She was, by her own estimation, the restless type. She lived on the edge of her nerves. It was an edge that she might fall off at any moment and precipitate into the void. One day, she knew would have to deal with it, but for the time being, she chose to ignore it and live up to her name and reputation.
A sometime theatre actress and performance artist, based in London, Miss Bliss is Anastasia Fleming’s stage name. Anastasia is a well-known figure of the alternative arts scene. At one time she had also been a street artist, often posing as a living statue of beauty.
One day, working her pitch in Hyde Park, she arrived, as was her practice, in a layered dress of white chiffon with her skin painted alabaster white, and with her hair, which was normally chestnut brown, in a Roman beehive, to take up her pedestal.
After several hours of maintaining her pose, one hand in an arc worthy of Cavona’s Grace, she saw out of the corner of her eye a brown dun coming towards her.
The horse stopped and began to lick her outstretched hand. He continued to lick her hand until Anastasia could bear it no more.
She swooned!
“I am terribly sorry, Miss,” said the driver of the cart as she picked herself up. “Charlie here thought you were about to offer him a sweet.”
“I do hope it hasn’t spoiled your show,” he went on. “Though I rather think for the pleasure you gave him, you deserve a proper tip from Charlie.”
The driver placed a twenty-pound note in Anastasia’s cap. With this money she bought her first riding lesson.
Though she never found another horse quite like Charlie, for many years after that she enjoyed riding in the park, and feeding her steed sugar from the hand.
“I won’t give you the sugar,” she said, “unless you bend your knees.”
Her steed, on this occasion, was quite speechless. There was nothing quite like being ridden by Miss Bliss. To quote the by-line from her latest show, she was not only the bees-knees but also the flea’s eyebrows, the canary’s tusks and even the cat’s whiskers.
“By the way,” he said, eventually finding his voice, “my name isn’t Charlie.”
“That’s a shame. Only Charlie gets to eat my sugar cube.”