Hi, Lamp Post. Thanks for agreeing to do this interview. Let’s start with an easy question. What do you do for a living?
Is that a trick question?
That’s a stupid question. Obviously, I shine light on darkness. I show you the way like Buddha, or Jesus or whatever. I keep the roads safe. I help old people, small children and people in general cross the road. I stop pedophiles, molesters, and armed robbers from doing evil. My responsibilities to civilians are no different from that of a Superhero.
Describe a typical work day.
7pm: I switch on.
7.10pm: A young couple sits under me on a bench and start making out.
7.30pm: An old couple walks past and looks at the young couple making out in disgust.
8pm: A dog pees on me.
10.15pm: Another dog pees on me.
1am: Gang fight. Bottles, bodies and heads are slammed against me.
1.15am: Blood everywhere.
1.30am: Police arrive. Medics arrive. Area around me cordoned off.
3.35am: Scene cleared.
4.30am: A homeless man walks past. He tells me he loves me. He wants to marry me.
5.15am: A drunken dickhead in a Lamborghini accelerates pastat 300-miles an hour.
5.18am: My nerves are still rattled. Fucking hate the rich bastards.
6.35am: Birds land on me. 6.40am: I suffer a migraine. I want to kill every fucking singing bird.
6.45am: The damn birds shit on me.
7am: I switch off.
Wow, that sounds tough.
Who said the life was easy?
Do you like your job?
I don’t have a choice.
What’s the best part of your job?
I work fixed hours.
What’s the worst part of your job?
Birds shitting on me. Dogs peeing on me. Perverts jerking off on me. Occasionally I get depressed when no one is in the area. I start to question my existence.
You look so sturdy and confident. I’d never guess you were insecure. Do you have any advice to give to young aspiring lamp posts?
Stay calm and know that you’re not alone when your bulb fuses. It happens to the best of us. Help will come in about two weeks.
Yeah, sure, pass me over for that ditzy daisy cotton sundress again. That’s just the eighty-seventh time you’ve ignored me. That’s also exactly how long you’ve imprisoned me in this nauseating rose infused wardrobe. Why can’t you pick Fresh Grass or Spring Dew like normal people do? Rose is for grannies.
I’d like to point out that the shelves in this cupboard are the warping again. You’ve obviously forgotten what the carpenter told your mother last week when he tried fixing them. He said you had enough clothes to stock a shop; reinforcing the shelves was as pointless as teaching a cat unconditional love.
I think you’re ill. I’ve been praying for your salvation. I pray you’ll wake up one morning and think about all the starving children you can save buying one dress less a month - you could save an orphanage! I pray you’ll wake up one morning and see me compressed in the treacherous depths of your wardrobe like a forgotten leaf left to dry under a pile of outdated telephone directories. I pray you’ll wake up one morning and finally understand what it feels like to be oppressed with deplorable neighbours like cotton (it fucking grows on trees), polyester (non-breathable!), lycra (why would anyone associate themselves with Baywatch and Speedos?) and other riff-raffs.
I am a silkdress, godammit! 100% Chinese silk. Spun from the silkworms of the Jiang Xi Province in China under the tutelage of Missoni. I’ve been worn by every IT Girl, featured in every ‘who wore it better’ sections of tabloids, loved by fashionistas the world over. I’ve been featured in Vogue by Wintour herself for crying out loud!
Look at me. 100% Chinese silk dress, cursed to live the rest of my life breeding mold in the abyss of this ghastly demeaning grandma-smelling wardrobe.