What an odd title, right?
Even odder when I write that as I sit here, I am pondering why this angel is not only clutching a ferret, but is also glugging back a yard of ale while—ahem—appearing to have lost her top. It’s a strange one.
So that’s what I am juggling in my bleary head this overcast Sunday afternoon, as I browse through photos I took once upon a time, when folk were allowed to leave their homes and gawk at statues without fear they would die.
Too blunt? Maybe.
Am I missing the outside world? Damn right.
What is a locked-in woman meant to do when she is tired of staring at the same indoor faces? The only thing left on Netflix she’s not watched is Tiger King–and that’s only because I’m protesting against its popularity and I’ve never gotten on well with anyone named Carol. Hence, I am staring longingly at V&A snaps from last year. I’ve a newfound love for immobilised human forms—they look lovely but don’t answer back.
This angel, as mentioned above, is a bit of a puzzle. When I took this photo, the light was beautifully illuminating her gilt figure as she hovered there, framed by the window behind, blowing a humongous trumpet. Or, do you prefer the yard of ale?
Because I think the ale is a nice twist to this. She looks fun, this angel. Like she’s razzing it up at a fabulous Roman party.
Okay, there is the risqué question: where did the other half of her frock go? But no one can dispute that her wings are mighty impressive, and any angel who’s clutching a ferret is not one to be messed with. She is the ultimate Power Angel.
I actually began this day ruminating about how it’s Sunday and some (albeit a decreasing number these days) folk will be heading to church to pray and connect with all things holy. And my writing is in no way to disrespect people who embrace their religion for it is theirs and theirs to embrace as they wish. But I never saw any angels like this one in the cold, cavernous churches I knelt in all those years ago.
And as true as the phrase ‘God loves a trier,’ this here writer loves a meandering tangent. So I’m about to go on another one:
I wonder what would a statue of me look like? If we all commissioned statues to be created in our likeness, thereby populating streets and fields and bridges and theme parks with our unmoving doppelgangers, then what a mad world it would look like.
Where would you place your statue? Would you want to always be propped up at your local bar so that, even after you left this world, you would always be waiting for your pint to arrive?
What pose would you want your likeness to be carved into? Doing the splits, because you could never have managed such eye-watering flexibility in your human form?
Would you be carved from marble or wood or cheese? Which cheese exactly? I suggest a formidable cheddar for its staying-upright qualities. Goat and crumbly blue cheese would create nowt but a stinking mess.
Last question: what, if anything, would you be holding? A bass guitar, a pineapple, your Arsenal season-ticket, soap-on-a-rope?
I’m going for gold. If my statue fantasy is ever reality—and we’re not talking any freaky Madame Tussauds’ waxwork but the real-deal artistic carving—then I opt for dazzling forever in gold. I would swap the ferret for me embracing a favourite book or my laptop, and I’m wearing big sunglasses. Jackie O. sunnies to create a mystique and flatter my face into the beyond.
I would want my statue to project joy and grace…and the finely coiffed hair I never achieve in real life.
Oh—and if any artists or my mother is reading this—make sure my statue is fully clothed.
Happy Sunday, people.