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Thursday, 30 June 2011

In which it is all spoiled, spoiled, spoiled...

A good and most enjoyable day in the gallery yesterday.
AND I bought a Martin Procter original! He, dear reader, is the reason I started to paint, I have lusted after and admired his work and yesterday, found a perfect little example at just the price I could afford.

Having had an exceptionally good month, sales wise, and for once having a little bit of spare cash, I felt that 'buying affordable art at the moment is a good idea' as I'm always telling my customers, was indeed, an excellent idea for Lovely One.

I acquired said art from a rival gallery over the road, Slimey Normey, to be precise. And so it was that I took it back to Armada with some trepidation since She Who Must Be Obeyed was in situ and had in fact, only sent me out to spy on another gallery further down the Barbican.

Now, darlings, I don't want you to think that I am sent off on errands like some office junior, it's just that She Who bla bla, can't get about like she used to, having done a somersault down a marble staircase in Dubai and suffering the consequences.
Hang about though - They DO, but since the rest of them are elderly in the extreme, I suppose I should consider it as hanging on to what little of my youth I have left. Ha ha

I consider that this is a very high point in my career, since the Martin Procter cost less than one of my paintings.

But my day was spoiled by the ghastly black cloud that appeared on my horizon in the shape of Bloke.
'Do you want to look at it' says me with girlish, enthusiasm.
'No, I'm not interested,' he retorts
'Come on' says me, 'have a look, thinking he was joking.
'I'm not interested in art', says he, with me only in his peripheral vision, since he doesn't make eye contact when in one of his black moods.
I duly took the art upstairs in it's packaging to be hung on the walls of my own home, when I find such a place. I won't be hanging it in his and his ex-wife's house since I don't feel at home.

'I've just had eighteen years of this', he said when I reappeared. Now, I realise that he has had quite a time of it with said ex as she wiped the floor with him in every way, but, those of you who know me will attest that I am not selfish, dishonest or unkind, unless I am wounded and then I am poisonous.

I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO POINT OUT THAT YESTERDAY I BOUGHT A VERY LARGE TV, total anathema to Moi, FOR HIS PLEASURE

AND IT COST LESS THAN THE PAINTING.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

In which I shall take a ghastly revenge...

I'm seething from morn until night
and positively fizzing with spite
I'm the victim of theft don't you see
because everyone's copying me!

Now I realise my talent is massive
so I simply cannot remain passive
In the light of the crime being done
to dear lovely innocent One

'The style is mine'
I cry with pique
and hither to
it was unique
and it's taken me a goodly while
to develop Lovely One's own style

As, mindful of contemporaries
whilst obviously keen to please
I paid no heed to other's strictures
and produced mine own delightful pictures

But now I find those lesser mortals
try entering fame through my own portals
by emulating my technique
Render moi no more unique

What can One do to stem the tide?
I'll ponder and my time I'll bide
You may be sure revenge is nigh
I'll get the bastards by and by

For until now I've let them be
not encroaching on their territory
But since on mine they've chose to tread
I hereby warn impending dread

I speak as one who rarely fails
to obliterate all other's sales
I shall continue to reign supreme
and all you others can but dream
just speak of me in tones quite hushed
or prepare yourselves to get fecking crushed!

Sunday, 26 June 2011

In which I twiddly diddly dee-sist...

Well, dear reader, there goes another three hours of my life that I won't get back!

One dabbed a bit of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime behind One's lugs and valiantly sallied forth to the Theatre Royal last evening, with Bloke, to see 'The Man in the Mirror'. Thinking it would cheer up the sullen Bloke, One purchased tickets and duly counted down the days until I could spend three hours up close and personal on one side with a complete unknown personage, whose personal hygeine routine would be completely unknown.

Now, I'm not entirely immune to the delights of Michael Jackson, myself, but I have since discovered that he left me behind at 'twiddly diddly dee rockin' Robin' etc etc...

The show began with the brightest flashing light display I've encountered since having drops in One's baby blues and being temporarily blinded for a whole day. AND, I have to say, that experience was pleasant in the extreme compared to last evenings doings.

An assorted throng of poorly dressed articles shimmied their way, as if without direction, through La Jackson's back catalogue, interspersed with video footage of himself and various hangers on bigging him up.

One or two of the participants were vocally acceptable particularly a dusky maiden with thunderous thighs who thankfully didn't wobble about patially clad, like most of them.

At the interval I sought Bloke's opinion of the 'entertainment' and it would appear he was as unenthusiastic as Moi, but had resolved to sit it out as 'we'd paid for it'.

Would that it were that we COULD sit it out! But no! Horror of horrors!
'Stand up and put your hands in the air' ordered one of the cast.
MY WORST NIGHTMARE
Lovely One, as those of you dear readers who are privvy to the proclivities of Moi, just doesn't DO organised enjoyment. In fact I suffer a severe sense of humour failure and it's to be seen all too clearly in my countenace, not to mention me fizzog!

Any road up, eventually One and Bloke, had to get to our tootsies, since we were completely surrounded by die-hard Jackson fans swaying and clapping to their little tickers content.

Still, standing up, momentarily relieved me from having me space invaded by a denim clad article who insisted in sitting, legs akimbo, in the manner of football pundits on Sky TV. You know the ones, silky suited morons whose tailors clearly ran right out of cloth before knitting enough gonad room.

Anyway, I'm straying from the path... as per...

I could have spent the ticket money on shoes, well one shoe anyway, and shut meself in the cupboard under the stairs with the radio on full blast and repeatedly smashed me head against the wall whilst shining a lazer torch into me eyes. It would have had the same effect, minus of course, the space invading thing next to me.

Bloke went straight to bed upon our return and barely spoke to me this morning. Not sure if it's because he's gone into one, is generally sullen, I'm not quite meself or what...

At this present moment in time I couldn't give A RAT'S FAT ARSE

Friday, 24 June 2011

In which I do my well known and much loved Incredible Hulk impersonation...

Now! Don't panic and rush out to buy grapes, but Lovely One is not feeling herself of late. A very unfortunate black out occurred whilst at my post in the gallery. One came over all unneccassary and whilst not losing conciousness, certainly lost my dear little senses for a mo. Assembled company fussed around bringing me water and thrusting my head between my knees with such force that I was nonplussed. Dear Little S put forth the theory that I was overcome by fumes emitting from Don the Dump, which may well have been the case since he is now 'Don the Double Dumper'. Anyway, I am restored to my former rude health, although it's not very rude these days, having all sorts of grumbling ailments with which I shan't bore you.

Any road up, shortly after the fainting experience I looked up from ebay to see BF and BFP standing in the doorway, large as life and twice as nautical. BF resembling a partially shorn sheep with a baalamb type hairdo which must collect allsorts when she's out foraging in the hedgerows.

Hoardes of She Who bla bla...'s octagenarian would be muff diver admirers have been clogging up the airspace in here this week, skyping and webcamming their many and various grandchildren all over the universe. I get shoved out of me seat, interrupted in the middle of the creation of many an important masterpiece and the upshot has been not much done. They don't seem to clock that their squelching Tena Ladys and clacking false teeth put the customers off.

I did get some painting done at Dear Little S's AND the little dear has sold one this week - goody goody!

But the most annoying occurance this week, thus far, has been the selfish shitbag who parked his nasty little ve-hickle so close to my Ferrarri that I couldn't open the effing door to go home! I was that fecking furious that I, single handedly, let off the handbrake and pushed the thing out of the parking space. I did turn green and bust out of me Chanel suit, but I don't think any one noticed.

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

In which I shall never darken the door of the Mountbatten again...

On Mondays Bloke and Moi do all our other stuff, other than work. This week we opted to favour, well I opted to favour, The Mountbatten pub which looks out over the stretch of water to the Hoe and the Barbican. The skies were misty and rain pelted down outside so we sat inside by the window.

I spent the most uncomfortable half hour with the arms of a 'country cottage' style chair digging into me gargantuan thighs. Now, dear reader, those of you familiar with dear little Lovely One will know that I am of the statuesque form, in the manner of Miranda Hart, or any Amazon one might care to name, but thus far have always engineered my arse into any assorted chair one may proffer. Never have I splayed the legs of a white plastic garden chair. Never have I required an extension belt on an aircraft. Never have I been stuck in a turnstlye, but I was bruised in the extreme by the diddyman sized, rickety seating apparatus in that boring establishment.

The general discomfort, however, didn't stop me from being utterly aghast at the general decor of the place. A revolting mish mash of styles: wrought iron dividing arches which didn't seem to be actually dividing anything. Ghastly faux Lloyd loom bucket chairs in the restaurant with tables too low to eat from, alongside vast heavy pine tables and modern chairs. Hideous curtains with silly little tie backs that screamed at the soft furnishings and carpet. The pictures on the wall, some from Armada, though none of mine, the bastards, looked as though they'd been flung at the wall and nailed up where they hit. The bar looked for all the world like a saloon bar from a wild west film, were it not for the repulsive and unbelievably enormous dried flower display, topped off with fairy lights. Behind the bar stood five or so bored looking spotty youths with their arms folded waiting to pull another pint of cider that they could then slop unceremoniously on the bar.

The overpriced baguettes were delivered without cutlery or napkins by a surly over made up piece with a face like a chewed nuttals mintoe. Masticating the fatty beef momentarily took me mind off me discomfort stuffed into the uncomfortable chair, but whilst chewing said beef, I begun, as One does, to listen to the surrounding conversation.

On one side was a table of elderly ladies each outdoing the another with tales of various and revolting illnesses.
At what particular age does one have to dwell so completely on one's health? For me, the answer to the question:
'How are you' is answered by
'Fine thanks' unless I have a limb visibly hanging on by a tendon.

The other side of us there sat a family, generations of them, discussing what to do now their proposed walk was scuppered by the rain. Grandma, apropo of nothing, launched into a monologue praising euthenasia.
'Bugger my 'at' I thought , 'I know it's rainting, but that's something of an extreme reaction.'

Further up the establishment there was a table of new mummies, not in the least bit yummy, with three mewling and puking babies.

We discarded our gristle buns, prized my arse out of the chair and sheared.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

In which I am a reluctant home porn viewer...

More bloody road closures! Today it's the 'Race for Life' lot, so many many pink clad and sweaty women tramping the streets for their cause. It's not that I don't wish them well, but I just wish they'd run about somewhere else! As if it's not enough that the gas men are still clagging up the road, now we've got metric tonnes of perspiring cellulite causing the tectonic plates of the Barbican to shift alarmingly!

Mounds of moist flesh of another hue are shockingly visible from One's kitchen window of an evening at the mo. As dear little Lovely One is boiling the kettle for her nightly hot, a sight not fit for Lovely Moi consumption is all too visible from the old pied a terre.

I feel I should explain re: hot...
The weather is never suitably clement for the removal of a fur clad hot from the jammy bottoms of oneself. Although the 'corned beef' flesh look, reminiscent of one's shins having spent too long in front of a coal fire, is not favoured by Bloke I simply can't do without it. On winter days I cram one down the back of me leggings when I'm painting and waddle around with it in the manner of a toddler with a full nappy.

Anyway, back to the dusky goings on over the road. The house immediately opposite has been occupied by a lone chap for as long as I've been in residence. That is until recently when the dusky lump occasionaly on view has been moved in seemingly permanently.

Last evening I pointed out to Bloke that the goings on in the bedroom which our kitchen window looms down upon, are flagrantly visible when standing at said window. The other side of the road is a long way off beyond a tree covered green, but with opera glasses (joke) everything is played out like a little portable tv screen just por moi.
No, dears, I'm not looking, but when standing at the sink, the movement of all that undulating brown flesh being pursued by a little, anaemic stick like chap in his tesco home and wear y-fronts tends to draw the eye.
Bloke, peering, furrow browed, in general direction, not very helpfully shouted out:
'He's got his finger up 'er bum!'
causing Lovely Moi to misdirect the boiling water from my hot right down the front of me fluffy!
'You've got flamin' good eyesight', I retorted, barging him aside.
'I can't see it', says me squinting and clutching me fluffy.
'Neither can I, you goon' says he, shuffling off shaking his head.

Friday, 17 June 2011

In which I just waffle on and on...

Moved into Dear Little S's gallery yesterday. My very own corner - in which I may actually leave out my stuff (as long as it's tidy - bore snore) so that passers by can admire it and bid to buy even before it's complete. Well, that's the plan.

J, Dear LS's business partner is frightfully posh and business like which is a bit scary for soft and gentle Lovely One. But, I suppose someone's got to be the grown up and as long as it doesn't have to be moi, I'll fall into line. I am swapping a 'room of one's own' for time manning the gallery so that Dear Little S can go wedding snapping with the Meemster and Posh J can look after her aged Ma.

Should work well for me since I can't get any painting done in here, (Barbican), as I keep on getting interrupted by customers, the bastards! Not that anyone's bought anything yet. Just the usual Lenkie bores treating us like a museum and 'oh I'm just looking' it all over the shop - the shittsters!

One new approach this morning though, an elderly, kagul clad, shopping baggster shuffled in and said,
'I used to work with him you know in 1966'
I plastered on the smile that says - 'Yes, I too regard the old perv as a saint' when inside I mean
'I hope yer colostomy bag bursts and drips into yer Co-op carrier.'

Anyway, enough of that, I'm getting obsessed and full of bile, and I can't do a festering thing about it because the object of my frustration has snuffed it.

Onward and upward.

D the dump has been in attempting to hack into She who....'s email account and requesting my assistance for the task. Still, at least with that occupying his time he wasn't outback offloading last nights fish finger biryani and 14 pints of guinness.

Am officially an old person, well will be from the 18th to 22nd July when I have, perhaps rashly, booked up for a coach tour of Chester, Liverpool and the Peak District. It's so unbelievably cheap that I dread to imagine standard of accomodation and food. Still, Bloke never goes anywhere without a catering pack of cheese and onion crisps and a coal sack full of Minstrels so we should be able to chow down in our 'comfortable twin bedded room'

I expect it'll be a 'Pamela Harriman' experience (google her) in that being surrounded by much older people, one is automatically the most attractive. Youth being the best beauty asset of all.

Bloke says we are old gits anyway. He certainly looked like one this morning when he came to slobber me goodbye, with his tummy hanging over his new extra large Matalan shreddies and his little, well enormous actually, head, freshly shaved looking like a just dug up Desiree spud that had had a run in with a garden fork.
Off he plodded, with a face like a bombed out toilet block, hobbling down the stairs to the wafting aroma of pooh and toothpaste that permeates the homestead of a morning.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

In which I press ahead with world domination...


Well, here I jolly well am again darlings.

It took Lovely One A WHOLE EFFING HOUR to negotiate the sodding gasworks/roadworks/whateverbastardworks to get here and thusfar have taken 80p for two postcards.

The first thing I did on opening up was to ensure that the sales figures have slumped once again now Anal C is back at the feather dustered helm. Oh tee hee, the old bat's putting off the customers again. One slight little problermo though, is that she has once again moved all my stuff round and hidden a lot of it. She's only interested in selling stuff that's owned outright by the gallery as all the money for that goes straight up the knicker leg of She Who Must bla bla...

I expect she's off poisoning some unfortunate fucker so's she can furrow her brow and 'nurse' them back to health. She who must be... was certainly in better fettle without the gloom of Anal C surrounding her last week.

I bet she's spitting! My new cards have trounced everyone else's Oh joy Oh bliss. I do realise, dear reader, that I am a spiteful, vinegar pissing Old Harridan. Do I care? Do I buggery!

Anyway, back to the serious business of me dominating the world. At this point I'd twirl me mustache, if I had one. (Well maybe a little bit of one) But, in the absence I'll twirl me twinkle menacingly. After some investigation I have arrived at the conclusion that galleries now appraise One's work via the pooter, if you please. So, I currently have a person of that persuasion resizing me originals, whatever that is, so I can email them to prospective exhibitors. I know I'm an insufferable big head, but I know they'll all want them. Who wouldn't want to make money for nothing?!! At least that way I won't have to traipse around with a bundle of masterpieces having to be pleasant to people when I'd rather be watching re-runs of Come Dine with Me and picking me nose.

The saga of Aged P's flat has come, or will come at 12 noon, to an end. We have had to stump up a grand towards the deed of variation that the purchaser had to get in order to let the flat. Which is a bit rich considering the stchooped solicitor wasn't doing his job. But these days, in order to sell anything, you have to be rather too flexible and accomodating for my liking.

On relaying this story to aged Ma - SHE SAID SHE'D PAY FOR IT OUT OF HER SHARE.

WELL - YOU COULD HAVE BUGGERED ME THROUGH ME RAINCOAT

Sunday, 12 June 2011

In which I am dripped on by soggy fat birds...

Absolutely tipping it down! Raining pussy cats and those ghastly other furry things. So, consequently lots of kagul clad cretins in, sheltering from the downpour.
Even as I blog there's a generously sized blob type lardarse dripping all over Lovely One's print browser.

Of course, we have sportswear covered fiftysomethings who've never been adjacent to a gym in their miserables, hovvering pathetically around the Lenkie offerings.

Goodo, most of them have sheared.

I want to get on with my painting. I am getting a little bit, well a BIG bit actually, sick of pretending to be a shop assistant. Although it has to be said I do a better job of it than the actual shop assistant who was back in yesterday and judging by the poor sales should have stayed away.

Sashayed by to visit Dear Little S yesterday and set up a painting area for myself in his studio. I desperately need a dedicated space to set up my stuff and just leave it there instead of having to pack it all away in this Steptoe's Yard of a Gallery.

Any road up, Dear Little S and Moi have come to the conclusion that Anal C is using She Who must be.... as a vehicle for her 'Munchhausen's syndrome by proxy'. As odd as it may seem, SWmbO has been perfectly ok this past week whilst Darling Moi has been minding the shop and she has swanned in and out like the owner should. There's been very little talk about impending doom of any kind, business wise or healthwise and so One must draw the conclusion that Anal C is at the bottom of it, so to speak.

Her pinched up face - mouth like a cat's arse, and knitted brow, wrinkly forehead look, puts off the most ardent art lover.
Lovely One, of course, with peaches and cream, flawless skin, brightened by sparkling teggies and baby blues is a positive breath of air of the freshest quality.

The fetid stench of decomposing octagenarians does rather repell prospective purchasers when the gaff is left in the tender care of Anal C - or even worse - Don the dump. Don the dump, the estranged spouse of She who... totters in occasionaly demanding cups of tea and asking moi to do 'something on the computer' for him. Known as D the D for the unfortunate habit of calling in for a crap on a daily basis. Does he have no facilities at home, One can't help pondering. The facilities here are not exactly cut out for major dumping expeditions, being in a little hut immediately behind the counter and next to the kitchen, yuk yuk and double yuk!!! The pervading pong is utterly vomit inducing and - oh shit - here he comes again...

Wonders will never cease! He's bogged off - rather than bogging on - like he usually does.

Anyway, back to D the D. He may well spray the air freshener copiously about the shit hut, but the 'room freshener' that can cut through that hasn't come out of the Nassau Space Center lab yet! If One could sew, One could sew a button on the cloud emanating from the gap under the door.

Oh feckin' 'eck he's back again! But not for long as his oversized ancient Merc has blocked the 'See Plymouth by Beryl the bus' bus. The driver is frantically sounding his horn to shift the shittster and his Merc, whilst his cargo of packa-macked pensioners tut-tut their false teeth into a sodding percussion interlude.

That's probably the most excitement me and Billie Holliday will have all day. She's still bleating on about some man 'havin' done her wrong'
Still, she should be grateful that he just duffed her up, rather than nipping in to stink out her bog with a nuclear submarine sized chod!

Saturday, 11 June 2011

In which I realise that I am indeed working for a freak show...

And so the end of the Anal C free week has cometh.

Rather splendid sales all round despite the visitations of She Who bla bla's little chums sniffing around on an almost hourly basis. Fantastically interesting discussions held at high decibel levels on topics such as their endless supply of weird friends with their equally weird health conditions.

Lovely One was left agog, positively open mouthed and gaping upon the overhearing of today's little discussion.

It went thus...
'Do you remember Alice who went to Australia?'
'Oh yes, wasn't she the one who liked older men?'
'Yes that's the one.Well another one's died and left her even more money.'
'That's four of them she's seen off now'.
'What ever happened to Dorothy?'
'Dorothy?'
'Yes, you know, the one who only married men with one leg.'
'There's a name for that isn't there'

THERE IS INDEED A NAME FOR THAT METHINKS. But for once, I am mesmerised into a deathly hush

'Well that third one she married, you know, the one who had his leg amputated so she would marry him. Well he's dead'

I quietly packed away my paints and left...

Friday, 10 June 2011

In which I am serene and flawless.......

Charming and disarming moi has spent the entire week being a shop assistant in the gallery.

Anal C is on her hols this week.

I've had a wonderful time making a mess, not washing up and putting stuff where I want it.

Takings are up MASSIVELY, music played is sophisticated and cool, witty banter drifts hither and thither and we are positively galleryesque, instead of being a drop in centre for elderly ladies to discuss their many and varied forms of waste disposal.
Why is that when one hits a certain age it would appear one can't pooh, and yet would seemingly be unable to stop weeing! I can't wait!

I'm checking out before those delights occur! Sadly too old now to die 'young and beautiful' I shall deffo shuffle before I have to spend my days astride a Tena Lady lorry!

Can't be arsed (I hate that expression) to paint this morning and am people watching. I've decided to be utterly charming moi today and see just how much more spons can be stashed before Anal C returns with her feather duster and her cottage cheese.

It's not enough for me to succeed - everyone else must fail!

Just sold a boring old David Young painting of some spiffing Tor or another out on Dartmoor. Two old bints, one with terminal halitosis, were in here AGES choosing the festering item. They had the infernal cheek to prop the prospective choices against LOVELY ONE'S MASTERPIECES! They have no idea how close they came to being belted round the bonce with a bronze Lenkie bust. (Assaulting persons is all they're good for)

Anyway finally a ghastly bluebell wood was decided upon for the lucky retiring person's gift. Whipping it onto the counter for wrapping the eagle eyed one of the pair spotted a slight mark on the frame, so off we went again. Give me strength! Lovely One did of course remain serene and jollied the pair along to another choice. If only all these people knew what a bad tempered, sour old harridan I actually am! My mask of lovliness never cracks! Well, not til I get home and beat up Bloke before drinking myself into an incontinent stupor!

ANY OLD FLAMIN' WAY - whatever I'm like, I'm much more palatable than the anally retentive septagenarian Anal C who haunts the place on a daily basis.

'Oh there's not enough work for two to do' she bleats constantly to She Who ... bla bla. When will the ridiculous old fluid retentive dollop realise that

SHE IS A SHOP ASSISTANT

AND LOVELY ONE

IS

AN ARTISTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, 9 June 2011

In which I am improving - as if that were poss...

Goodo! Things picking up this week to such a degree that I can't paint 'em fast enough! Two on their way to Australia and one on it's way to France and that's just over the past two days, dear reader.

And, guess what? If I haven't told you already I AM BEING STUDIED AT THE UNIVERSITY.

No, get up, dears. No need to prostrate yourselves just yet. Oh alright! Go on then!
It won't change me. I'll still be the model of perfection and modesty I've always been.

Just been rudely interrupted by a Lenkie bore wanting to tell me all about his painting. Bore - snore - bore. Do I look like I care!

Anyway, sales are up, I am Lovely and I've got a viewing on the house this afternoon AND Me Dad's flat's sold.

I need shoes!

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

In which I recall my time as a deep sea pearl diver...

I know, I know, I'm a dear little fool to myself! Having acquired a shiny new thick nibbed glass pen to write on my outside board I went all benevolent and wrote a whole side of the A frame about Lenkie.

Then, deep in discussion with an antipodean customer about the merits of shipping one of my paintings, along comes my first Lenkie Bore of the day...

In it marches,
'Where's the Lenkie prints' it enquires, whilst standing next to them.
We then embark upon a 'why isn't there a dedicated museum/gallery/shrine.' All this whilst I am in the middle of a sale of one of my paintings!
'I'm a writer', it ploughs on, 'and I sat next to one of Lenkie's daughters at an art class yesterday.'

I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S FAT ARSE. FUCK OFF AND LET A LIVING, BREATHING PAINTER GET ON WITH A SALE.

Luckily said Antipodean personage is sufficiently enamoured with Lovely One's offering to hang around long enough for the 'writer' HUH, to sod offski.

A little question for you, darling reader, Why is it that opticians invariably have halitosis that could fell a tree at fifty paces?
My training as a deep sea pearl diver came in awfully handy yesterday when having my baby blues examined, as I was able to hold my breath for the entire forty seven minutes.

Sunday, 5 June 2011

In which I discover Chet Baker...


I am listening to 'My funny Valentine' by Chet Baker. I 'discovered' this genius whilst listening to Roger Waters Dessert Island Discs. Being a jaded old trollope of advancing years, with a cynical slant on life, I was stopped in my tracks by the sound. I'd long since given up on anyone or anything affecting me deeply when along comes Chet. Oh well, maybe other things will stir me, who knows!

Wobbled off to Browston Gallery in Modbury on Friday with a few prints and cards to hawk my wares. Never ever done that before, I am always invited to exhibit by others. Still, I intend to cash in on my works now so have been galvanised into action. Waffled on nervously and thrust said works in front of cool as a cu gallery owner, who, it has to be said, went into paroxyms of delight right there before my eyes. I was nervington as a result of J telling me that the gallery is notoriously difficult to get into, but - success is mine! Not only am I exhibiting three large works in the next exhibition, but they want my new cards AND they want me to paint in their exquisite garden throughout the summer! It's days like that - that make me wonder if my long standing decision not to live to be old might have been a bit hasty.

Anyway, am painting Beer today and then will be off to the Steam Gallery, the very place that inspired me to paint full time, having wonderful Martin Procter stuff on display when visiting on hols many moons ago.

Mucho bollockso with regard to sale of aged P's gaff. Now it would appear that the buyers solicitor omitted to inform his client that there was a clause in the lease of the flat that forbids letting. Bit of a bummer when one's purchasing said gaff in order to let it! Ensuing shit hitting fan means no greenbacks to be shared out amoungst the great unwashed Harris' family. Absolute nonsense actually since most of the flats are indeed let, and anyway, just do it!

Sashayed forth to Wivey to extract shiny new pooter from Wardo Boy. Hot and bothersome journey there and chilled and cool one on the way back in the company of Chet.