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Friday, 29 April 2011

In which I lint roller me crevices...

And so dear reader, the day of the Royal Wedding dawned. I was awoken by my very own handsome prince stroking my cheek (face of course) with a gnarled digit. He swung his muscular thigh across the bed and growled
'I 'spose I'd better do me duty with the thing then.'
Thinking I was in for a bit of action I was relieved that the previous evening I'd foraged me crevices with a lint roller and removed any lurking crusty talcum powder. But no, darlings, I was spurned!He was in fact referring to walking the stinky mutt that had wandered uninvited into me boudoir.
Realising I've lost me allure, I necked a couple of vitamins that are supposed to fortify the over fifties and slunk down the kitchen to rustle up a wedding breakfast.
In the spirit of the day I chucked the dusty remains of a bottle of chianti down me neck and set about boiling the ostrich eggs. I prefer them, you can use a whole stick francais as a soldier.
Rumour abounded abroad that there was to be a street party down on the Barbican so I set about beautifying meself...
Unfortunatlely, himself was feeling a bit under the weather so that was that and we had a kip after the event (wedding) and woke up in time for come dine with me.

Sunday, 24 April 2011

In which Big becomes flesh...

When will the male of the species come to understand that spontaneity requires careful planning.
I had arrived at the gallery at just after 8.00am yesterday morning in order to pack up a painting for someone to transport back to their homeland wherever that may be. Judging from the accent somewhere north of Watford, so unknown to Lovely One.
As always, the first thing I did was to check my emails, since Boy has got my computer again.
There was one from Big which I opted to shelve and read later, thinking it would contain more about his wonderful existence somewhere in a North Devon castle.
So it was with utter astonishment and complete horror that I actually encountered Big in the flesh, as it were.
A large curly topped item loped toward Moi muttering something about knowing a 'woman who painted from Wiveliscombe.'
Not twigging at first I plodded on with me masterpiece, when like a bolt from the blue I realised it was the actual, mythical BIG!
Yes, dear reader, he of the late night phonecalls and numerous emails of the last, what, three years, I think.
Pre-Bloke, Big and I had enjoyed an intimate understanding of one another. Well, as intimate as one can get, without ever having actually met. My legions of readers at one time were holding a book as to the liklihood of my actually ending up with Big.
I was recently parted from Vile Husband and he was in the throes of a divorce from his wife.
He made me laugh and, actually cry, once or twice. Whether that was due to my fragile emotional state, or the Prozac, I shall never know.
All through the ridiculous turmoil that was my foray into the world of internet dating Big remained a constant in my life, and a faint little glimmer of hope on my horizon, until it became obvious that he was merely passing the time contacting me for what I can only assume was amusement, or something to laugh about with his brothers.
And now he is FLESH.
And here I am in my ghastly yellow painting smock, unwashed hair, v little make up and looking, and feeling a complete lump.
I had evolved him into a Ray Winstone type, all edgy and false bravado. What did I get, a looky likee of that fat bloke who dresses up as Heather from Eastenders on Harry Hill's TV Burp!
We made small talk, with me glued to me artist's stool, brush in hand. I should take heed from this and go back to my former existence in only my paintings and writings.
Anonymous is best.
I missed the boat.
He missed the boat.

He did of course beg me to run off with him, but I had a customer waiting, so had to decline.

Friday, 22 April 2011

In which I wonder what Alan Bennett has in his many sandwich lunches...

Lovely hazy weather on the Barbican today. Lots of browsers around, and just had my first one tell me that they have a couple of Lenkie prints that they bought from Michael Wood, (round the corner.)
'Oh yes' I reply, unsure as to what else is required.
The first two customers this morning came in because of my window display, which was gratifying.
Drawing out a sketch of Looe today so that next week I can begin my onslaught into Cornwall.
Attended Dear Little S's gallery and framer opening on Wednesday evening, having been up there during the day to hang me wares.
The thing that most attracted my attention was the amount of make up, foundation in particular, worn by some of the young women attending. Trowelled on, it was, thereby masking any evidence of youthful bloom that might shine through. The Meemster is always shrieking about my wonderful skin.
I offered to grid reference it, there being such a proliferation, in order that she might admire a section per day.
The Meemster had declared official British summertime by being ackled up in flip flops and shorts. Her poor little translucent corned beef legs poking out from a pair of red combats, if you please. AND, pray, those nasty plastic flip flops that one should reserve for the comfort of one's own home.
The place looked topping and the evening was very well attended.
Of course, Dear Lovely One was the star of the show. Well, not exactly moi, but moi's paintings. There being many more delighted comments and ugly crowds around my wares than anyone else's.
Everything now safely transferred back to the Barbican gallery and hopefully sold as soon as...
Sold two prints yesterday and of course no one bothered to inform me, so I didn't bring some more in to replace them.
Lunchtime, so fewer wanderers around. I shan't bother, having scoffed a whole punnet of strawberries and a croissant thusfar.
It's early yet though and aromas various are tempting...
Before I forget, I am currently reading 'Untold Stories' by Alan Bennett. Am on the diaries at the moment which seem to record mainly sandwiches eaten and churches visited. Still I expect he'd be bored with my blog...

Sunday, 17 April 2011

In which I bemoan my lack of dedication at school...

Taxi drivers are getting a bad press these days, and quite deservedly so since they seem to run amok or off with persons william nilliam these days.
So it was with trepidation that I engaged a firm of travel purveyors over the past few weeks to transport Lovely One and all the trappings of being a nearly famous artist, to the Barbican.
The first one turned up on the dot in a relatively clean vehicle that positively stank of medium priced scent which the Eastern European driver had doused herself in that very morn and many more by the thickness of it.
I was thus deposited to my easel and collected by a sour faced Bloke when the day was done.
Two more such journeys have been undertaken, one accompanied by a young driver who sat and watched me struggle in and out of the cab with six large paintings and my box of paints. Needless to say the only tip I gave him was 'don't whistle with a mouth full of custard'.
The final journey surpassed all others when the driver of the disgustingly stained cab (why isn't it law for them to have leather, wipe clean, seats?) nonchalantly lifted the cheek of his European Union arse and let out a foul smelling whiffer, if you please! I shan't tell you the little tip I gave him!
Anyway, dear reader, my ghastly stint as a passenger is over and this very morn I pootled here in my lovely new shiny car, which is safely tucked up in the private Barbican Trader's car park. It is indeed rather larger than my previous mode of transport; incidentally, which is now in the possession of Vile ex-husband and Boy.
AND, Darling Reader, blogging of Boy, I very nearly had an apoplectic siezure on Friday last when I texted Boy to enquire of his wellbeing and he informed me that he was currently on the Tube, if you please, in the middle of London, ON HIS LITTLE OWNSOME!
I slumped down on the spiral staircase, which is very difficult to do with an arse with it's own postcode, and trembled.
What had happened to the Boy of yore? The one who wouldn't get out of bed to go to college. The Boy who never went anywhere without moi? The Boy who had his meals delivered to the computer side, or indeed, in bed, and who had his bath run for him? It would appear that BF, with her absence of childrearing knowledge, was indeed right, and that leaving him to his own devices with Vile would be the making of him.
Throughout the day I'd worked myself up into such a furious frenzy that when the garage delivered my lovely shiny new car I couldn't trust myself to go out in it unescorted!
Anyway all ended well and Boy returned home and called me to say although he'd got lost in Paddington, he'd returned home safely and had decided, on the strength of the visit that he wouldn't be going to Uni in London!
It got me thinking about a friend of mine from High School, Cecilia Murphy, who had worked much harder than I at school and had won a place at an unglamorous University somewhere, whislt I drifted into and out of various drawing offices. She once said to me that she couldn't believe with my natural intelligence that I'd never bothered.She said that she'd had to really work at everything whilstI,with my natural bent for anything I chose to do,would have rendered me able to do anything I wished. At the time I didn't think much of it and, some years later when I was invited to her wedding I was still much more interested in looking glamorous and gorgeous in my pie crust collar and impossibly tight rayon dress. I recall this look being too much for her brother in law who, sitting next to me at the reception, leaned over and whispered in my ear,
'I bet you go like a train.'
'Yes, darling', I replied, 'But I don't stop at your station'.
Later on when talk turned to learned things and Universities, I made my excuses and left in a filthy taxicab.
If he'd been one of the current taxi stranglers he'd have saved me a lot of bother. Though now, with my current decay, I expect I'd merely have been pillaged!