a framed wooden canvas, proper gorge.
None of your rubbish.
It's up high and I can't see the price.
"How much is that?"
The man goes and gets a step-ladder.
I feel guilty already.
He peers; "£10".
"Really? You should charge more for that."
Do I really need this?
No.
Can I afford it?
No.
(At the back of my mind I worry it's just a gay cliché).
So I go.

So I go home and think about how much I love Andy Warhol ("He's your favourite modern artist. you stupid fuck...") and how great she would look in my dingy, dull, drab bedroom.
And how I really like the colours.
That red, that red, that gorgeous red.

So I go back to the charity shop five minutes later.
"Sorry," I say, apropos of nothing, but I'm English. "But I'd like to buy it now."
The woman at the till - she's new - she calls downstairs; "That gentleman's come back. He wants the painting of Marlene Dietrich."
The queeny man comes up the stairs and takes the picture down.
"We just put the price up... but seeing as it's you..."

I love Brighton.
Andy would be proud.
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