I bought six postcards at the Tate Modern last week, each featuring a different artist.
I’ve written a very short story on the back of each one. No, I didn’t realise Jan Carson has already done it.
It’s a fun exercise, so I thought I’d post the results here. Today’s is Sarah Lucas, Self Portrait with Fried Eggs.
If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.
Boiled or Fried?
How did he like his eggs in the morning? Today, a side of shells would do.
The fat bubbled.
Three days AWOL, but she’d come back. He’d found her at the bottom of the stairs.
He wasn’t angry. All was forgiven. He’d offered her breakfast, hadn’t he?
So what about her reaction to, “Boiled or Fried?” A half-arsed kick at her cigarettes was something.
The fat spat and caught his arm hair.
It was years ago. They hadn’t even been married.
He’d give her one more chance to forget it. Across the kitchen he shouted, “Where the fuck have you been?”
No response.
He gripped the pan tighter. She probably still wanted some breakfast, didn’t she?
Instead of eggs, how about a little snap, crackle and pop?
His flicked wrist sent two eggs, soaked in dripping, straight onto her chest.
His accuracy surprised; her indifference did not.
