Rust in peace.

Rusty called this morning.

He is giving up show business he said. What he meant by that was that he was giving up hanging around burlesque stage doors waiting for Babs.

He is moving to New Mexico with Lula-Mae in order to write that novel.

'Which novel?' I asked him.

'You know Jan'. He replied. 'That novel I ain't never going to get round to finishing'.

'I've got one of those'. I told him. 'Yup' He said. 'That's where I got the Idea from'.

Accessing poetry.

I am concerned that younger generations find Classical poetry inaccessible. To that end I have taken liberties with ' La belle dame sans merci'.

The merciless bitch

Hey dude, why so down
and you're looking fucking white man
things are cool
stuffs happening.

I met a chick, hot as hell
mix of goth and EMO
she took me to her grotty flat
did MDMA and vodka
she spiked my drink
I think we fucked
I really can't remember

Then I woke up here man
in the gutter
I've lost my wallet
and my Bloc Party ticket


Bitch

Art, lies, nothing.

Boy did it rain yesterday. I haven't seen rain like that since I last read a Somerset Maugham story.

Maugham was a shit but a great story teller. Whenever I think of that man It confirms in me the need to separate the artist from his work.

I have the same issue with a muse; she was a great muse but not a great human being. Every word she spoke was a lie but such was her own self belief that her lies were utterly convincing.

Her beauty was so great that even when her lies were exposed she was forgiven especially by those people living simillar sorts of lies.

I thought I could cure her of her lying by letting her see that she was loved for what she really was. 'I'll try to stop lying'. She lied.

That muse caused me to produce some of my greatest work. But after she had gone (she got fed up with the truth; it wasn't comfortable) I went to the canvases and notebooks to review my work.

There was nothing there.

Lost things and loved.

I lost a cat yesterday.

The black and white one. It was not here in the morning, clamouring to be fed alongside the brown one and the grey one.

I phoned a friend to ask what I should do. She said there is nothing you can do, just wait and she will return. Cats are like that.

Sure enough the black and white cat was here this morning, looking a bit tired but well enough.

How I wish a lost, well loved friend could be returned to me as easily.

Missing the muse.

Sitting in the Westbourne surrounded by Meeja types talking about scandinavian golf clubs by the sound of it; Norwegian woods.

Missing my muse but not missing the human being that my muse used as avatar this most recent time. My inner therapist is pushing me to turn to my inner woman for inspiration but she is such a slut that I fear that she could only inspire filth.

I am 'house sitting' for friends for a couple of days; feeding the livestock (3 cats, 1 chicken) and warding off burglars. The chicken eyes the feedbag hungrily not noticing how I eye the chicken hungrily. However such is my frailty I fear that I would come off worse if it came to a fight.

Another string to Fluentes' bow.

Fluente Maiales writes from mexico; he's had enough of the pig factory and is reinventing himself as a rock musician. He tells me he is fusing electronic sounds with traditional Mexican folk music.

He calls it Tech Mex!

Brian Patten, the Stranglers and the Roundhouse.

Years ago, it must have been the70's, I, along with friends now long forgotten came down to London to see the Stranglers at the Roundhouse in Camden. On the way in I noticed a flyer advertising a reading Brian was doing downstairs that same night, To my friends horror I went to hear Brian Patten while they pogo'd upstairs.

A year or so ago I had a beer with Hugh Cornwell of the Stranglers; I told him of that night and of my decision.

'You made the right choice'. He said.

ttp://www.brianpatten.co.uk/One_another_s_light.html

Poetry, George Best and Rock n Roll.

They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.

Nonsense.

Poetry has been around since Man's earliest grunts while Rock arrived with Bill Hailey and others in the 1950's.

Rock has for a while rather flashily stolen the ball and monopolized the pitch (like George Best crashing a sunday game in the park) But rock will burn itself out from decadent excess; the poets will kick the ball into touch for a moments silence before getting on with the game.

Once again a Nightingale will dazzle on the wing.

They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.

Write about a rock star

write about his vices

write about his fall from grace

his mid life crisis

write about a rock star

dress him up in sequins

rock n roll ain't a world

in which Joe Meek wins

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about the cocaine

do a line of cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk about the cocaine

talk abou... Oh buddy

push the needle on

and write about a rock star

sing it when you're done

sing it to a techno beat

badum badum badum

(guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

fuck about with rhythm

rip your verses into strips

then mess about with em

write about beat writers

take it out on the road

sing about street fighters

and unpack your heavy load

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

write another poem buddy go buddy go

sing another poem buddy go buddy go

kill another poem buddy go buddy go

It's all write muse. I'm only dissin' my ho for attention.

Out of control

I spent the day yesterday having the longest lunch imaginable discussing Bono's role in Irish future heritage (there's a thought) and afterwards renewing old friendships, rebuilding bridges and extinguishing burning boats.

I did find time to write down (really on the back of an envelope) the chorus for a song:

Lying to me was the only honest thing she done

Lyings with me she aint doing now she's gone

After a night in watching romcoms

She went out to buy some condoms

Now it's 10 past 12 at the 7/11 of love

Tin Pan Alley

Tristan will be reading some of what he calls his 'stuff' at BEAT on Tuesday night. It starts at 9.00 pm

He promises me that he will keep it lighthearted.

I shall of course be going to lend my support.

This weekly event is organized by Andreas Grant and is Where it is at as another generation might have put it.

Haunted

Talking with a friend the other day we pondered upon the possibility of Returning after death in order to haunt someone.

It occured to me that I have already returned here from a previous life in order to haunt myself...

I certainly seem to know how to scare myself witless.

Metaphors and venison pie in the Cow Notting Hill

What the hell. I'm going to take a cavalier attitude to puctuation today. The Italian girl wont like it but there we go.


The other thing we got talking about last night was 'the bullet in the balls' as a film metaphor for homosexuality or for a man being dominated by a woman.


We ate very good venison pie and drank too much beer and it was one of those nights when everyone turned up and the Cow became a party and I soon forgot all the stuff I was going to write so I'm having to make do with writing about the stuff i forgot to remember..


The Cow

book on a pub table and Lula Mae.

I had forgotten what a catalyst a book on a pub table can be.

I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the plain at the moment and last night in the Cow it got us onto a whole raft of topics including Hemingways sexuality and how hollywood addressed 'the love that could not be named' in the old days. Rock Hudson of course appeared in the conversation as did Heathcliffe and sad old M Bovary.

No mention of Brokeback Mountain though.

The book also got me thinking of Lula Mae in her gingham chaps... I hear she is on her way to Tucson Arizona.

A woman from chicago picked up the book and asked questions about McCarthy, whom she had never read. I of course waxed lyrical.

Friends and the bag woman.

The desire to write is back... but what to write about is a problem. I could write about the fraudulent Moll but that wouldn't be fair... Yet.

I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.

And 'Heads'... I'm back.

How it is

I am about to be hated but I am about to save my life.

I'd rather be alive and hated than dead and patronised.

You would not believe the shit I am having to go through at the moment so that Moll the bag lady can
maintain her reputation.

Please have patience. I will be back.

Hot dog

Postcards from Rusty. No. 23

Rusty writes from Panic, Michegan. Frankly I do not believe that the image on the card is where he says it is.

He tells me that nurse Caz has left him for a snake oil salesman from Tupelo. He is returning to England.

Correct toothpaste procedure during courting.

She said, laughing, let's brush our teeth together and by the time I got to the bathroom candles were lit and the light sparkled in the many mirrors.

she watched with burgeoning affection as I squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube while I thought to myself; 'how much time will pass before I am admonished for squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and nagged into squeezing from the end.

give me a cuddle, she said some time later, not a hard one but a long squeeze. so I squeezed her round the waist and told her that she would always be my toothpaste tube and that I would squeeze her for ever. All the while thinking to myself 'how long will this last.

And sure enough one day she pulls away and says: 'Dont squeeze me like that, if you squeeze me in the middle I'll be obliged to nag...

If only you were a foot fetishist, then you'd squeeze me right.

So I never squeezed her in the middle again and over the years the 'waist' which I had squeezed Into her dissapeared and she became tube shaped from all of my foot squeezing.

The only physical contact we have now is her monthly pedicure.

I noticed the other day that she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and has always done so.

I daren't point this out to her.

Natural history.

Some time ago while watching a TV programme about the Humbolt current Nurse Caz pressed the pause button and said:

Jannie, I never had a teddy bear as a child. I had a sea lion.

I didn't have a teddy bear either. Or a sea lion... I had a rock, a black rock.

I found it in the shed by the kitchen door when I had first started to walk. I took it into the house and very quickly formed an attachment to that black rock but my mother took it from me and threw it on the fire.

I cried for a while at the loss of my only friend but soon returned to the shed near the kitchen door and found myself another 'friend' with which to play. my mother equally as speedily threw that friend on the fire.

This process continued for some weeks until I was fast enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother started putting the black rocks into a basket beside the fire place. She called me 'Mummies clever little helper' although I could not see how it could be construed as clever to burn all of my friends.

Since then I have found it impossible to form lasting relationships.

but i am known for my splendid coal fires.

Window shopping and lardy cake.

Women can be cruel.

This morning I informed Moll that I would be spending a couple of happy hours window shopping followed by a light lunch with my 'yummy mummy' pals.

'They only want you there to spend all your money on lunch, otherwise they wouldn't be interested in you'. she said cruelly.

How wrong you are Moll.

Oh! for lunch I shall be having an egg white omelette and a glass of water followed by a lardy cake.

Molls 60's acid flashback.

I quite like avocado suites says moll they dont bother me at all, imagine it combined with purple it would be lovely.

The end of the lighthouse keeper.

I am reminded of lighthouse keepers.

And the sad fact that suicide is rife within the profession.

But there are no lighthouse keepers any longer I hear you say.

That is the problem. when automation was introduced the resident keepers were laid off and obliged to return to their wives and families.

Constant nagging and demands for DIYing come as a shock after years of solitude on a storm lashed rock.

They yearn for the constant nagging of the waves and and the demands of filling the oil lamps.

And then there are the rumours of fully manned lighthouses punctuating the seas and oceans of the afterlife.

And that Charons on board hospitality is provided by Grace Darling.

'Untie me from the mast, shipmates'. the redundant lighthouse keeper cries. 'I can hear the foghorn siren call and I must to her, to the lonely sea and the sky. All I need is my tall tower and my star to steer ships by'.

Orthodoxing Day.

Moll is no fool.

Her christmas day occurs in early January.

'Why so late?' I ask her.

'To take advantage of readily available natural resources'. She replies... 'A good selection of free christmas trees litter the streets (some of them part decorated), the recycling bins are full of wrapping paper, the charity shops full of cheap gift ideas.In the supermarkets mince pies and Christmas puddings are at a knock down price to make room for easter eggs (great stocking fillers in themselves) and there are no mile long queues at the checkout.

Another plus is the fact that the transport system works sufficiently well which means that there is no need for guests to stay overnight; they can leave shortly after the After Eights and well before my boredom threshold.'

'Not very orthodox!' I tell her.

'Au contraire sweetheart'. she says. 'It has long been the norm within the Greek Orthodox Church. which is one of the reasons why I was drawn to that strand of christianity'.

'What other reasons were there, Moll'? I ask.

She says nothing. Then a coy smile lights up her face and she glances sideways at the photograph of Archbishop Makarios attached to the fridge by a bagel shaped magnet...

Hogmanic tumbleweed.

Something to ponder over a well sucked humbug:

The start of the new year heralds the arrival of of the mysterious urban tumbleweeds that plague our streets for a week or two. The local authorities will do their best to clear the damn things away, but not before they distribute their seeds in the minds of small children and romantic adults, ready to germinate at the beginning of December.

Perfection and striped shirts.

Tristan called today in a state of great excitement.

'I have the answer to the perfect poem'. He tells me. I have hemingwayed one of my best ones until there is nothing there and all that is left for the performer is a series of body movements... It is sublime.

No Tristan, I replied... It is mime.

A train intrudes... But slowly.

Sadly (but inevitable sometimes) the realities of life have taken up much of my time lately; illness, death, lack of work and domestic worries have all contributed to a rather depressing time.

But hey ho, upwards and onwards. it is time to bring out the dunkirk spirit, dust off the old stiff upper lip and head towards the light at the end of the tunnel...

Probably an oncoming train though...

fortunately this is England and any oncoming train will be glued to the track by snow and oncoming nowhere, in any way other than abstract wishful thinking, for the forseeable future.

A good time to play 'chicken' then!

snow in Portobello.

Freia X Fisher. A very sad day..

FREIA X FISHER. 2.01.1976 - 2.01.2010

Blocked.

I know I am following a road well travelled but it is painfull none the less.

Blocked. Unable to write, focusing on the block which compounds the problem.

I hope the new year brings inspiration... Anything will do.

The torture of a tortoise.

Met up with friends (I shall call them Mr and Mrs X for their own protection) at the village green yesterday and I naturally asked after the health of Linford.

Linford is a tortoise.

I was told that Linford is not allowed to hibernate, much to his chagrin.

Mrs x tells me that it is important that the little fellow stays awake for his first winter otherwise he might develop some problems. I would imagine that keeping a tortoise awake against his wishes is going to cause some pretty serious psychological problems let alone the foul temper.

Mrs x went on to explain that she gives it hot baths regularly as well as allowing the children to prod it, sing to it, dress it up and decorate it.

I took a look at Linford; he did not look happy.

just very, very sleepy.

But, on the bright side he is one of the very few tortoises to have seen a christmas tree or felt the splot of a snowball on his shell.

Cabin fever, murder and flight.

The 'flu has passed leaving me weak and listless. The only good to come from it has been the extraordinary hallucinations that have visited me in my sleepless nights.

Being housebound with only the bag lady for company has led to the inevitable; we are at each others throats. Neither of us will dare drop our guard lest the other attacks with a broken bottle or carving knife.
I hear her late at night sharpening things. There is a book on poisons open on her bedside table. Open at the chapter on nicotine poisoning.

She is Googling 'hit men'.

I believe there is some kind of symbolism in her choice of flatware that she bring my lunch on.

I for my part am hoarding apple pips having read that they are (in large doses) deadly. How I am going to get her to consume 8 Kilos of the things is something i have yet to work out.

I must escape... I thought of going to France but the Eurostar trains have all broken down, B A is on strike, the airports are all closed due to asuggestion of snow and traffic is at a standstill on the roads.

I must find refuge!

Cauliflower, corporal punishment and coke.

I felt a little better today so offered to cook for Moll.

There was a cauliflower in the coldbox so I decided to make cauliflower cheese. I thought it a good one; made with a good bechemel sauce, bacon and 3 kinds of cheese. Then sprinkled with breadcrumbs and parmesan and baked in the oven.

Moll (who's tastebuds have deserted her) thought it bland and inedible.

To me it called up my schooldays and was redolent of headmasters (Eric Forrester) study as he brought out his cane for the first and only time in our relationship.

'I am going to have to give you six'. He said. 'It will I am sure give you no joy and hopefully an amount of pain. On the other hand I shall derive a great deal of pleasure from it'.

My crime? My crime was to have written CUNT in weedkiller on his lawn a few days earlier. Is it my fault that I am dyslexic and was only attempting to demonstrate my knowledge of early British kings.

I feel sorry for the kids these days who have to explain FCUK to their dyslexic teachers. But at least the teachers are not allowed corporal punisnhment and they must look after their pupils as they are probably their coke dealers as well.

Is it not ironic that it is now our educators who have the learning difficulties. They have problems understanding that there is no point in an education any longer.

Best to keep drones in the dark.

Irony in a pig factory.

Fluente Maiales writes from Mexico: His career as the worlds only professional Mexican waver is in tatters. The fear of swine flu among event organizers means that all of his gigs for the christmas period have been cancelled.

Ironically he has been forced back to working in the American pork products factory on the outskirts of his village.

'So'. said the overseer when he went back to work in the pig fat rendering vats. 'I see you are no longer waving Fluente but merely drowning'!

Nurse dreams in a potting shed.

When the pig flu struck Moll thought it best that she nurse me at her place... I arrived at her little home with my overnight bag and my hopes raised. She said she had built the place herself and I was curious to see her home. Needless to say I was not dissappointed with her 'Pretty Palace' as she called it.

Her cooking was somewhat agricultural and her nursing skills tantamount to mental cruelty but fortunately such was the virulence of the 'flu I soon fell through a hole in reality and entered a new world of delirium where everyone perspired noisily and conversation consisted of grunts and snorts.

At the height of my fever Nurse Caz visited me in my sick bed.

She hasn't lost her looks.

I feel that the worst is over and I shall soon be in full command of my faculties

Pig flu

It appears that I have swine-flu. No joke...

Motoring with Tiger Woods.

I have just spent a few days in Florida, trying to get a bit of heat into my aching bones.

while there I had a beer or two with an old friend Tiger. In fact we had too many beers and I told tiger there was no way he was driving.


'That's cool.' He said. 'I've got a driver.'


He climed into the passenger seat, started the car and while steering with his left hand pressed the accellerator pedal with a golf club.


The result was inevitable.

Greed

A foot fetish explained.

I, like a lot of people come from a broken home

But ours didn't break when the old man left

It broke much much later than that.

When the old man left things were hard

Mum worked in bars and pubs, did cleaning; anything she could find to keep us.

We lived in a one bedroom flat

Mum slept on the sofa in the living room

My sister and I slept in the same bed in the tiny bedroom

Head to toe.

I spent twelve years in that bed with my sister

Head to toe

I came to know her feet intimately

I knew every inch, every pore, every crease, every nail, every callous.

I learned to tell the seasons by the colour of her toes

I learned to tell her moods by the colour of her polish

I loved her feet

They were the first thing I saw in the morning

The last thing I saw at night.

We did everything in that bed together

Head to toe

Homework, super Nintendo, reading, hobbies, laughing, crying

I taught her to whistle

She taught me to knit.

I gave her hand knitted socks each Christmas

She whistled in admiration.

She taught me chiropody

I taught her reflexology

I gave her pedicures for her birthday

She cured my acne

I loved her feet.

Then one day, mum was out and that awful thing happened

The police called

There had been an accident, a girl , thought to be my sister had been knocked down by a truck

Would I go, in my mothers absence

To identify the body.

At the hospital the body was still in a bed covered by a sheet.

The doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the dead girls head.

I exhaled with relief and said: No this is not my sister

My sisters head is at the other end of her body.

She never did come home though. Not after that.

But I found comfort in her shoes.

Rusty, tumbleweed and Envy.

Another postcard from Rusty. It was mailed from Envy, Texas but I imagine he has moved on from there. He writes:

Tumbleweed; that symbol of the Hollywood Western did not in fact arrive in North America until the 1870's. It arrived from Russia mixed in with flax seeds.

Did the Russians do it on purpose? http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/921218/

Studio talk

Jolyon my studio assistant was in a garrulous mood last night and we sat up late talking. 'Have you ever been in love'. I asked him.

He said: Many years ago, when I was in my youth, I lived with an older woman; she was very beautiful and in demand. but I too was beautiful and in demand back then so everything seemed harmonious.

Until I said one night in bed: 'I love you.'

Don't say that she said. It is just a licence for me to abuse you.

why is that? I asked. Although I already knew the answer.

'Because'. She said. 'The first person ever to tell me he loved me then went on to abuse me and I now associate love with abuse and abuse with love... I would rather associate with shallow people who have no real feelings for me because they are safe and I am not obliged to form a real relationship with them.

'But you will get old'. I told her. 'And be alone and unwanted.

'So what'. She said. 'I will just commit suicide!'

'No you won't' I said. 'you will continue to behave as if you were a young woman and you will continue to ignore the people who really love you because they will not lie to you. And the eurotrash company you crave, because you buy into that shit, the eurotrash company will move on to the next generation and the people who really love you will have given up in exasperation.

And of course your father will be dead by then and by then it will be too late.



'Too late for what?' she asked.

'Too late to tell you I love you.'

Lost coat update

That bloody coat has got lost again.

One expects to lose kittens or small children. One expects to lose wives, girlfriends, patience, ones temper, ones bearings.

But how can a coat lose itself with such regularity. I can only assume that it is careless.

This is the last time that I saw the thing was when it was being manhandled by a karate expert from Calgary.

It was being given the chop!

Romance

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The first time I saw her

I thought

She has been unlucky

She was the most beautiful girl in the clinic

The second time I saw her

I thought

She had been careless

The beautiful girl in the clinic

The third time I saw her

I thought

She was promiscuous or worse

That girl in the clap clinic.　

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The fourth time I saw her

I thought

Stupid me, she is a doctor.

I approached her then and said

Doctor

You are the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic.

She replied:

I'm not a doctor

I'm unlucky

I'm careless

I'm promiscuous

or worse.

But I feel that is about to change.

We left the clinic hand in hand

Separated by the thickness of a surgical glove.

Later, much later as we lay

Her head on my chest her hair in my face

the scent of hibiscrub filling the white room.

I said I love you

And she said don't love me

I am unlucky

I an careless

I am promiscuous

or worse

And nothing has changed.

BEAT

Tristan will be performing at Marquis Andreas Grant's BEAT at Peter Parkers Rock n Roll club. 4 Denmark Street, Soho. Tuesday 1st December. 7.00 - 11.00pm.

I shall be there of course. If only to heckle! http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=197528849848&ref=nf

Penpal

Years ago I had a penpal. His name was Bill and he lived in America.
We wrote to each other once a week. We did this for years.

Bill told me that soon there would be no need of letters (he was what you would call a bit of a geek), that we would communicate electronically through the ether. And would be able to have real time conversations.

I said: Bill. you are full of shit. That will never happen in my lifetime.

We stopped writing soon after that.

I wonder what became of Bill?

facebook

She thought he thought she was unfaithful, Watched her like a hawk

She complained as she poked her Facebook lover

Who poked her back

Unknowingly

from across the room

As he poked his facebook mistress

A fairly typical dream scene

Auto maintenance and feng-shui

Moll asked me to accompany her to her weekly Auto maintenance class. I will not be doing that again. Arriving home I remembered that I had been sent a link some time ago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpTpJc0RGPo Thanks Heads!

What do you think Moll? I asked.

It's African isn't it. Nice. she replied. As she sorted through old Christmas decoration catalogues.

She then found a Feng-Shui plan for her appartment. At present I am sitting in the marriage area. Intelligence is in the lavatory... Can't say that I believe too much of this hokum.

Domestic scene.

He said: I am fully aware of my shortcomings. I know I have no ambition, no money, no hope of money. I know I'm unattractive to you, that I'm no good in bed (not that you will let me into your bed) and I do not dress stylishly enough for you. I know that my friends are not people that you would choose as friends. My taste is not up to much and I eat crap food.I drink too much when stressed and do not deal with things the way you would. My friends tell me to move on. Find another woman. One that doesn't treat me like shit. but I say I love this woman and they say 'I give up'. I say 'we are both getting older, have idiosyncracies that no-one else would tolerate for more than three months. We are ideally suited.'

She said: Look son. You are 54 years old. You are going to have to leave home one day.

Rain, pornography, coincidence.and Dungeness.

The rain is relentless.

I decline Moll's offer of her pink umbrella and suffere the consequences as I attempt to travel across London by means of public transport; the tube system is truly awful and explains the miserable demeanour of it's occupants.

On the street I no longer get any satisfaction from splashing through the puddles although my preference for Converse in all weather probably has something to do with that. Moll is on at me constantly to get some work boots with steel toecaps...

Surely the toecaps will rust in this climate.

Moll is posing for another artist. Typical; she knows I am blocked, unable to write, yet she dresses in loose clothes (so as not to leave elastic marks) and heads off for Mayfair in order to inspire another.

I walk her to the underground station and on the way she finds a couple of discarded photographs lying damply in the street. Is this where you found the pornography the other day? I ask.

Somewhere near here. She says, passing me an old poloroid of two sisters standing fully and impeccably dressed on a beach.
I glance at the photograph then look again in shock. Moll notices my hand trembling. What is it? she asks.
I am too distressed to tell her that it is a photograph of Tilly and Buddy, daughters of a woman named Agat who had been my muse many years ago . I had once possesed an almost identical photo (probably taken the same day) of the girls.
Agat had traced me and sent the photograph with a note that read:
'The girls at Dungeness.'