Sunday, 19 June 2011


It was whilst beachcombing for shoes that I came across a headless woman, washed up on the sand. Contemplating her I thought of the blonde I’d met earlier (never did manage to persuade her to change her surname to Hammer). She works with patients who’ve suffered a brain injury.'You mean she's a head specialist?' 'No.'
Texted her – informed her that shoe-space and golf-ball space are inextricably linked. Texted her again: ‘what’s your shoe size (in English size not continental)? No reply, so I text her again saying, ‘fill your shoe with golf balls and you’ll see that the number balls you can fit into the shoe will be equal to the shoe size’. Eighteen months later she texts me saying, she needs some ‘headspace’; I’m hanging off a boulder when it comes through… loosing the arms race.
I continue along the seashore, trying to recall all the blondes I know from memory: Jimmy Saville, Andy Warhol, Boris Johnson, Ulrika Johnson, Klaus Kinski, Mira Hindley, Dick – ‘you are awful, but I like you’ – Emery, Martin Kippenberger, Kurt Cobain, Vitus Gerulaitis, Marlon Brando, Jill Dando.
Reading back over the list now, my blondes from memory, they were all nutters, with the exception of newsreader Jill Dando, who was shot in the head by a nutter.
I trip over toddler’s shoe - size two. Remove my hat and insert two golf balls into the shoe, and with the shoe being size 2 there was of (golf) course only room for two. 

To be continued...

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