THE SOUTHBANK STATUE

It was a nice summer day today, went out with my family and wound up around covent garden,the london eye and the millenium bridge where there were sights to thrill the tourists that were about. I danced to 'no woman no cry', a bob marley song performed by a two-man band, made friends with a nosy, middle aged trinidad and tobago lady, laid in the sun in Southbank park, licking a lolly; and enjoyed performances by magicians, dancers and jugglers. And because i didnt have a child with me(the youngest in our group is sixteen years) i contemplated the statues sitting, standing, cycling, posing around and got into- i like to think so- the mind of one of them. Enjoy...

You sit in the sun, feeling its rays warm your neck and attempt to tempt a smattering of sweat from your glistening skin; no, you think, this isn’t good for the silver. You reach down, trying to take your mind of the heat, and spread out your bilious ball gown, arranging it in a neat pleat around your silver shoes. You sit up, spread your fan wide as if to work at giving yourself that much needed breeze and then strike the pose, one leg crossed delicately over the other, your wide brimmed silver hat tilted just so.

You sit there in the grassy park whatever the weather or temperature, not for the same reason as the tourists gathered about you, but for a living. You are the Southbank statue, the living version of an English queen long dead… and true to form, for looking at you, nobody would think there was any heart beating beneath your breast. You make sure to look the part- silver spray paint, the best, ensures that you look like a grey stone sculpture just polished; your nails, your lips, the nape of your neck, your hair, your entire body- except your teeth which flash briefly in a smile when you hear the chink- none escape the silver spray.

You sit with your back ramrod straight; gown and fan spread wide, and say silent thanks as the sun dips briefly, letting cool air waft over your painted flesh, and you allow your mind to wander off to Thomas- the magician drawing a crowd on your right, your boyfriend. You are interrupted by a friendly wave from a little girl. You wave back and her mother seeing she likes you urges her to take a picture with the lady statue. You hear the chink, look down briefly to check: 50 pence, not bad but not generous either; and move to the side as graciously as the lady you personify would to let the little girl sit by you, your hand resting ever so gently across her tiny shoulder and look at the camera lens as the mother registers you forever in the future.

You cannot begin to imagine how many albums, both physical and virtual you must grace after two years being a statue by the London Eye, but judging from still having to show up here every morning when you had only planned a three-month stint as a living statue, then not nearly enough albums, you figure. The picture takers don’t count- those who stand two feet away and click away endlessly at the spectacle you make but don’t come near enough to drop a stipend in your silver basket. If each of them dropped a penny, you’d be rich now

Little girls like you, like sharing your stool and having your arms around them, boys stare, puzzled, even fascinated. But adults, those who have no children whose fascination they can share, look at you in contemplation, perhaps wondering how good the pickings are for a day, wondering if to ditch their day jobs to become stationary freak shows; or asking themselves if their neglected postures could permit them sit like you, striking exactly the same rigid pose the whole day. And to think you get off easy with sitting, you often wonder how Rick, the King George statue nearby hasn’t taken ill with arthritis after five years of standing on one leg with an arm pointing a sword in the sky.

The daylight is almost gone, you sigh with relief; a day’s work is done. A few more chinks in your basket- a pound here, five pence there and a shower of copper coins after. You stand up stiffly- as would be expected of a walking statue; advisable as it might elicit some more generosity from the crowd around, gather your basket and stool and set off for The Lantern to have a cold beer. Thomas will join you in a while, when he is done cajoling coins out of the pockets of his audience with his unicycle juggling act. But first, you count your day’s earnings- 16 pounds 53 pence, slim pickings for a lovely summer day and the large outdoorsy crowd, who unfortunately seem to think that statues don’t need spending money.