Putting the Boot in

"What's the influence behind your new, critically-acclaimed sculpture?" asks the formally-dressed journalist. She is sat opposite a casually dressed man, in a plain, badly-lit room full of cameras, microphones and production crew. "Because most people would see this as being just a collection of rubbish, which you've insultingly labelled as being art."

Maurice smiles. 3 times he's been asked that question today. It's the 17th time about this specific piece. 97 times since he became famous. Countless times before that.

"I don't chose what gets called art. I just express myself. For example, why did you decide this is news? Why is a piece of artwork more newsworthy than poverty, war and death?" The eye's of the journalist narrow.

"Because everyone's talking about you. Everyone wants to know more about this thing you have produced. Oh, and the end of your three year marriage to Cat Fitch. How you dealing with that?"

"Funny you should say that. My ex-Wife is the influence for this piece in fact. I went to my South London studio the day she left me, and found all the things that belonged to her and put them in a black sack. Then, after a bit of liquid inspiration, I got them out and created this."

They both turned and looked at the sculpture placed at the back of the room. A pair of leather boots; a cactus in one and the other filled with sweet wrappers, receipts, a faded pair of socks, and a broken earphone resting over the top.

"You see, this reflects the two sides of Cat. The first side who finds joy in causing pain, and is stoic and stubborn. The other side is full of crap. I have also stipulated that it stays in an empty, echoing room with a window, but forever remains out of reach of the sunlight, to represent how she has taken the light away from my life, and left me with a chasm inside. So, yeah, I'm dealing with it well."

Maurice sits back and strokes his stubble, waiting for the next question.

"What actually was the cause of your separation with your wife? We've heard many rumours, but I'd like to hear from your point of view."

"She was fucking a policeman…"

"I do apologise for Mr Fitch's language", responding quickly. "Please remember this is live television".

"Of course, sorry. So, I walked in on them fu… together on the sofa. They'd already broken the glass coffee table and stained my new carpet. As he flailed about in a panic, I knocked his tooth out and severed a tendon in my hand."

"As we can see, your hand is still bandaged up. Is that partly why you haven't produced a technically difficult sculpture; if you could call it a sculpture?"

"Call it what you like. Do you not like it then?"

"Well, it's a bit pretentious, don't you think? A child could produce something similar with a selection of items found at a car boot sale, and..."

"Anyone can chuck a load of items together, but it took me to give them substance, meaning, and to compose them in such a manner. And I couldn't have done that without the heartache."

"So, we have your ex-Wife to thank. And so do you."

Maurice leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and chin on his thumbs.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you have her to thank for the half a million pounds the sale of it has produced…"

"Look, you stuck up, little bi…"

"Well, I think we'll have to end that interview there," says one of the two smiling faces sat on a brightly-coloured sofa, back in the warm studio. "Maurice Fitch."

"Let's move on," announces the other. "Bee numbers are finally on the increase, it has been announced..."