From half of my life in war-torn Belfast to the terraced streets of Manchester to the vast expanses of the East Kent countryside, I have finally ended up in what on the surface appears to be the set for the next sequel of Stepford wives. Very white (which my husband is not), very middle-class, very professional and quite lot of majors and brigadiers etc. Of course on getting to know everyone they’re just as mad as the rest of us, and we have some ridiculous times together with some fantastic friends but on the whole, most people fall into a similar bracket. And so it was I ended up drinking coffee at the village hall coffeeshop, an honorary member of the little group of those that don’t fit the mould. Spearheaded by a lovely American friend and single mum, she was once a singer songwriter in New York, and is now struggling to continue her music from her council house in the tiny little close that has survived here. As a result of her kindness and enthusiasm , five of us now meet on a regular basis, an island of irregularity in an otherwise strictly ordered community. Halfway through coffee, an idea suddenly filled my head.
A curator has approached me for a project where an item is given to a group of artists to alter and evolve into a piece of work. This has been ticking away in the back of my mind but it was over coffee that an idea suddenly solidified. It is as I reflect on this experience that I understand more of why I fit in so well to this group. I left the group to collect the dog and walk up for school pickup. Walking up to school the idea grew and developed, and I began as I always do (and I discovered I shared this thought with Ricky Gervais who articulated it so well in a recent interview) to worry that I might die before I got the chance to make it. On collecting the children, I entirely forgot that I had one of them beside me, and continued to wait an extra fifteen minutes for her to appear from the school door. Finally as reality sunk in I headed home with the children only to discover a half a mile later that I had forgotten the dog and left him tied to the school fence. It was on returning for the dog and facing the puzzled looks from fellow parents that I realised how this art thing that is inside me means I will never make it as a fully fledged Stepford wife, and how my place in the little coffee group is secure for a while yet.
