Green Grass Read Online Free PDF Page A

to Glynn Flynn, the artist famous for growing grass seed and mould over everyday items.
    Inigo has been a favourite of not only the Arts Council, but more unusually, the public, ever since his signature Möbius strip was used as the central motif in the Regent Street Christmas lights two years ago. The lights that year were turned on by a beautiful, aging opera diva who, holding hands with Inigo, sang ‘White Christmas’ over microphones placed all the way up Regent Street. Inigo, who adores opera, and also soppy musicals, wept with the emotion of it all, and Laura had to bite her cheek very hard notto get overpowering giggles. Anyway, the exercise ensured that he became a household name, and the art establishment, fearful that he might defect to America, are still anxious to please him. Laura can afford to skive for a bit longer.
    A beam of sunlight dazzles through the windscreen, and instead of following the hill down through South End Green towards the studio and its array of possibilities for her day, Laura parks the car on a street of redbrick terraced houses, curved so they seem articulated like a child’s toy train, and walks between stout black bollards and on to Hampstead Heath. Another world. Here birds chirp as they flit from tree to shrub and the grass is vivid green and sparkling wet where the sun has transformed early morning frost crystals to winter dew. Laura closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. Increasingly and now without even trying to find an excuse, she is drawn to the Heath and the blast of outdoor life it offers. Today she strides towards the Men’s pond where even though it is February, the sound of jocose bathing is brash above the birdsong. She pauses when the pond comes into view, enjoying the spectacle of a young man with a soft white body, poised on the jetty, one toe in the shallows like a classical statue.
    â€˜Come on in, Paul, you wimp,’ yells his heartier friend, crossing the water with a few flashy strokesof front crawl then emerging, streaked mud grey across pink red flesh. Watching from a distance great enough, she hopes, to escape classification as a filthy pervert, Laura cranes to hear the conversation, as the Greek statue and the hearty swimmer argue cheerfully.
    â€˜I hate this,’ moans the statue.
    â€˜It’s character building,’ urges the swimmer. ‘Come on, it’ll get rid of your hangover.’ He splashes back into the water, and a boxer dog who has been sniffing around the edge of the pond leaps in with him. They cavort noisily, sending silver spray feathering across the pond. The Greek statue teeters, his calves flexing to hold his balance, his back alabaster pale in the sunlight above incongruous glamour trunks decorated with pictures of Marilyn Monroe. Laura walks on, grinning broadly to herself, Inigo forgotten.
    A Labrador bounces towards her, beaming goodwill and enthusiasm, its breath a vapour cloud in the cold air. It is one of a trio she sees most days on the Heath, pursued by the day-dreaming figure of their fair and ethereal walker. Laura bends to pat the dog. Given that Inigo shows no sign of relenting on the subject of dog acquisition, she wonders whether she should take up professional dog walking. An outdoor career with canines is appealing, particularly today when the Heath is alive with image and incident. IfLaura became a dog walker, her walks would have a purpose to them, instead of being no more than time borrowed from her working day. Her walks would in fact be her working day.
    Having always prized the cerebral above the physical, Laura is surprised to find such a strong instinct for fresh air within herself. She thinks of the teetering Greek statue, and the hearty swimmer playing with his dog in the ice-cold winter water, and finds herself longing to go back to the pond and push the statue into the water. The glamour trunks would be ruined, of course. A snort of laughter wells up and out, and Laura stops in