There I was on the platform at Liverpool Street Station, congratulating myself on returning to London after the commission in Essex, looking into the tunnel at the emerging tube train. She calmly took a running jump into it's path just as one carriage had emerged. I remember her white trainers and her light brown hair held in a pony tail and how slim she looked sideways on. I grabbed the nearest suit, figuring he would be helpful, and started pulling at his arm begging him to lift up the train, she was underneath. Then I started howling and screaming that people had to lift the train up quickly, she was underneath. I could see no one had seen it, they were looking after me not her, she was firmly squidged under the train, as was her intention.
The next hour, or two, or three, were kind of fast-slow, I convinced the moron of a police officer to let me go back and watch them try to lift the train, I didn't want to see the body, thankfully I didn't, I just saw the hoards of police, ambulance and fire fighters rushing to do their work but most importantly the bars that were used to lift the train.
“The canary bird in the coal mine theory of the arts: artists should be treasured as alarm systems.”
My blog, a thought or two