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Wednesday, 30 November 2011

In which I plan to crawl away and die...

Am firmly housed dans le maison de chien once again. Have inadvertently offended Bloke and am in for at least two weeks of the staring straight ahead, one word answer treatment. If the recent past is anything to go by that is.

It all began, dear reader, when Bloke was emailed by the estate agent with the incorrect amount that I'd paid for the Home Information Pack for the sale of HIS house.

'Are you looking through my bank account?' I enquired, and all hell broke loose! Let me explain...
A couple of years ago I added Bloke to my current account so that the proceeds from the house sale didn't go into the account he still had with his ex-wife. The sale fell through, he is still on my bank account and yet he chooses to continue use of the account with his ex-wife. Only my earnings and dealings are passed through what was, after all, my bank account.
I am not interested in money, all I want is to work, paint, pay my bills and survive. I don't mind him looking at my account, I have nothing to hide. I only asked the question and now I am informed that he is,
'used to being in a relationship.' and that I 'only want to do my own thing', whatever that means.

I don't think he really wants me at all and I just don't know what to do. I feel really sad about it all, but it seems to be that I have a negative effect on everyone around me.

I should crawl away and die.

Friday, 25 November 2011

In which I am the recipient of a smidgeon of good luck...

Bugger my 'at! Could it be a stroke of luck at last, dear reader? This very morn I took a call from the estate agent who very apologetically told me that the buyer of our buyer, the cash buyer (keep up, keep up) will incur some sort of financial penalty if they complete the transaction before January, BUT they want to exchange contracts ASAP.


That is exactly what we have needed all along and I have told everyone from day one! Because we have travelled this path before and have spent, and lost, rather a lot of money, I won't make any arrangements for our onward move until we have exchanged contracts. When that's happened everyone is tied in and can't get out of it without paying up!

So, with luck, I shall be in my 'beloved gallery' as Bloke calls it, for Christmas and beyond. My enthusiasm for all things artistic is seen as me 'showing off'.

No annoying Janners with crap to sell have been in yet, but the day is young.

Had a lovely big sale last time I was in - on the cusp of shearing as the streets were almost bare of punters, when in sashayed a mother and daughter combo waxing lyrical about Lovely One. The little dears bought my 'Carousel' so moi is a contented article - but for how long?

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

In which things are bleaker by the day...

There are some kind and generous people out there and they know who they are!

Still no word about the exchange of contracts on Bloke's gaff. He is, however, planning to stop working at the end of this week, so I hope it all comes to fruition!!

In the gallery today. The first twatticus with something to sell has been in...
'I've got a painting by *******'
'Not someone I'm familiar with' I say through gritted teeth.
'I can't believe it!' says he 'he's a really famous, well known artist from Cornwall.'
'Well I've never heard of him' I continue 'what is it you want? To sell me something?'
'I was hoping you could tell me about him' he went on 'I've looked him up on the internet and I've got this painting of the twin towers he did.'
'Well, if you've looked him up on the internet you must have found out everything there is to know and I can't add to that. I suggest that if you have something to sell that is where you do it, we are in the business of selling art.'

Although he'd barged into the gallery brandishing his painting without even looking at what we have on our walls for sale, he looked affronted that I wasn't interested in buying his wares. What is it with these people? I imagine the rest of the lucky gallery owners have had the same conversation with him as he's been traversing the street for quite some time now. Next port of call - the auction house and dear little S, no doubt.

Boy is in the doldrums again. I wish I knew whether he was really depressed or just clutching at some reason for not wanting to go to college. I should be with him in Wivey looking out for him. Not down here living someone else's life. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me, for leaving him there with his father.

Have had a very generous offer of sactuary which I would love to accept, but I'm not fit for human company. Why should I spread my misery around? I only have myself to blame.

Sunday, 20 November 2011

In which I, at last, wise up...

Well here I am again then! Sunday morning on the Barbican. What will today bring? No doubt the usual steady trickle of idiots wanting me to buy their worthless old tat.

Yesterday was rather fruitful in my absence. A commission for a land agent's boardroom. Big bucks for that one methinks! Plus two little ones sold. It all adds up.

I sashayed into Dear Little S's on Friday evening to collect some more small framed pics that had sold out and 'stap me vitals' the idiotic woman who attempted to sell me the worthless print of the Hoe by some unknown, had fronted up at the Auction House and attempted to get them to sell it! With flea firmly positioned in ear, rather than sod off home and bin the thing she then tried to sell it to Dear Little S. These people are unbelievable!

FFS was there wearing yet another child's frock stretched to it's limit across various ample areas of her torso and sporting a new and intriguing hairstyle. Well I say hairstyle, it looked more like she's been hung upside down for an hour or so and had super glue sprayed on it in the manner of Jeddward. A pair of Santa Claus boots completed the eclectic outfit, not to mention of course, the obligatory vast wooly poncho. Somewhere on a hillside in Wales there's an entire herd of sheep shivering following the completion of that vast item!

Lovely One, naturally, was the epitome of fragrant elegance in me uggs and big fluffy wooly.

Bloke has been rather pleasant company of late. Methinks the end being in sight of living in Maison Moist has lifted his spirits. I can't wait to put plan B into action....

I'm keeping it to my dear little self though, as if I open me gob, it'll all go tits up!

It is still a constant source of surprise to me regarding those who have offered to come to my assistance, and indeed those who haven't. I have always thought myself to be a reasonable judge of character, but it would appear not. I do recall some time back several persons questioning me rather gently about the company I was keeping, but I paid them no heed. It won't change me though and I shall still have a tiny bit of the Pollyanna about me.

Stchoopid? Perhaps? Who knows? Who cares?

I shall be keeping my own council from now on.

Friday, 18 November 2011

In which I am surrounded by idiots...

Sales are going well! That's good isn't it dear reader? Perhaps I'll be able to afford somewhere to live soon.

This morning I have been irritated by two items of stab fodder thus far...

The first, a woman who wanted me to buy a print of the Hoe by an unknown artist. It is really difficult to enter into a conversation with these morons without employing the words 'off' and 'fuck'

A print - I ask you!

I gently attempted to explain to her that we are in the business of selling, in preference to buying, art. AND Why is it that people think that just because they have a print/painting it is worth money? She didn't even bother to survey the scene and see what we actually have for sale in here, before launching into her schpeil. I did what I usually do and told her to either sell it on ebay or put it in the dustbin.

The second twat was brandishing a pencil drawing produced by his Father.
'He does drawings like Salvatori Devli,' says the plonker.
I inspected the folded sheet of A4 print paper with abject horror.
How does One address these issues without punching people in the gob? I told him that we don't deal in this kind of art and he very sternly told me that 'someone in London' was interested in it!
'I should pursue that line of enquiry then,' I retorted.
I would have been ashamed of it if I'd done it when I was eight years old!
It must be special needs outing day on the Barbican today. Either that or a vast amount of the Plymouth populus is thick!


Just had a visitation from another twatticus...
In it lopes - shorts, sandals, sunglasses. Correct moi if I'm wrong, but it is November is it not?
'I was ripped off by you' was his opening gambit.
'How so?' I reply.
'I own hundreds of paintings' he goes on 'I'm sixty now and I want to sell them.' And on he goes listing the various art he owns. Incidentally, nobody I've ever heard of.
'My accountant says if I get over £3000 I shall have to pay capital gains tax. But then you should know all that' he says, stabbing his finger into my face.
'You know that don't you?' he continues.
'I had no idea' I reply 'I'm not the owner, I'm the in-house painter.'
'Where's your stuff?' he demands to know.
I point him in the direction of my studio and he makes agreeable noises before alighting upon my 'Shape of the Hoe' framed limited edition print.
'I want that' he exclaims 'But I'm not paying that for it. I'll give you a hundred cash.'
'No' I reply. (Frankly I'd give it second thoughts if the ghastly stinker offered me five hundred)
'I'll be back to discuss it later' he says over his shoulder as he shuffles off into the distance.

Can't wait!

Friday, 11 November 2011

In which my hands are shaking...

In the grip of pure terror today. No sleep, not even scoffing, which can only be a good thing. On Monday we will find out if Bloke can go ahead and buy a shared ownership flat. Not ideal. In fact, far from it. Beggars can't be bla bla...

I know I shouldn't expect him to be any stronger than me, but it just seems to always be me who's trying to sort everything out. Such is life, well mine anyway. It was the same with Vile Husband.

It seems to have been one long stroll from mistake to mistake.

Pring Pring...
Excuse moi, dear reader...

Oh I didn't see that one coming...
It was the agent marketing the shared ownership flat. The vendor has taken it off the market. What can I say?


I never pulled wings off flies or anthing horrid like that. I have done my fair share of charity work. I am quite a nice person. So why does everything go tits up for me?

Anal C, who hasn't quite grasped the situation says that 'moving is very stressful.' It's not. I rather like it. What is stressful is that when I do move I actually don't have anywhere to move to. It's a hard world out there and with no mortgage offer and no chance of paying private rent, I am stuffed all ends up. I don't even have a plan and that's unusual for me. I can usually get myself out of a situation but not this time. I'm not sure if it's age or lack of enthusiasm or just plain grinding misery. Whatever it is I just can't do it.

Thank you to the Abbster and Dear Little S's Ma for the offer of a roof over my head and indeed, She who must bla bla and FFS, but I'm not fit company for other humans at the moment and regardless of my instinct for bolting, I must stand alongside poor Bloke who is in grave danger of crumbling.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

In which I run for home, run as fast as I can...

Raining chats and chiens on the Barb today.

Many moist Janners coming in to shelter from the rain, but sadly not purchasing very much. One twonk just asked me how much my cupcake painting was. An absolute steal at £145 and the stigy bastard legged it!

Have just had long chat with the Abbster, an old chumster from the Leighton Buzzard days of picnics and toddlers. EEEE them were the days! Who'd have thought she'd have off loaded the Bazzer and had her stomach stapled and lost twelve and a half stone - and she's still not happy! She also had her own Mr Stone who sauntered off into the ether with an exdirectory phone number and the contents of the bank account. And I think I've got problermos!

Speaking of which...
I had a brilliant idea to solve the current housing crisis. No, dear reader, not the national one, Bloke's and mine.

Shared ownership housing. Apparently he's eligible. So off we meander to Stoke, a very acceptable older suburb of the vast and ghastly city of Plymouth. Bloke doesn't like it though - it being...
'alright for you, you like old places.'
Rather a nice flat in an attractive block. But small. I have visions of being too close to the unnerving pong of onions, cheese and all the associated aromas of the mobile catering cove. Not to mention the plethora of drying cloths liberally distributed on any vaguely warm surface.

Oh I know I sound like a miserable old bat.
Well I am!
I long for the smell of fresh linen and pussy cats and Chanel and new shoes and vodka and the sound of laughter and having a nice chat and moaning at Boy and being answered back and getting up in the middle of the night to blog and then moaning about work and doing the garden and filling up the bird feeders and throwing snails over the garden wall and parking too close to Evil L so she can't get out of her car door and banging the gate to annoy Shirley's dog and going round to moan at Vile ex husband and just

Friday, 4 November 2011

In which I am medicated...

Enter roly poly man with miniscule wife...
'how much are your small framed pictures?'
Now, dear reader, bear in mind that these are 6x6 inch mounted and framed prints of much larger originals.
'£30' I say
'Are they originals?'


It would appear that they do, so after trawling through my very fairly priced prints and originals, they grab, and purchase a seascape, 20x36 inches, for £95.
Now then, you may think they've bagged themselves a bargain, but no, dear reader, it's a production line painting from China, painted by Chinese foetuses and bought in for less than a fiver!
They then proceed to entrap Lovely One in a v boring conversation about their equally boring lives.

There goes another half hour of my life I won't get back!

I feel like chasing them down the road and shouting...

'Oi you morons! You've just passed up the chance of owning a piece of genuine art in favour of, what you think is a bargain, but what is in fact a worthless piece of shit.'

I was hoping not to have to stab anyone today, but it looks like blood will be spilt before the day is out!

Yesterday, and don't worry darlings, Lovely One went off to the doctor to be investigated re: complications various. You will all doubtless be delighted to register that I am in blooming health, physically at least.
But apparently I am a basket case mentally and in need of medication and the intervention of a professional.

Well, wouldn't you be if you were about to be made homeless?

How on earth do I consistently end up in the K rap?

Poor judgement? Bad luck? Who knows?