Mses Prim & Proper had got tickets
for the local art and waxworks exhibition and they were very excited.
Ms Proper was kitted out in a demure
twin set complete with a matching pearl necklace and earrings whilst Ms Prim
was wearing an elegant Laura Ashley dress with a fascinator.
“A fascinator?” frowned Proper, “we’re
not going to Ascot!”
Prim blew the feathers out of her eyes.
“Well, we’re going to be mixing with
high brow people, we’ve got to look the part,” she said, “ I hear Mr
Rich-B’Stard and Mr Snobb, the art critics and other celebrities are going to
be there.”
“You better keep out of their way, you
know nothing about art or wax,” said Proper disparagingly.
“And you do?”
“I got a candle-making kit one Christmas
and made candles and put them all around the house. I also won third prize for
my picture of a crow in Year 7,” declared Proper, proudly.
“That Christmas,” cried Prim, rolling
her eyes,” you set fire to the curtains in the living room and your picture of
a crow looked strangely like Ms Head-Butt, the PE teacher, and she had you
doing extra laps around the field for your trouble.”
“I’ve moved in important circles, Prim.”
“The Book Circle, the Stitch & Bitch
Circle, the Green Fingers Circle, The Menopause Circle, the Bible Circle, the
Ping-Pong Circle and the Swingers Circle,” replied Prim, counting on her
fingers.
“Aah, the Swingers,” said Proper, adding some blusher
to her cheeks, “I thought it was a gymnastics club!”
Soon the ladies were in a black cab,
dressed in their finery, ready for an evening of art and wax.
As they arrived they were greeted by Mr
Mick Angel ,one of the exhibitors who lead them to his display.
It was a row of empty milk bottles.
“So what you do think?” he said
“ Pragmatic quirk, with just the right
hint of aesthetics,” replied Proper. She’d been swotting up on the jargon.
“I see you’re a connoisseur, my dear,”
said Mick Angel fawning.
“My learned companion is more of a Bacardi
kind of gal and mine’s a Baby cham,” said Prim.
Proper gave Prim a swift kick.
“I don’t indulge usually but I can make
an exception this time,” said Proper, admiring his bone structure.
“And what you think of this piece of
fine art?” asked Mick Angel, his eyes fixed on Prim’s cleavage.
“Foamy, frothy and sweet!” said Prim
noticing that Mick Angel was getting a little hot under the collar, “ breasts
are useful in the production of milk.”
Mick Angel’s face was flushed as he
gazed adoringly at the soft, flesh on display.
“Let’s move on,” said Proper grabbing
Prim and guiding her towards some paintings.
“I love the impressionists,” said Prim.
“Get that fascinator out of your eyes
and you might see something. Your boobs have already made a big impression!”
said Proper, crossly.
Prim and Proper gazed at the splashes,
dashes, slashes and crashes of shapes and colour that didn’t make any sense
until they came to the Life exhibition.
“Erection” by Mervy Pervie was standing
centre-stage.
“It looks like the Twin Tower,” said
Prim.
“That was a steel construction,” said Mr
Rich-B’stard,” this is raw flesh.”
“This would have withstood a terrorist
attack, I’m sure ,” said Prim, staring at it until she was nearly cross-eyed.
“Are there any crudities on offer?”
asked Proper with a sickly sweet smile; her stomach was rumbling.
“Yes, we have Gonorrhea – a Gothic work
by new artist Hanky Pankie, who is not
afraid to dabble. Phelgm is also thought provoking and you could get swallowed
up in it. My particular favourite is Cradle Cap by Aloe Pecia & Dan Druff,
it leaves you with flakes of inspiration.”
Prim was getting rather bored with this
drivel and spied Mr Snobb sitting on a bench. She made a bee-line for him and
sat next to him talking animatedly. It wasn’t only Proper who knew her art.
Proper wandered around the wax museum,
standing next to famous statesmen, sportsmen and actors. She stood next to
David Beckham and imagined herself as Victoria. Next to Mahatma Gandhi she
thought herself as Indira, next to Peter Andre, she was Katie Price (but not
nearly as well endowed) and next to Rod Hull, she felt like Emu!
She noticed Prim was sipping at a glass
of wine whilst Mr Snobb was slumped on the bench just as he’d been when she’d
left them.
Proper approached and indicated to Prim
that it was time to go.
“But I’m in the middle of an interesting
discussion with Mr Snobb,” wailed Prim who always got loud after one glass; two
glasses and she was like a pneumatic drill!
“Mr Snobb is a busy man,” said Proper,
sticking her nose in the air.
“Oh Mr Snobb,” cried Prim slipping her
arm through his,” I think we should do this again; it’s been fun!”
Mr Snobb didn’t move a muscle.
“What’s been fun?” asked a rotund
gentleman with heavy jowls.
“M…Mr…Mr Snobb!” cried Proper aghast,
her head turning from the figure on the bench.
“I never knew there could be two Snobbs
in one gallery,” said Prim.
“There aren’t,” said Mr Snobb, “that’s a
wax caricature of me. Good isn’t it?”
Proper threw Prim a dirty look and hustled
her outside.
“You’ve been talking to a wax work?!”
“What a good listener…that’s how I like
a man…silent!” said Prim.
The two ladies both walked towards the
café and ordered two strong teas realising how exhausting and exhilarating art
could be.
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