Well, thank goodness for that. I knew there was something causing the irritation – I initially thought it was a grass seed.
Nope – turns out to be art. So instead of washing out my eye with warm saline solution all I need to do is chuck out the art work. That’s a relief.
It may be a bit difficult if the stuff is in a public space and has been paid for with taxpayer’s money…because there is bound to be a group of non-tax paying protesters who will form a protest camp and chain themselves to the stuff. There always is. Ever since they stopped using the Black Marias and went onto the wussy blue and white police vans you can’t get a good arrest going. The Marias were bare inside with sharp rivets and when you chucked ’em in there and went over the railway crossing at speed, you could soften their attitudes up something lovely.
But back to the art. We have been told we should be grateful that someone is doing something for us. Art, I mean. We were told to be grateful to Mussolini because he was doing art for us but that gratitude sort of died down a bit when he started hanging around petrol stations…gratitude as an emotion it can be treacherous.
Perhaps we can be exempted from expressing pleasure if the art in question is; a. Un-asked for… b. Unpleasant…and c. Unskillful. After all, we are not compelled to buy crude clothes pegs from Gypsies at the door – why should we be asked to ‘ buy ‘ the art of the spray can and bong?
A thought for the future…if gangs of street arabs can daub the walls of the city freely and get away with it, can gangs of reprobate seniors do likewise? Instead of slinking around with spray cans filched from Bunnings and tagging the railway underpasses, the grey graffitistae would roll up with a big tank of paint, compressor, and hoses on the back of a ute. They would then carefully coat over all the ” art ” with a shade of paint closely matching the surrounding concrete and fade away into the night. In case there were surveillance cameras watching, they could wear Pokemon masks.