Brixton, a kitchen where cabinets hang off their hinges and cupboard doors
where other people’s tea, sugar, pasta, condiments, and –
well it depends whose particularly – display themselves to the viewer,
not allowed to touch. Unless of course you replace it!
A girl comes down in a thin, bright with flowers, polyester kimono. Her hair is everywhere in total disarray: “I love it,” says Tira, her Balkan house boss. It is supposed to be, according to this potential theatre director and fashion designer, expressive. The girl sits down, rather flops down, in a chair occupying a compromised space, between the table and the wall.
“What’s wrong with me, Tira? Why can’t I get up till two?”
“Well” – Tira was always a great inspirator, always had some explination – “you’re a post-68 child! You were brought up on the philosophy that love does it all and you were never taught the consequences of your actions. You need to do the dishes and wash your underwear and learn to do the things you don’twant to do.” [...]