7 Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not, but when Malcolm returned to London it was Frieze week.

To the uninitiated, this is the week when the majority of the worlds art glitterati, socialites, PWPJs people without proper jobs and collectors land in London. The Dorchester, Hilton and Claridges are filled to the brim with the travelling Nuevo elite many of whose life is one long party. After London they travel to Paris for Foire Internationale dArt Contemporain, FIAC, then its off to Art Basel Miami Beach, which is a bit confusing as Basel is in Germany but theyve already been to the real Basel in June. Cheeks are kissed, two or three times depending on which gallery or country you are from and how well you know the person. Special coffee is flown in and VIP wining and dining overflows with hopefully trickles of pounds, euros and dollars ending up in gallerists offshore accounts. Gossip focuses on whos thrown the best party. There are champagne breakfasts; chauffer driven artworks (well, BMWS spray painted with artist designs) branded give away gifts and gritty east end art tours. Organisations fight for the precious time of the art connoisseur. If you are really important you will be given a VIP access all areas pass which grants you entry into Londons finest and most exclusive establishments. This year however the Americans and many others are apparently staying away - blame it on the economy thought Malcolm. In the past, Malcolm had been actively involved in this weeklong melodrama after telephoning the organisers and convincing them he was a famous celebrity who collected art. The blag primarily worked because the VIP pack was being sent out to a five story seven bedroom Georgian period property that his friend had recently inherited. Its exclusive address and 2 million price tag certainly made the VIP consultants ears perk up. Three years later and Malcolm wasnt really interested in the whole shenanigans anymore, both he and his regular accomplice Thane were getting older and the fair itself had peaked; the artworld was now on a bit of a downward spiral. In fact most things were on a down ward spiral due to the sluggish

economy. Frieze week 2010 had a new tie in partner. It wasnt Gucci or BMW but Royal Mail. The postal service had unintentionally timed their strike to coincide with Frieze. It was a Tuesday evening when Malcolm received an e-invite in his old celebratory email account the one hed set up with the famous celebritys name. only twenty minutes away. It would be pointless asking Hilda unless he wanted to return by 9.30. Im not really in a party mood at the moment, read Thanes email. Which was understandable. Okay Ill ask Mary. Mary was Malcolms first official myspace crossed over into real space friend. Shed recently moved to the Wick. Irish, slim, petite with mousey blonde hair and pale skin. She wasnt as beautiful as her profile picture suggested but she was a contender for the best pair of legs that Malcolm had seen and slept with. Shed moved to the capital from some tiny countryside village in Southern Ireland and was always up for a party. She was a social animal and almost everything was grand. Her photographs were delightfully playful and in between temping as a Secretary for Shell she was an aspiring artist. Ive got an invite for a party if you are free, said Malcolm as he bumped into her one morning on his way to get a newspaper. Cool, when is it? I can make myself available, Ill just phone in sick, if it clashes. Thats the spirit, he thought. Someone who appreciates the rarity of these invites. Thane would take invites for granted. He failed to acknowledge the detective skills of his best friend. The food alone would have cost you 80, the least you can do is pay for a taxi, Malcolm would blurt. There was an obvious tension between the two men. Thane was jealous of Malcolms carefree flowing lifestyle. Malcolm was jealous of Thanes money and structured life. Occasionally Malcolm wouldnt be available It would be a shame not to go, he thought, all that free alcohol and food, and it was

to attend an event and Thane would want to use the ticket to impress some new girlfriend he was seeing. Mary however was a different kettle of fish. She was always grateful and would either cook him a thai green curry, an Irish stew or another hearty time filled dish. She would also offer to take photos of his art for him. At present she was going through a lesbian phase and Malcolm hadnt really partied with her since shed been into girls. For a while shed disappeared off his radar and was always busy - most of the time hanging out with Annie the butch lesbian who lived down the corridor from him. The 27 year old had returned in her own words, as a fully-fledged muffin muncher. She was casually involved with a tiny French lesbian called ZeeZee. It could be fun, Malcolm thought. Perhaps well fancy the same girls? My bikes been stolen so well have to get the bus. Oh, okay. Unless youve got a spare one? No. The racers with Eric. Bus it is then, she said. Email me the details.. If Malcolm thought it was going to be a decadent night, he would travel light. Hed empty the contents of his Gant wallet - purchased for half price because of a tiny mark on the inside of the leather. Hed take his Visa credit card and a 20 note, or 40 if he was going into central London. The luxury wallet was purchased with the intention of attracting more money into his life. The principle was working. Everything was free at these events. Taxis home however had to be paid for. It was a mild October evening when they made their short walk to get the 388. Malcolm wore his new blue corduroy jacket; which hed eventually found in a charity shop parallel with Oxford Street. Mary was made up with mascara and red lipstick bringing her beauty into

full focus. If she were a picture in his iphoto collection then the enhanced button had been pressed. If there were such a thing as European geishas, she was one. He put his hands into his trouser pockets to check for his ventolin inhaler. It wasnt there. He checked his inside pocket. Shit, Ive forgotten my oyster card. It must still be in my wallet. Do you think they will let me on the bus with this 20 note? I dont know, replied Mary. They should do. Ive got some loose change if you need it. They continued walking. Reaching the end of the pavement he pressed the small circular button of the traffic lights. Malcolm peered down. There on the ground next to his feet was a travel card. He bent down to pick it up. Checking the date, Look, he said how cool is that? Its todays. Grand. I love it when that happens, said Mary. Its like the universe is supporting you. Yeah, I remember when I was going to Thanes birthday party. he asked me to bring him four quiches and when I went into the supermarket they had a two for one offer on. The lights remained red. But the best one was when I was 19 and still living at home. There was a big Andy Warhol exhibition at the Hayward and I couldnt afford to go.anyway, I received a letter in the post from London Weekend Television saying that they wanted me to come down for an audition. What for? Blind Date. Really? Yeah, a researcher visited my gym and shed sent off a photo of me. They paid my expenses and the best bit was the metres away from the Gallery. So did you go on the show then? TV studio was

Nah, they wanted me to make an idiot of myself didnt they. You were obviously meant to go to the exhibition though. Yeah, something like that. The lights changed colour. They caught the bus, found the venue and had their first round of drinks. Malcolm, suffering from a minor headache, opted for white wine, guessing that it was probably lighter than his usual full-bodied red. Mary had the cocktail - a blend of peach, gin, agave nectar and basil leaves; theyre all organic, added the waiter. Hilda would be impressed. Their kitchen cupboards were full of agave nectar. She used it as a substitute for sugar and honey. Many of her raw food recipes demanded it and basil happened to be one of her first loves ever since her grandmother had helped her to make basil pesto and basil lemonade with herbs plucked from her extensive garden. Hilda loved nothing more than burrowing her nose in the plant after a hard days work on the childrens ward. The restored Victorian warehouse with its ten metres high skylight studded ceiling and a pair of vaulted brick arches - one of which was housing the dance floor was yet another of Londons hidden gems, not as opulent or impressive as previous opening parties but the venue was still a place to impress. Village Underground described itself as an evolving project building Malcolm understood this to mean it was flexible and could cater for lots of different clients. Its USP and what made it different was having ex underground tube carriages placed on its roof. The creative workspaces were a marketers dream. The party chugged along in second gear it seemed to be suffering from wet spark plugs. There were canaps, French cheeses, wholegrain and crusty breads, tiny bacon rolls and as much wine, beer or cocktails as one could consume. White candles were flickering away, combined with the nearby draped material it was like the set of some 80s romantic pop video. Fortunately Thane wasnt present, his Health and safety, risk assessment character would come into play.

The DJ played mashed up versions of familiar songs. The crowd was attractive but nowhere near as international or famous as in previous years. Artists were rich now so didnt need to attend and the celebrities had moved on to another fashionable fad. Malcolm was simply pleased that there was space on the dance floor and that there was a decent beat for his feet. It had been a while since hed danced. In front of him stood a fifty years old male artist he recognised. He was dressed and dancing like he was being electrocuted. There was the ex musician turned art dealer, whod admitted to Malcolm in one of the fifth gear parties that he was winging it. In his slick, sharp fitting black suit he was coolly making brief staccato movements, surrounded by female assistants and young starry interns. His pores were dry. His drink was a chilled bottle of beer. In the middle of the dance floor Mary swayed. A man, twice her age was taking a shine towards her. She flaunted her jewels. When she noticed him talking to, famous, I only talk about me, artstar she decided to flaunt a little more. The more than middle aged American, in his black designer suit, logo free baseball cap and converse trainers looked like a famous gay popstar. It was only his dance that gave him away. Perhaps hed like Mary as his pretty party escort and hire her for the week. Her presence would affirm he was hip and with it. Guess What? He introduced me to Macyshe changed her tone of voice before adding, as his daughter. Can you believe that? Really? Malcolm was trying not to add fuel to artstars myth. Why didnt he say I was an artist? Maybe cause she gets jealous? Or shes the only one whos allowed to be the artist? He was tired of art world egos, witnessing people treading on eggshells and trying not to upset this mini diva. Perhaps it was so she wouldnt suggest a threesome?

Is she bisexual, butted in Mary. No. But she wouldnt expect him to sleep with his daughter, would she? Youre gross. Well it does happen you know. I missed out because I wouldnt bum some art critic. This was Malcolms favourite story about why he was not an artstar. Hed had his fifteen minutes of fame when a famous art critic had visited his exhibition and wanted to be introduced to the mature student in the black leather jacket and with dyed auburn hair. Malcolm naively thought theyd discuss art, however the male critic had other ideas. Both offers were turned down. Eight glasses of wine, six small bacon butties, two rounds of bread and cheese and three other cheesy bread things, and about eighteen dances later Malcolm tried to drag Mary home. The time was 2.am and the show was over. A few of us are going for a drink at artstars local, said a drunken Mary. Do you want to come? Nah Im ready for my bed, I fancy a beigel and a coffee. Beigels were a late night ritual for countless individuals who happened to find themselves peckish at this late hour. They were ideal for soaking up intoxicants. The 24 hour bakery was legendary. People travelled from all the corners of London to get a salted beef beigel with mustard. Fortunately for Malcolm it was on his way home. A Salmon and cream cheese beigel followed by a piece of cheese cake, Polish style, washed down with a coffee and two sugars would help him on his way. Ordinarily hed buy a couple of croissants to take home for the following days breakfast but having overloaded on the carbs. earlier, he decided not to. The heat of the dance floor had offered its parting gift; a damp, drenched in sweat shirt, which was now clinging to his chest. The 38 years old was getting cold. It was time for bed. Ok then. Well I might see you tomorrow, said Mary?

Play safe. And watch you dont lose your mobile again! As if. With no bike, a redundant travel card and a belly full of beigel and cheesecake Malcolm walked home. The journey involved a long main road, a canal pathway and then he could jump over the fence and take the shortcut through the park. He loved this time of the day - 3.am when most people were fast asleep and the morning hadnt yet arrived. It was a time for thinkers and contemplators and alcohol certainly made the experience more fruitful. There was a silence and emptiness in the air, fewer stimulants to distract the mind. It was a time for poets and magic. Whilst a student hed regularly cycled back from late night parties and private views slowing down as he past such landmarks as the House of Commons, Buckingham Palace and his favourite - Tower Bridge. Unhindered in his cycling movements there would be no one to correct or punish him. He could cycle wherever he pleased, sharing the networks with the odd night bus and taxi. Approaching the pathway that led to the canal he noticed a banner hanging from a lamppost. GCSE results are improving 4 times faster in this borough than the national average. Fucking hell, I dont believe it. Malcolm had a habit of talking aloud; it was probably because he spent so much time alone in his studio. He looked up again. What a bloody waste. For a moment he contemplated climbing up the lamppost to pull it down. God what will they think of next? He continued talking. As if gcse s prove anything. It was all so depressing, the western world was obsessed with results, statistics and accountability. If he were rich he would go full steam ahead with his idea of purchasing advertising space to say, Have a beautiful day or I really like you or even something a bit more poetic, Love was made for you. It would be similar to what his birthday brother John Lennon had initiated with Yoko when they rented billboards to wish everyone in New York Happy Christmas, war is over. Malcolm would have no agenda other than being nice. Would it be possible to do an

advert on TV he wondered? And if so, why had nobody done it before? That would be fantastic. On the canal pathway he engaged in his hobby of looking into peoples homes. The canal was the best and safest place to do this, as there was plenty of stacked up flats; most of them on the opposite side. The owners were hardly likely to swim across and punch his lights out. And if they were that keen at least he would have a head start on them. In this hour there were only one or two lights switched on. Malcolm fantasised about someone saying, Hey, do you want to come in and have sex? But it never happened and if sex were on offer it would probably be with a man. Autumn filled the park. Leaves lay on the grass and the pathways. One or two of them had stopped midway on their journey; sprawling themselves out on the bench. He thought of how the season reminded him of the ground. The growth of spring was subtle, summer focussed on the sun and sky, winter, well - snow wasnt guaranteed but autumn guaranteed masses and messes of leaves to kick around and run through. The biggest leaves were from the conker trees. They were everywhere, as though theyd avalanched from the sky; they crunched and spoke and even reminded him of hand lotion after some advert was made featuring dry skin and falling leaves. Autumn was also a constant reminder of death even if it was packaged in a beautiful way. Everything dies and we are no different, he thought. He sat down on a bench and stared at the leaves on the trees. They seemed to fall slower at night. One by one they fall, floating to their next chapter. His guru Osho used to say that leaves never ask when to fall, they dont fight or resist, they simply surrender to the unknown. He liked this idea and tried to live by it. As hed climbed into the park ten minutes earlier, Malcolm had seen a rather scraggy looking fox walking with a limp. It looked as though a car had hit it. In front of him he could see another fox approaching. He loved foxes but it wasnt until he moved to London that he managed

to see one. It was about midnight and Malcolm had caught the last tube home back to Acton Town when he noticed an animal coming towards him on King Edwards Drive. Initially, he wasnt sure what it was. It was too slim and graceful to be a dog. It looked more like a cat, but much bigger. For a few seconds his mind was startled. He couldnt make sense of what he was seeing. What was in front of him? Yes, its a dog. Or no, its a cat. It was like when hed had his first flotation tank experience and his senses had nothing to attach themselves to. Nothing to see, nothing to feel, to hear - no stimulus at all. And then he realised, Ah, it must be a fox. Hed grown up believing foxes lived in fields. They lived in the countryside. He knew this because hed been kenning John Peel in his coat so grey, with his hounds and his horns at the break of the day, since he was a young child. Malcolm was born in the land of the famous huntsman and sung the catchy song in each of his schools. That Thursday evening in July he realised how privilege d he was to be so close to a fox. The fox that was approaching him in Victoria Park was no different. it was graceful, alert and fluffy. It didnt match with stories of them biting off the heads of chickens. Malcolm remained seated. Would a fox attack a human, would it bite me, he wondered? It came closer towards him. If only hed bought those croissants. He resisted putting his hands out as a friendly gesture. Hello, there, he spoke to the fox. The fox looked; obviously it wasnt going to talk back. This was the closest hed ever been to a living fox. The animal came even closer. He could hear it sniffing. Its nose was moist. It began to circle him. It was young and as clean and fluffy as any domestic pet hed seen. Perhaps it had never been so close to a human being before. Malcolm wondered if he should scare it away so it didnt get the wrong idea about humans being friendly. He decided just to embrace the moment. He looked into its eyes. The fox looked back. It glanced upwards; a leaf was falling.