A Blast From The Artist's Past, Part 2

I was walking towards the exit of the train station in the centre of the capital, wary of the torrents of rain about to consume me, when I saw coming towards me, like a familiar shape rather than face, one of the artist's ex-boyfriends. I had met him like this once before, which is to say at a station. Anyway, I called out his name, just as he was about to pass, and he stopped in his tracks, wheeled the bike back a few revolutions, and returned the greetings. He is presently nominated for some major art award, but I did not mention this, although I did make reference to his appearance on a well known arts TV programme. He and the artist have not for some time seen one another and I was keen to pass on the artist's new details. The ex-boyfriend did come to our wedding, it must be said, so there was no particular axe to grind. No, I found myself discussing the artist's new work, just as I did at the previous railway station before my long walk when I met another of the artist's contemporaries. I was like an ambassador for the artist as I made my update, filed my piece, came on air. I explained, without any sentimentality whatsoever, the huge progress the artist was making, and I said that she was now in a position to begin showing the work around. (She still has her meeting on Wednesday.) He did seem interested, he really did, but it is always difficult to tell with artists. They are by and large interested only in themselves, but instead of this being any kind of self-love thing, it is usually a simple case of creative self-preoccupation. I don't know. All artists are like children. That's probably why I like them so much. Anyway, he looked marginally uncomfortable after a while but he was soaking wet and it is no fun being stationary and wet and increasingly cold. We spoke for some time, initially about children. I mentioned the uncollected conkers in the park and he seized upon this, at least I liked to think so, as if the next piece he does might very well be a lone chestnut, say, on a tallish white plinth. 'The Collected Conker', it could be called. Stranger things have happened.