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Memory exhaled. He looked over at the filing cabinet and was glad that he had been so organised. He was now left with the task of pulling the most significant files from the cabinet and remembering in precise detail. He also had very abstract direction from the artistic director, standing over his shoulder with the Tippex, forcing him to change or add to or fabricate certain sections of certain pages. Logic sat in the corner and played with a Rubik's cube. Memory glanced at Logic when the artistic director wasn't looking, a look that silently portrayed righteousness, the kind of look that friends give each other when in the company of someone that they both silently dislike; a glance across a table or behind a back, an affirmation of camaraderie, an invisible squeeze of the shoulder, an imperceptible patronisation of the unaware. The artistic director returned, he gesticulated wildly and was excited about having complete artistic control and a very loose brief. Between them they had to storyboard and plan and edit memories in order to make the overall account extraordinary and noteworthy. This is the life story of Matthew Turner, told at a slant.
