Dear Nessi

A week's gone by; I've modelled as tart, bumped into an old stripper, cut up some flesh and did a lot sleeping. Still catching up from the manic gig schedule of February. It seems for each one night of going out I need 3 nights of falling asleep in front of the TV at 10 pm.

Thursday I modelled for the Portrait Painter. He's Wolfgang's friend, the one whose show made me want to give up painting a few years ago. Before going, I thought to myself, if I could paint as good as he can, would I paint the same way? No, I do my own thing. I should not be intimidated.

I guess being gay makes it easier to dress your models up sleazy. He'd mentioned legs on the phone twice. I wore my old, red, sequined circus costume, that barely covers one's knickers even when standing. Slouched in an armchair, I took the role of some harlot, who will be in the corner of a composite paintings of a Cuban ballroom. I got a quick digital photo afterwards. It looks like Sickert. Or Sargeant. The portrait painter was born in the wrong era. He struggles for sales, wondering if he will make it to Cuba again this year.

While he worked, the Portrait Painter spoke of Cuba. He lived there, painting, for 3 months last year. His lover is a voodoo priest who would be - I can't remember now if its arrested or killed - if his homosexuality was discovered. The Portrait Painter had to lick the stub of a goat's neck during a voodoo ceremony, he said.

Later on I met some friends of Miss Chicago's at the National Portrait Gallery. Showed them the general collections, and a temporary show of 1970's West African photography studios. People in their best plaid and prints, posing with pushbikes or televisions, their prized possessions.

We met Mrs Bentley for drinks and Thai food. I had a flyer for some 'circus burlesque' club that Izzy was putting on. I'd been in 2 minds about it as it was £10 to get in and I'm trying to save to go to Cuba myself. Plus the others felt under dressed. So we e went to a pub and talked about politics. Then Mrs Bentley hopped in a cab to Paddington. I knew Frankie would give me a lift home from Izzy's thing; so I caught the cab, too, letting Mrs Bentley off at the station and carrying on to Westbourne Grove.

Big mistake. I was very unfashionably late. It didn't matter that I had a cool costume in my bag that would have suited the night. I missed the entire stage show. Got there during the last act; an overweight stripper posing as a cleaning lady. Then I recognised her - I'd worked with her in the pub circuit, in 1990. She looked just the same; not pretty, not sexy, just comical, as her stage name suggests. Humourless thugs in Enfield had thrown a glass at her one day. I didn't mention that when I spoke to her later, just said that she hadn't changed a bit in 13 years, which was true. Frankie said she'd even been on the telly the night before, on a show about 'how to strip'.

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One of the reasons I became vegetarian was that, at art school, I was in a fellow student's film where I had to cut up raw meat. I was so disgusted I vowed never to eat it again.

Lately Power Pack and I have been buying fresh fish from the market. "Heads and guts!" my husband reminds me as I go out to do the shopping. But even gutted, there is something about fish that reminds of that film. For one, they have red blood, it oozes out onto the cutting board, the cooker, the floor. And the pieces of flesh, they're not that different to other meats.

When I became vegetarian, my cat had just died. I vowed never to eat things that walked on the ground. I felt too close to them. But now that I can scuba dive, am I not in just as much commune with sea creatures?

I didn't always eat fish. It's gone in stages. I eat them now because I've heard they are good for women's complaints. Especially as I am not eating dairy, I feel like I make good use of the nutrients.

But I'm not sure...all those eyes looking at me, stretched out on ice. The old cockney fishmonger saying "ouch! die, fish!" as he chops off the heads. The pretty stripey pattern of the mackrel, all black and blue and shiny. And the smell....

Mrs Parsnip Pack