Spray Painted Bananas

Chapter 15

We travel to the British Museum by tube. I sit opposite Bibiana who flicks through a thin London guidebook. She’s wearing thick foundation and inky black eyeliner that make her eyes look huge. This morning she appointed herself Chief of Marketing of the London Bananification project and got me to sign up to Twitter.

I chose @LookaBanana!

Originally I wanted to be @LondonBananas but then realised it would limit me and successful people always think BIG. I’ve since imagined The Statue of Liberty thrusting a giant, purple banana up into the skies. The other reason I didn’t get that name was because it’s already been taken by someone who photographs banana skins in urban settings which seems a bit morbid to me.

Egg is beside Bibiana with his eyes closed. He’s imagining buffalo pastures, endless open space; he hates the tube. Beside him is Farrell, who has put off shaving for another day and has a bristly stubble that actually quite suits him. He’s in a good mood and keeps winking at my bag and laughing.

‘We should put a bunch on a Mummy,’ he says.

I’ve been thinking about the same thing all morning but I can’t see how we’ll get away with it. The Mummies are one of the main attractions in the museum and people are always huddled around them.

‘There’s bound to be security,’ I say.

There are a few furtive glances at me from passengers nearby. Everyone’s very edgy on the tube. Discomfort can be created using keywords including ‘security’, ‘bomb’, ‘terrorist’ and ‘vomit’. Phrases such as ‘whose bag is that? And ‘there’s a busker playing the banjo heading our way,’ also make commuters unhappy.

‘We’ll create a diversion,’ Farrell says. ‘And then we’ll plant it.’

A woman reading her book beside him looks alarmed. She doesn’t move her eyes from off the page but they grow significantly wider.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think it’s better to put it where there are more people. It’ll have more impact.’

The woman steals a glance at me. I smile brightly back at her and she scowls. A disapproving scowl is what tube passengers resort to when something really terrible is happening. The norm is to stare vacantly ahead and pretend nothing is wrong.

‘Outside then,’ Farrell says. ‘Where everyone sits near the pillars and has their lunch.’

The British Museum looks like an ancient Greek temple with its rows of huge stone columns and decorative pediment carved out with statues dressed in bed sheets. As expected on a Saturday afternoon, the place is packed with tourists. Half of Japan, styled by Burberry, is posing at the gate for photos. There are teachers yelling at school children in foreign languages. Most of them are too old to chase pigeons but are doing it all the same. Smaller kids toss crisps at the birds then run away squealing.

I hold back as Bibiana and Egbert head up the stone steps to the entrance. Farrell turns to look at me.

‘What are you plotting?’

In an ideal world I’d fly up to the top of the building and balance a bunch of bananas where the roof meets in a point. High up above the crowds, my red bananas would cause an uproar. Some people would think it a publicity stunt by a supermarket chain while others might take it as the start of the apocalypse. I’m not interested in what people think of the bananas as long as they notice them. I’m hoping the general public will establish a concept for me.

‘What to do. Shall I just leave them on the steps?’

There are people walking up and down all around us. In fact despite the width available, people still feel compelled to tut and mutter under their breath as they divert passed me.