The Red Paperclip

A fish pen, a door knob, a stove, a skidoo. One year and fourteen trades later, a tiny fairly insignificant piece of stationery has morphed into a house. Fast forward three years and the Canadian tourist attraction in the town of Kipling is being traded again. All offers are on the table but the owners would prefer several 1990 Burgundy Dodge Caravans with low mileage. So far seventy four people have offered everything from an ex husband with the children thrown in, to a pair of inline skates, a church pew, and two rib eye steaks. Personally I wouldn't go for the steaks - after 10 years of being a vegetarian it could have a worse effect on my constitution than travelling through India – but what an idea. With cash becoming increasingly tight and no voice or musical talent for busking, relying on my bartering skills is the more reasonable and less embarrassing option. So far this month, I have bartered my writing skills for Joan (who, by the way, is now hanging on the dining room wall and has already provoked comment from every house guest), a spa day, a hair cut and I'm working on a weekend in the Cotswolds. So what's sparked the resurgence in bartering? None of my friends are actually suffering because of the recession, but it's given everyone a free pass to barter like crazy. Okay, so I don't fancy being hit over the head with a newspaper again – an unfortunate yet comedy moment in Cambodia where I pushed the price too low in a Valium induced haze – but bartering is definitely the way forward.
My friends, the stoner and the investigative journalist, are lining up a trip to Bulgaria under the guise of looking for a house. No doubt they'll be greeted by an attractive lady dressed in heels and a poorly cut suit with lipstick seeping beyond the confines of her mouth. She'll think she has the upper hand. It will be a few drinks, lunch and a hard sale. But as the stoner pointed out, “If we haven't got any money, then we can't buy a house.” “Simple,” I said. “Get yourself a red paperclip.”

Embrace

I'm sharing my living room with a 94 year old. I spent hundreds of pounds for the privilege. She sits on a white wicker chair with red rose heads tumbling down her black skirt. In her gnarled hands she embraces an alabaster plaster cast of Ione Rucquoi's head. Her name is Joan. Until tonight she didn't have a name. Now she's a sculptor's grandmother. "Careful it's heavy," Ione says, tired and at the point in her pregnancy where she's close to bursting. I carry the bubble-wrapped image inside and set it down by the table. Ione follows me in and as we take off the cloudy covering we chat again about the picture, who the lady is and the shoot. The background to the image replays in my head - the untimely death of Ione's sister, the old lady she never became, her youth captured in the cast. It's a striking image but one you can live with. PJ's image of two sisters picking over an ox heart, blood smeared around their mouths, is still wrapped up and hidden behind the sideboard banned from causing offence. The women in the house don't like it. Some of Ione's images are stronger and uncomfortable, but Embrace has a sadness to it and a complex beauty. "Oh my god that scared the hell out of me," my housmate exclaims when he walks though the door and is faced with Joan.