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Saturday, 26 February 2011

In which I just don't want to know...

Sun shining, occasionally, browsers and shoppers about, sometimes, sign outside - set up for the day.
The sign says 'Painter working inside today - come and watch'. And, dear reader, they come.
They come to ask if I want to buy any Lenkie prints.
They come to ask me if I've heard of some bloke who paints in Saltash.
They come to tell me they can't draw.
They come to tell me they can't paint.
They come to tell me that they've been in someone's house where they say a Lenkie.
They come to tell me that they've got a painting that might be worth something.

They come for just about anything other than to buy something.

Therefore they can piss off

Friday, 25 February 2011

In which I torture Dear little S...

Finally caved in and went a'painting in the Elburton Chapel of Rest (formerly the Elburton Drop in Centre) The limp, damp sponge of a new owner was there and we had a FIVE HOUR chat about absolutely fuck all. I am now a world renowned authority on medicinal leeches, the acquisition of unusual cross stitch designs and many other mind numbingly boring topics that, for the moment, escape me, thank fuck!
I was engaging the old corpse bride in conversation as a kind of torture for Dear Little S who was making throat slitting signs at me and mouthing lots of words beggining with F followed by death threats if I didn't stop delaying the departure of the deceased one.
But, well, darling reader, what would life be if we couldn't get some pleasure from the discomfort of others?
She has the unfortunate manner and aura of a Dickensian, sloth-like corpse.
'I don't know if you realise, but the business has changed hands', says she to some poor unfortunate old bint quietly choosing a frame.
'Mmmmm', murmers unfortunate bint, backing away, unsure of the required response. AND no doubt to distance herself before barfing into her co-op carrier, since the Corpse Bride has breath that could fell a tree at 250yds.
And blogging of breath, darlings, the 'business partner' of Corpse Bride (business partner - my fat arse!) was noted by a customer as 'Stinking of drink'. Their words, dearest, not mine.
Not quite the image I've been trying to get across whilst painting away in the gallery. I try to foster an ethereal, vague and arty image. Falling over pissed is dangerous with all the glass about.
And - blogging of glass...
He was so peeed he stuck an order form to the front of a limited edition print and then pulled all the surface away with the selotape.
KIN ADA
They've only been here five soddin' minutes and are making us look like a pack of clowns.
I may be a miserable, fat old bad tempered trollop. But at least I'm a professional miserable bla bla... etc
I do recall that one of the scintialling topics of conv that went on for hours was her food dislikes...
'I can't eat yogurt anymore, since I found a weevil in one', says she, even identifying the particular weevil type. Flamin' Norah, weevil identification, a pastime as yet unexplored by Lovely One.
I am reliably informed that her worstest ever food dislike is Jerusalem Artichoke. What a bummer that must be...
Imagine - it must be a nightmare in Subway - 'Do you want Jerusalem Artichoke with that?'
Or the famous Mc Jerusalem Artichoke McFluffy.
It's endless...
Whatever can she eat?
Oh - don't ask - you'll be there for at least five hours

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

In which I am a prisoner...

Took Lovely One mobile into garage for service and to ascertain the reason for the v loud banging noise that has started to attract the attention of pedestarians, as boy would call them. Typical, as if I haven't got enough shit going on at the moment the utter bastard car is shagged!
During a spiteful 'you did this - you said that' session with Bloke he indicated that I could go back from whence I came and that I am not a prisoner. Well I flamin' well am now! No ve-hic-le!
Was off to see Boy this Sunday.Really looking forward to that, since he won't come here because Bloke is so mean to him. Why don't people understand that it is simply de riguer to be at least polite to one's offspring?
I could point out the odd failing on the part of his two progeny but, well, am far too lovely to do such a thing.
How-sodding-ever, not so where his ridiculous ex-wife is concerned.
'Hiya' it shrieks as it bounds onto the doorstep to pick up it's stinky mutt. Or, at least it did, until it hasn't bothered to pay for the Home Information Pack that was required in order to offload this dank mausoleum.
I must want my head looking at - as me granny would have said, since I in the first flush of happiness, blithely offered up my bank details to pay for the sodding HIP in case the house didn't sell inside 13 months.
Well, dear reader, as you know from my constant rantings, it hasn't sold and so it came to pass that I have paid for the privelige. I duly contacted the shrieking pink haired item for her half, Bloke presumably expects me to pay his, and nothing. I informed the stupid bint that I'd even had to take cash from my credit card to honour her debts and even then no reply.
She did, however, reply to bloke attempting to illicit sympathy.
WHERE DOES SHE GET OFF?
This very morn, she has once again contacted Bloke to inform him that the reason she hasn't been able to pay is because she's had an operation.
Oh diddums! Nothing trivial I hope!
Let us hope twas to correct the ghastly jaw overbite situation that must have rendered the walls splattered with KFC popcorn bites and barbeque sauce after what must have passed for a fine dining experience within these walls prior to the arrival of Lovely One.
Or maybe that's how she aquired the matted pink clumps in her sparse barnett... the Barbeque sauce!!

Saturday, 19 February 2011

In which I am in dire need of a giggle...

Went into the Elburton 'gallery' this afternoon. Dropped of invoice for this month's sales and was treated to a lecture from 'Charles' (never lets anyone call him Charlie) shame, since it's an adjective as well as a noun in his case, about the art business and running a gallery. Amazing! A little humility wouldn't go amiss in this case, since he is a failed second hand car salesman/lorry driver and she is a long since retired nurse.
The supremely unsuccessful wildlife photography exhibition is still adorning the walls. As yet not a single sale, and it represents to me four weeks of missed potential sales. The idiots haven't even acknowledged that I'm the only one selling anything and have been for many a long month. They seem to think that I'm going to paint in there just for the love of it. Well, frankly I'd like to, just to spend a little giggle time with Dear Little S, but well, I generally end up working for the business in one way or another and I don't intend to work for that pair for free!
Himself came home and rather than say 'hello', kiss me arse nor nothing, as Aged P would say - just screwed up his face and complained that the house is as hot as a greenhouse. All this without even eye contact. I tried to explain that I was cold, but am now being given the silent treatment, AGAIN. How long will it last this time I wonder.
Your guess is as good as mine dear reader.
Was looking forward to viewing the new slimline Abbster and her toy boy, but he's got man flu so they're not coming.
Another week with no one to talk to or have a laugh with then...

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

In which I rant about the 'special people'...

Bugger my 'at darlings, it's flamin' freeeeezin' in the Gallery today! I had me Uggs surgically removed and have changed into me pretty ballerinas and me feet are like little blocks of ice.
It would appear to be Special Needs day out down here on the Barbican today and all the bastards are intent on coming in here annoying moi!
Enter weirdo numero uno...
A shuffling middle aged woman in an anorak, carrying a shopping bag. Clearly exercising her care in the community 'human rights' by trailing round the shops with her social security money up her knicker leg and coming in here to mess up me browsers.
I made a valiant attempt to assist her but to no avail. Repeated offers of assistance were ignored and each one rendered her head drawn further into her anorak hood giving the impression of a tortoise eventually. Abruptly abandoning her shuffle through the prints, she shot out of the door with rather more agility and speed than one expects from a medication subdued 'special' person.
As she disappeared, thankfully, into the rain and mist, lo and behold an even stranger article took her place in my eyeline.
'Got any John Makin?' says he
'In the browser just beside you' I answer 'Is there any particular one you're after?'
'The one dedicated to my cousin'
Now, dear reader, I have made it my business to familiarise my dear little self with what we have on offer in the gallery, but I have obviously been remiss in that I haven't memorised What effing Picture is dedicated to whom...
I asked which picture that would be and was treated to a repeat of the information that it was the one dedicated to his cousin.
'Do you know which picture that is?' I continue
'I saw him paint one once' the imbecile goes on.
All this takes place whilst he is intermittantly raising a stinking tobacco filled pipe to his lips and alternately blowing his raspberry like nose into a disgusting hankerchief.
Eventually I just turned away, I have done my bit for the challenged and intend to do no more - EVER.
I have spent more than a little time pushing wheelchairs, feeding the undead and arse wiping. NO MORE. All I have to show for it is an injury to each leg caused by one of these agressive items using their high powered wheelchairs as a weapon. A badly damaged back and an absolute conviction that too much public money is spent keeping these people in luxury so that there basic 'human rights' can be met.
BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS - my chubby arse!
Living in converted stately homes. En suite bathrooms. Cars. More money to spend than is acceptable.
I ask you. The carers are paid the minimum wage to facilitate their comfort and wellbeing AND we pay for the effing lot through our taxes.
Ooh horrid Lovely One - I hear you say darlings. Go do it yerselves! say I, then come back and report.
I escape from it to a seemingly serene life of an artist only to be pursued here by the wierd mob.
Bugger my 'at!

Sunday, 13 February 2011

In which I deliver a masterclass in art sales...

Well there goes an hour of my life that I'm never going to get back!
How interesting and informative it was to be talked at by a red faced second hand car dealer about the ins and outs of gallery business. How helpful to be told how to market and sell my paintings, not to mention the best frames to use to display them to their advantage. It's quite staggering that I've managed thusfar without the input of aforementioned red faced person and his septagenarian 'business partner'. Incidentally she was an intensive care nurse, which could come in handy if I ever forget to take my prozac before having any further dealings with them. How fortunate am I that they have agreed to sell my art (no one else's is selling) and take a percentage of my earnings. What a pointless excercise that 'meeting' was.

When selling my art the deal is this...
'Would you like to display and sell my paintings in your gallery?'
Yes/No
If the answer, which it invariably is, is 'yes'
'Ok, great'
discuss percentages
leave a few pics
vacate the premises
collect moolah at end of month
END OF

Sunday, 6 February 2011

In which I am revolting...

So - not v happy with new articles running the drop in centre. Time to discuss my deals and percentages with Dear Little S - but not with me! Can't even get them to agree to the same deal as before. Just nothing. I have sold four originals this week and have no idea how much I will make. IT IS NOT ON.
I am livid!
I imagine these people don't treat the glass suppliers or the frame and mount people with the hideous contempt they appear to have reserved for Lovely One.
They should realise without delay that I am the cow that laid the golden goose! They will be able to pay dear little S's wages out of what they make from me.
BUT ONLY IF I CONTINUE TO LET THEM SELL MY ART
I have been with the galleries for eight months. I have painted what they want, worked the days that suit them and generally been a bon oeuff.
I have earned their respect purely by the level of my sales, never mind my can do attitude.
This is how I am repaid.
This worm is not turning the other cheek.
I AM REVOLTING

Saturday, 5 February 2011

In which I need to know what's goin on...

How v annoying! No more Elburton Drop in centre, so no more Saturdays spent painting in there. As you all know, dear readers, I can only function as a painter proper when under gallery arrest and spend all day at home watching re-runs of come dine with me and soaking lasagne bottom liquid stains out of me white cut offs...
Let me explain...
Many persons have now come forward to fess up about taking the fat busting pills with similar results as the 'what's that mummy, orange trouser incident.'
Anyway I digress... and don't want to make anyone barf.

The owners new are in residence. The ridiculous old hag and her alcohlic toyboy are holed up in the gallery as I type. I can't for the life of me get a sensible word from the elderly woman. I've asked her what kind of deal she wants to strike in order to sell my paintings and prints and she simply can't, or won't decide. I can't seem to make her understand that they belong to Lovely One and that by their sale I LIVE.
'Oh there's so much to do', bleats the toothless, pee stained old hag. 'We need to have a meeting.'
'We can have a meeting when you have some idea of how you'd like to proceed', says I.
Yet still I can't reach the inner workings of the stupid old bat's mind. Until she has some idea of how she's like to proceed there is nothing to discuss!
She has failed to comprehend that having sold four original paintings this week I need to have an idea of how much MONEY I HAVE MADE.
All she is interested in is having that red nosed alkie locked up in the shop with her.
Poor Dear Little S is going to be shut in there with them.
I expect his main tasks of the day will be to clear out the empties and flush soggy tenalady pants down the bog.