This one’s all about the hands.

Here is an obvious case of the right hand not knowing what the left hand even looks like. It’s that bad.
For over two months since March I’d been asking then badgering one Hackney library for exhibition space for either one day or fifteen days for my art to coincide with Anti University and with the London Festival of Creativity and Well-being. Two months of unanswered emails except for one which was vague and promised a follow up one after a Bank Holiday but nothing happened. Finally last Saturday I was given the green light by a phone call I returned even though I had been expected, said the deputy manager, two days earlier but I am not psychic so never knew.
In the heat before the storm I flung my installation but carefully into my bubble-wraps, walked like a teenager to the bus-stop and fixed up my work in no time at all, Remember I’d been prepared for over two months. The next Monday I went back to the library to tidy up my rushed job and to add the last creations.

At 5.30pm today, on the third day of my display,I had the longest email you’ve ever seen from the library manager starting off with an apology for the lack of communication. I settled into a peace of mind and read on. The second paragraph explained how when he’d discussed my exhibition with him….hold on now. The man never stood still ever to speak with me. And the final episode was a request that I come and remove my exhibition because another outfit wanted the cabinets or if not the staff would take down my work and store it somewhere.

Angry? You’ve never seen the like. What could I do? My hands were tied. An official complaint would be wasted energy and more lies would be invented. I had done everything politely and without complaint. I threw on my angry red winter coat, dragged out my two trollies and watched the clock on the bus. Even the tramp asking me for money was cheerier than me.

I retrieved my exhibition pieces and saw no staff running towards me perhaps to arrange a taxi home for me or a refund for all my promotional postcards and wotnot.

My anger turned to sadness and now I wait for a small time to pass so that I will be over the whole caboodle and say loudly con brio “Well, I wash my hands of it all”. A couple of paracetamol will help.