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The Waters of Time

“I don’t get it,” Del said, making no effort to conceal his boredom. “It’s just a bath with dangling coloured tubes.” He was only two weeks into an enforced work placement.
“Modern art, mate; now pay attention to the punters, not the items,” Brian growled. The grizzled ex-cop had bellied-out with a face-saving job as security guard at a prestigious London gallery following his retirement from the Met. They drifted away from The Waters of Time.
“My gran used to have one of those old iron bath tubs,” Del commented as he scanned the steady flow of tourists and corralled school kids.

“Might be worth a few bob now,” Brian said, tapping his young colleague on the arm and pointing. A woman in a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses was looking about furtively as she reached into her bag. They closed the distance across the crowded galley floor, but not in time to prevent her spraying a political slogan across an old master in yellow paint.
“Oy! Come here!” Brian yelled, as he broke into a waddle. “Del, head her off!” he shouted, pointing to the exit.

She exploded into the modern art room, and seeing her way blocked by the young guard, lost her balance and tumbled into the iron bathtub. The two guards converged, and Del instinctively reached for his i-phone, snapping the flailing form as she battled the tubing in her struggle to escape from The Waters of Time. Brian looked over his young apprentice’s shoulder at the picture.

“Nice; but is it art?”

Tim Walker

http://timwalkerwrites.co.uk
http://facebook.com/TimWalkerWrites
Tim Walker (@timwalker1666) on Twitter

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