David wrote a book once. For about a year after it was published, any time anyone asked him anything (Why did you build the museum? Where are the toilets?) he would answer, ‘It’s in the book.’
Go and buy it, you cheap f*cker.
A lengthy memoir.
If you like digressions, this book is for you.
It’s called A Bone of Fact, and it has 368 pages. Not sure why that’s relevant. But it is full of scintillating stories and saucy scandals from yesteryear/day, as well as cute pics to cut out and paste on your school books.*
If you really are that much of a cheap f*cker, you can read a copy for free in our library. It’s also available in all good hotels; check the top drawer of your bedside table.
Alternatively, you can subject yourself to an onslaught of Walsh opinion on the Mona blog: art criticism, hot goss, and inside musings on Baby Walsh's developmental milestones—sometimes all at once.
*Please don’t do that. Nadine, the designer, would be mortified. Plus, it’s creepy. Just use the newspaper clippings you’ve collected instead.