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Sunday, 30 January 2011

In which I wait to be paid - again...

Such fun, darlings! Silly old customers today...
'Can you tell us a bit about this artist?', enquires a diddy little gnome like personage sporting an oversized wife.
As he asks he hoists above his head a painting that has been languishing on the floor with two other similar offerings, that I know for a fact is a production line oil from Hong Kong.
'I don't know much about that particular artist', says Lovely One.'We buy his work from an agent. He remains anonymous.' Making 'him' sound aloof and interesting.
'We've got one' drones on the diddyman 'Only ours looks like the signature is a bit different'
It would be downright rude to spill that it was probably signed by a Wongster instead of a Yingster, who signed his. I expect they take it in turns to sign thereby breaking the monotony of being the 'sky' or 'sea' painter.
The items in question are poorly executed seascapes. It never ceases to amaze me the tat people buy, but really dear reader, these particular little nasties take the hob nob.
Let a couple of people wax lyrical about my work without fessing up that it's moi. Can't be poked today!
Waiting for She who must bla bla... Want pay! Want it now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Saturday, 29 January 2011

In which I recall what One came to pass...

The sad end of the Elburton Drop in Centre has come about. (See my facebook page for the video) What will we do? Where will we go? I shall be perpetually improsoned in the Armada Gallery on the Barbican.
Spare a thought for me as I shall be endlessly bored titless by anoraked moluscs wanting to discuss dear old R O Lenkiewicz. Wouldn't mind if they occassionally bought something.
I shouldn't be blogging. I should be painting. I have practically sold out! Goodo! Fab January! Shall have bog awful Feb though, if I don't get me finger out and start painting.
Painting makes yer arse fat. It's official. I maintained a lithe and supple, albeit well covered, bod whilst my days were a whirlwind of arse wiping of the elderly and infirm, but now I'm sitting down all day painting, it's really difficult to keep it off. BUT, I have a plan. I shall resort to Orlistat, currently called Alli, the wondrous fat putter offer. One is entirely at liberty to scoff any amount of fatty yum yums. But beware! As it works by blocking the absorbtion of fat into the system, if one consumes any high fat items the residue is immediately blasted through the system and into the shreddies. This, I warn you Dear Reader, is a fact. Never One to believe these assumed idle threats, Lovely One scarfed down the merest petite morsel of cake pie, whilst ill-advisedly being ackled up in a pair of white trousers. Boy, who was adjacent to my derierre at the time piped up,
'What's that orange stain spreading accross yer bum, Mum?'
And it came to pass that I had indeed pooed me trousers.
Fortunatley, we were 'at home' that day and I was able to repair to the shower for an immediate hose down.
Having suffered this ghastly fate at the hands of the combination of fat and fat buster, I have resolved to embark upon their usage again, since I shall be in the gallery and prone to a boredon induced scoff from time to time.

Life is crap enough at the moment without me adding to it.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

In which the assistant is not well hung...

And it came to pass that in Tavistock an exhibition was born...

Well, it was almost aborted due to lack of foresight and planning - but the 'three ring circus' that is the gallery, got it hung eventually.
The photographer, for whom this event is taking place, is currently on foreign shores and so, laughably, the open evening is taking place at the end of the exhibition and not the beginning. Still, it was ever thus with this shower.
She who must be Obeyed and her poodle sashayed off one Satuday whilst Lovely One minded the store.

They were met at the venue by a friend of the photographer who was to hang the pictures. Sadly the volunteer had some kind of shoulder deformity and couldn't elevate either arm above shoulder level. Now, correct me it I'm wrong, but I would have thought that in the picture hanging department, a frozen shouldered, arm negative assistant was a no no.

All was not lost, or appeared not to be, when another seconded helper materialized. Sadly this one had a fear of heights and became frozen to the spot halfway up a ladder with a 4' x 3' picture strapped to his back.
S who .... and her poodle called soothing platitudes up to the poor sap who'd begun to sway uneasily from side to side, when SwmbO's manservant/friend/sometime shag arrived and shinned up the ladder to coax the chap down.

Taking control of the situation, manservant decided to hang all pics from a batten that went all around the hall.

Off he went to acquire the screws.
He came back.
Off he went again to obtain a hammer.
He came back again.

After feeding and watering the 'armless' and 'afeared of heights' assistants and wiping the brow of the manservant, the deed was finally done.

Sales are as yet undisclosed. I hold out no hope.
Maybe things will take off after the open evening.
Oh no, I forgot, that's at the end of it all.

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

In which we are mysteriously locked out...

A glimmer of hope has been twinkled upon lovely One. I sold a painting for a record amount on Saturday and it seems that the sale of the flat is progressing. So the loss of the house sale is a slightly lighter blow. Bloke will be officially divorced today so that's another plus.
But I really was sooo looking forward to getting out of that house. Now I shall have to clean it again to make it habitable for humans. Boring!
And, that lovely little cottage will probably be gone by the time we find someone stchoopid enough to buy Reddybreck Close.
Under gallery arrest today - no customers - not even a Lenkie Bore!
Still, I should be grateful to have gained admission to said gallery after the debacle that was Sunday morning.
Arrived as per. Lovely sunny morning and lots of wanderers about with money to spend. Put key in door. Turned. Nothing. Couldn't get in!
Somehow an upper lock which hadn't been used for twenty eight years had become locked fast. No key. Couldn't get in. Reported to She Who Must be Obeyed, who clearly didn't believe me and gave me explicit instructions on how to open a door with a key. Eventually I persuaded her that I was capable of key usage and Silly Old Chap was dispatched to offer assistance.
Wait outside for a very cold hour.
Silly Old Chap screeches to a halt and we go through the key usage chat again.
Can't get in.
She Who Must be Obeyed is informed by Silly Old Chap that we can't get in.
Silly Old Chap is given instructions on how to use a key.
Can't get in.
She Who Must bla bla tells me to go home.
Just about to turn into driveway when I am informed that a locksmith is on his way. I turn back and arrive at the shop again.
Locksmith arrives and shoves a bit of plastic in the gap, pretty much like you or I would if we'd locked ourselves out.
Fiddles with my key, and breaks my cupcake keyring - the bastard!
She who bla bla and Lovely One repair to Chocachino for a coffee.
Two hours pass.
The locksmith issues the following update
'We can't get in, the door's locked'
At this point I chuck £200 over the counter at Chocachino and say
'keep 'em coming till I'm in a coma'

Friday, 7 January 2011

In which I am defeated...

Unbelievably, five days before we were due to exchange contracts, our buyer has withdrawn from the purchase. Much money we could ill afford has been spent. Possessions and pets have been got rid of, arrangements made, and three other households have now been thrown into similar dissarray by Mr and Mrs Collard. Since the beginning of the summer they have been on/off and finally settled a price and prospective moving date last Autumn. Yesterday they, in one phonecall, halted proceedings. I can only think that they don't understand the gravity of the situation they have left everyone else in. I really don't think that they understood that when they said they wanted to buy the house, that it would all actually come to pass. They certainly were a very naive, ill-educated couple. We all, of course, have no course of action available to us in order to recoup any funds or even verbally pass on our displeasure. Personally I would settle for punching the idiots in the face.
I hope they die a slow and painful death.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

In which I ponder - what the hell else can go wrong...

Simply cannot believe the current debacle of the forthcoming, huh, move. The stchoopid broker, or, according to him, the v stchoopid building soc sent the mortgage offer to the wrong conveyancing solicitor!!!!!
Apparently there are two companies with the same name, almost, and of course, even though fully briefed by dear One, they sent it all to the wrong one. Yesterday following much Nancy Drewing by Moi, this latest mysterious failing was unearthed, when I uncovered the whereabouts of said mortgage offer. The little dear who answered the telephone informed me that her company is oft in receipt of Abbey National, or San tan bleedin dare, or whatever they're now monikaaed, offers since the two companies have the same name, almost! Well Bugger my 'at! I know things are always going wrong, but even himself, with his doom and gloom persona, didn't crystal bollock that one!
Still feel ghastly, but must try to get out of the house today. So depressing and gloomy in here. Not to mention lonely.
Shall visit the Elburton Drop in Centre without delay and see Dear Little S and Mimi.

Monday, 3 January 2011

In which I plan becoming a street performer...

Passed a very uncomfortable night coughing and sneezing. Am confined to own room at present since my nocturnal habit of wandering about is not conducent to anyone else obtaining a peaceful night's rest.
V quiet today as am on own again. Van being prepped for the coming week so am at a loose end again. Dont feel much like painting, or anything else for that matter. Nothing to watch on catch up, and almost at the end of current read.
One bright spot on the horizon is the meeting of Cobbles the Clown the other day. A jolly nice chap who rents an outside area on the Barbican and accosts passers by whilst dressed as said 'Cobbles the Clown' and tries to sell them ice cream from his ice cream bicycle. I have been invited to join the itinerant band of street traders and performers who gather on the Barbican to amuse passers by and attempt to relieve them of their spending money. Most painters would be put off an offer such as this since inclement weather is oft a problem. It'll be ok for Lovely One though since the gallery is but a short sprint from the Mayflower Steps, where the fun takes place.
So, that's something to look forward to on sunny days.
Gloom pervades today, however. Oh, and thank you so much for your suggestions, Dear Readers, as to where I go from here. It's nice to know that I'm not just a pathetic side show to make everyone else feel better about themselves.

Sunday, 2 January 2011

In which I wonder what to do next...

Still feeling ghastly and sidelined. Have given up attempts to make conversation as all seems lost. It must be me. I must be impossible to live with and given my track record, I'm surprised it's taken me so long to draw this inevitable conclusion.
Am currently abandoned in favour of 'cleaning the van' which was due to take place tomorrow, but has been brought forward to today, presumably in an effort to get away from my sniffs and sneezes.
Maybe it's being stuck in this cold depressing house. Maybe it's lack of funds. Maybe it is just my presence. Who knows.
All I know is, I feel sad and defeated.
What to do next?
Any suggestions - Dear Reader...

Saturday, 1 January 2011

In which I am a bit of a limp lettuce...

Happy New Year to all my dear readers.
Not that it's been happy thus far for dear little Lovely One. Oh no, tucked up in bed with some kind of horrid virus. Not that common swine flu, though. I'm not having that! Have been either sleeping and having v odd dreams or immersing my Lovely self in the memoirs of Debo Devonshire.
The other member of the household has been paying rapt attention to the football show and now some magic nonsense with Lenny Henry. As far as I can ascertain no one has been fortunate enough to conjure the disappearance of said Lenny Henry.
I am being given the silent treatment at the moment. Not quite sure why. Could be some unknown, on my part, misdemenour, or maybe I am annoying when unwell - who knows!
I always feel guilty when the atmosphere becomes thus. I must just have a guilty concience, since I can't for the life of me recall what I've done to offend. I have made tentative enquiries about the wellbeing of my companion, but have been assured that nothing is amiss and all is well.
All is not well as far as I can see and gloom is hanging heavily in the parlour. I find it v difficult to remain silent in the face of an uncertain atmosphere and therefore render myself even more annoying than usual.
I shall continue to make attempts at conversation, but as I said before, even my Pollyanna personality is coming under attack. I hate being miserable, being an eternal optimist, and am more than a little affected by the mood of others.
I wish it wasn't so, but there it is. I must have a very weak personality, since my general state is influenced to such a degree by those close to me.
I shall endeavour to lighten the atmosphere once I feel better but for now shall snuggle down in me fluffy and 'ope for the best!