paul rowlinson

Some Kind of Protest

Everyone is looking upwards to the top of the new college administration building, metal and glass gleaming, an enormous Art Deco ice bucket, cold and retro-modern in the hot lunchtime sun. Psycho Sarah is naked on the ledge; Spirit of Ecstasy, arms stretched out behind her; hands holding the safety-rail, beaming as she is looking down at us, deep in concentration, wavering, almost floating like a kite; but there’s no wind, not even a summer breeze for her to brace herself against and no-one wants her to fall.
There must be a couple of hundred people at least; students and staff are spread all around the ground beneath, except for the fountain, a circle of water directly beneath her. Is that her target? Like a circus diver? But it’s far too shallow, surely? She can’t be thinking of…? There is a collective gasp as she lets go with one hand, but she is only turning around. Has she decided against it? Is she going to back out? But she is frozen. Nothing is happening. We don’t know whether to look, to stare back at her arse, mooning down on us, mocking us. Now we are all looking at each other, non-plussed, trying to understand. Is it a joke?
There’s a sickening splash. Everyone is turning to look at the scene, even though it horrifies them. Shocked and stunned, repulsed and revolted; drama turns to disgust, as the turd floats to the surface.

Back to writing