Thursday, 2 August 2012
Mrs P is going to clean my apartment. Monika is doing the translating. But instead of agreeing the cleaning schedule and wedge we are talking about Mrs P’s late father who died in the war fighting the fascist Arrow Cross. Monika’s English isn’t too good either and it becomes rather hard work. There was a head? No, bread – in the tree where your father hid? Ah, I see.
Suddenly a gust of wind hits the alley and the cream-painted front door of Sex Shop opens out to reveal a hole-in-the-wall place. Monika and Mrs P have their back to me so can’t see what I can: that hanging from the inside of the door is an inflatable doll. Only it is deflated. Result: the doll looks a sort of Belsen concentration camp prostitute – horribly emaciated, wrinkled dull flesh with scraggy pubes and yard-dog breasts, accentuated by outrageously rouged nipples. The doll’s mouth is, I think, designed to form an “O” but because all the air has gone out of her she has developed a warped, wry smile.
I christen her Edna Popup.