Last week I discovered a massive bruise on my knee. A proper, old school bruise the presence of which inferred that I must have spent the previous few days climbing trees and pelting boys with conkers as a declaration of my love. (This is, in fact, how I managed to woo Jason. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it).
Instead of alphabetising the Manga section at work.
It was so unexpected that when I discovered it I actually thought it was ink and gave it a proper mum scrub (i.e. licked my finger and poked at it vigorously) before shouting; ‘Aaargh!’ when I realised that I was gravely injured and might never play the piano again.
It was likely to be ink due to the fact that during an intense painting session earlier in the day I had accidentally upended an entire bottle of sepia ink all over the table and only noticed when it started making plangent, splashing noises on the (thankfully) wooden floor under the desk.
But no. It was, and remains a spectacular bruise, which I am enjoying watching as it goes through all the colours of the bruise spectrum. I briefly thought of starting an Instagram account for it, it has provided me with so much entertainment. If this had happened in lockdown you know I surely would have. The devil makes work for idle knees etc.
Spending a lot of time pondering my knee has led me to think about performance art (as you do). How does one become a performance artist? Is there a trajectory that starts with a great bruise and ends with you repeatedly trapping your tit in a drawer while gallerists hurl the Turner Prize at your lightly bandaged head?
I am, I am fairly sure, mild dyspraxic and have a fatal inability to tell left from right. It has, over the years, led to a series of physical misadventures, some of which still make me flush hot with remembered shame.
That time I decided to play football with a boy I fancied, for example. I ran towards the ball, went to kick it and yet somehow found myself precariously balanced on top of the ball like a deranged seal for a hot second before my feet went out from under me and I landed flat on my back on the grass, winded and wishing for death.
He did, after he had finished laughing until he cried, actually go out with me, mind you.
As did the girls’ dad after I went on a date with him to a fancy wine bar and ended up throwing an entire glass of red wine into the air, whereupon it descended on my head and trickled gently through my elaborate up-do for some minutes.
Clearly there is a theme emerging.
As both relationships ended fairly disastrously however, what I’m learning here is not that I should have used my physical ineptitude to bring all the boys to my yard but taken a leaf out of Marina Abramovic’s book and started a new career.
There is still time, and what with the added infirmity of old age hot on my doddering heels, that Turner prize could still be mine.
Maybe I will start that Instagram account after all.