Part 2…
This was a genuine question – I know a lot of people in Nottingham and figured there was a good chance someone would be. It would be nice to meet up and share the journey, maybe even a drink. I was also very aware that this kind of message also reads as, ‘I’m going to Venice, I doubt you are, but now you know I am. Bet you wish your life was as exciting as mine.’ It wasn’t meant like that though. (‘Hi, sorry I can’t make your exhibition opening, but I’m going to be somewhere brilliant, abroad, on a residency for a few months. I know you didn’t need to know that, but now everyone knows I’m doing something really exciting and I’ve managed to square in my head that it’s not a boast and loosely drape it in the guise of a disappointed invitation decline – sad-face emoticon.’) On this occasion, I received two interesting replies. One from Candice Jacobs (artist and curator of the ATTIC space at One Thoresby Street, Nottingham) and another from Beth Bate (Director of all things cultural attached to the Great North Run). Two people I’ve known for ages and great messages for different reasons. Candice had also received a bursary and was going to be on the same flight. Great. Beth replied with, ‘I think Mark Wallinger is’. I know Beth has worked with MW a lot, so had no particular reason to disbelieve her, but found myself wondering, ‘Why would he be flying from East Mids? I’m sure he lives in London. I doubt he’s had to worry about trying to save £130 on his flights. How odd.’ But who knows…
I’ve done the Skylink bus journey from Nottingham quite a few times in the past, but they’ve changed the route it follows. I’m sure they have. So I spent a good part of the journey utterly convinced I was on the wrong bus, even though it said, ‘Skylink EMA’ on the front, on the windows and in every other direction I cared to look. Suffice to say, we arrived at the airport. As I’d gotten on the bus the driver was ready to leave, so as I offered my £10 note for a ticket, he said, ‘Just sit down, I’ll sort it out later’. Things like this naturally make me quite anxious. At what point later? Is it my job to pursue the ticket? Or is it his job to ask? This rattled around my head the whole way there, occasionally pausing itself to allow me to worry I was on the wrong bus, then launching off again seconds later. As I walked past the driver on my way off the bus, I stopped and re-offered my £10, which was met with a conspiratorial wink and shake of the head indicating I was OK just to exit the bus without fear of prosecution. Result. This was going to be a good weekend.
