Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…
This is a tale about comfort.
It started as a piece about a seemingly prolific, Bury St Edmunds-based graffiti artist: Comfy?
Yup, “Comfy?” is someone’s tag or as I have been more “comfortable” describing it, graffiti handle.
I’d quite forgotten about Comfy? until one utterly ordinary day, I was driving along Out Northgate Street, past And So To Bed, Dream Doors and Fabulous Fabrics, cruising at a steady 30 beneath the railway bridge where who should catch my eye? Comfy?
Ah Comfy? my old friend. Here you permeate — the same, yet changed somehow. Faded.
I can’t quite recall the moment I was first confronted by Comfy? nor can I recall the moment Comfy? fell from my gaze. But then, as now, once my eye was caught I couldn’t help but spot Comfy? at every corner I turned.
Indeed, from that first encounter I found myself planning my after-work dog walking routes by Comfy?’s tag trail, dutifully answering each one with a “why, yes” or a “no, I’m friggin’ freezing”. I mean, it’s rude not to answer if someone asks you a question, right? Right?!
But the real question here is, what did Comfy? mean to me? And frankly, why did I care?
Let’s take a closer look at Comfy?
Firstly, there is something brilliant about the simplicity of a single word question, right? Right?!
But Comfy?’s magnetism lies beyond its singularity; rather, it is the nostalgia of the question that is key. Surely, it’s not only for me that Comfy? evokes memories of being tucked in by one’s mother? Or perhaps as time slips away and the tides change, tucking one’s mother in. “Comfy?”
There is also something wonderfully tame, old fashioned, middle class (dare I say) of the question “Comfy?”, and I can’t help but tip my hat to the sheer brilliance that is gentility conveyed though an act of criminal damage. Delicious contradiction in terms.
Alternatively, perhaps this is just my overly simplified interpretation of Comfy? A projection of my own middle-class sensibilities. Or maybe that’s precisely what Comfy? is pointing the nib of their permanent marker at; questioning, challenging, goading passers-by:
“Comfy [in your ivory tower, are you]? [You sausage-dog-walking, hunter-welly-wearing, flat-white-drinking, think-you’ve-got-something-worth-saying, aspiring writer, you.]”
I think Comfy? may have broken my heart.
Despite this very probable intent, I chose to find comfort in Comfy? and I don’t think it’s surprising that I did, and still do.
Maybe it’s the comfort of Comfy?’s permanency. Comfort in the routine of following the Comfy? trail. Or perhaps it’s Comfy?’s persistence in checking the comfort levels of Bury St Edmunds’ townsfolk over and over again.
But, as it so happens, Comfy? wasn’t just concerned with the comfort levels of a sleepy Suffolk market town’s folk, oh no.
On the first of what inspired many trips to Bristol, what did I only bloody well find? Yup, Comfy?!
Comfy? had crossed the country, embarked on a pilgrimage to the graffiti artist’s mecca and made their mark in the Old Market roundabout underpass (of course, where else?).
You can imagine my joy. Even on the other side of the country, Comfy? was still looking out for everyone, and for me.
Maybe this was the real reason why Comfy? was so comforting. Perhaps I was just looking for someone to check in with me, to ask how I was feeling. Or is there something in my being asked how I felt without in turn having to ask them?
On my nightly wanderings, Comfy? allowed me the liberty to voice my feelings in all my selfishness, self-righteousness, arrogance and anger. And it was comforting, even if I was literally talking to a (graffiti-tagged) brick wall.
