The Artist

I’d painted until my arms ached and my eyes stung. Worth every minute. The finished pictures were stunning, even if I say so myself.

The gallery thronged with art connoisseurs. Oh, joy!

They crowded around the unmade bed covered in fag ends and empty bottles. Oh, misery!

Once home, I drank a bottle of wine, ate yesterday’s half-eaten sandwich, lit cigarette after cigarette.

Discovering my wrecked bed on waking, I cheered somewhat. All I needed was a used condom and, hey presto, I’d have created the perfect piece of art.

Full of renewed enthusiasm, I crawled under the bed.