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Sunday, 29 January 2012

In which I correct another misinformed Lenkie Bore...

A few motley blighters abroad this very morn. Obviously some touring coach has disgorged it's cargo and left them to amble hither and thither along the Barbican. Today's visitors seem not to want to make eye contact, so I issue a cheery 'Good Morning.' A slight mumble emits from the odd one or two, but in the main they don't want to speak, and they reject any offer of assistance. So, I get back to my drawing, which today I am doing behind the counter and not at my easel, so they don't know I am the 'Painter in Residence' advertised on the board outside.

When I am merely the shop assistant, the proles treat me with barely disguised contempt, but when at my easel, I seem to take on a kind of mythical status and am treated completely differently. Odd.

The pair who got away on Friday, came back yesterday and bought a big original and two large prints. Anal C called to tell me whilst I was in me boudoir. I LOVE making money whilst I'm idling me time away in me jim jams. I didn't do what AC does though. If I sell anything when she's not there she always makes like it was her customer just come back to seal the deal. I'll let her have that one. I couldn't give a rat's fat as long as I sell one!

Oooh - here we have some Lenkie 'afficionados'
'There he is with Androclees,' says the silly moo, pointing at the 'Self Portrait with self portrait at 90.' She thinks it's himself with his pet tramp whom he christened Diogenese.
BORE SNORE BORE EFFING SNORE
'We've just bought a really big house where the woman had about twenty big Lenkiewicz's on the wall.' Sauntering over to a 'Mark Spain' she continues 'I quite like that one of his, I wouldn't mind that one.'
I have to admit I did take delight in correcting her on both accounts.
It's been a relatively 'Lenkie Bore' free zone of late and yet even now my heart sinks when I am confronted by yet another self appointed expert. I don't know why it annoys me so much, I guess it's just the absolutely ridiculous twats that come in here just to tell me that they are vaguely informed about him.

I DON'T CARE.

I DO CARE if they want to buy one. Then I'll wax lyrical about the perverted old boy till the Vaches come home. Otherwise, forget it.
I don't mind talking about Shirley Orifice, or even that Sara one, but Lenkie - not interested!
I really am a miserable old dollop. I can't help it and I'm not even going to try.

Friday, 27 January 2012

In which I make meself feel ill remembering the Snaggle Toothed Troll...

A bright shiny morning on the Barbican and met with the news that I sold two yesterday. Woohoo!

Now I am equalling my worst ever trading month at least, and not dragging behind it.

Today will finish another painting. It will be the first one this year to go into print. For me, that's amazing, I chuck 'em out at least one a week usually. To be frank, I was a little afraid to paint anything after the stroke in case I'd lost me mojo or whatever.

And have been agitated (I hate the word stress) to the limit with the will it/won't it exchange palava with Maison Moist, oh and of course, the carryings on with Boy.

Speaking to Boy yesterday, he is making good strides into getting a place at Leeds. Vile Ex Husband has inadvertantly had a positive effect on the situation with his negative approach to the acquisiton of paid employment. According to Boy, he'd been offered a job in Bath at 20K per year and had refused as 'it's not enough.' I agree that the amount is poor for a person with his depth of knowledge of pootering etc. But not having had paid employment for at least ten years, I'd have thought he would have leapt at them and bitten their hands off. He could have looked into Working Tax Credit, or seen it as a lever to something better. Boy was disgusted, having seen his dear Mama doing all sorts of jobs, and multiples of same over the years to make ends meet.

Don't get me wrong, V Ex H is a lovely, lovely, calm and kind natured article, he just has a vital bit missing. Boy can now see what drove me bonkers and eventually away. He was adamant that I shouldn't say any of this to V E H, which of course, I never would, but I am glad that Boy has begun to see the light in that direction.

My next assault on Boy will be his dishevelled appearance. I have pointed out that he is remarkably unkempt and grubby for a Gay. He never gets a hair cut apart from the one I give him when I have moaned on for so long that he gives in. I admit it must be difficult to develop an interest in grooming and interior design in V E H's flat which is a health hazard, but I did hope for more since I have always provided a sartorially elegant wardrobe for him.

No wonder VeH has formed his odd little association with the Snaggle Toothed Troll, given her frightful standards. I well remember having to show people round her disgusting abode when it was for sale, and having to step over the, gusset up, unwashed shreddies littering the floor. There was a hole in the back door, presumably awaiting a cat flap, through which sauntered ducks, geese and rabbits. The kitchen door had scratch marks that simply couln't have been achieved by anything less than a grizzly bear, though I never encountered it. The filth and flies One was met with in the kitchen was something One doesn't care to associate with the owner of a catering company. I recall BF et Moi having our gasts utterly flabbered by the grime and stench. I know the Snaggle... meant well, but I just can't get past the overall impression of sluttishness.

I do hope that she doesn't infiltrate V ex H's flat, which I know for sure is the prime directive in her assualt on him. The alarming amount of 'food poisoning' suffered by her weird and many offspring is not something I want for Boy.

I couldn't bear to see her scant volume of cosmetics on the windowsill...
TCP and a strygel for skin care regime
and
Go and Wash for hair care
not to mention
a squirt of Grime and Lime between the saggy frontispieces to set V ex H aflame

YUK

Thursday, 26 January 2012

In which I merely record the day's events...


The penultimate day of stress, I hope. Tomorrow the contracts should exchange on Maison Moist and we will be able to plan our getaway on 10th Feb. If it doesn't come to pass - who knows?

Yesterday I got half way through a new pic of Plymouth. Worked tirelessly all the day long.

Bleak and mizzly weather hung over the Barbican and the only movement outside in the street was the odd bundle of tumbleweed being blown hither and thither.

Until...

Enter a customer. He strode over to the counter and barked at me...
'I've got a Pollard print of the Three Crowns.'
I observed him as I digested this information.
He just stood there.
So I said 'Congratulations.'
'Well?' he said
'Well what?' I enquired.
'Do you want to buy it?'

OH DEAR, A BAD START TO THE DAY. ANOTHER EEJIT HAVING THE WRONG IMPRESSION OF A SHOP.

'No, in the current climate we are in the business of selling and not buying. I would try the internet if I were you.'

It wouldn't be so annoying if these people at least had a brief look round the gallery or passed the time of day rather than marching in and more or less demanding action.

Boy is stepping up to the mark re: Leeds University, so that's good!

Bloke is still being adorable.

I am still a wobbly old miserable dollop.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

In which we visit Yacht Haven

Unusual day yesterday in which I followed Bloke around on his errands. He hadn't slept at all on the previous night having been stuffed to the gunnels with stress related panic re: are we moving/are we not moving? And so the unwashed hungry of Plymouth had to scoff elsewhere.

Even though I have my fair share of panic episodes, it's not very often that I can't snuggle down in my satin sheets with a hot stuffed down me jim jams and be pushing out the z's in minutes. In fact, I could happily kip on a clothes line in the middle of the day.

Any road up - off we sallied in the Porsche to the laughingly named 'Yacht Haven.' A miserable graveyard for under used snack vans and long since abandoned doormobiles.

The forerunner of the 'people carrier', we had a doormobile when we were young which was driven manically through the Pyrennees Mountains by Aged P, who was then, young P. The British Racing Green van had wooden bench seats in the back which Lovely One and The Brother slid precariously from end to end every time we rounded a bend. From time to time the back doors would swing open and items various would scatter the streets of whatever bit of Europe we were exploring that summer.

Invariably we had a convoy of such vehicles full of P's friends and family and of a balmy evening we would roll up to one or another camp site, purchase plastic 10 litre cans of local plonk and generally have a raucous time of it.

The offspring, me usually the oldest, followed by the Brother and sprogs various would be zipped into an enormous tent, swaddled in nylon sleeping bags, whilst the grown ups would scoff daring foodstuffs not seen in Blighty and scarf the plonk.

As I recall it, the Mother and Father would be at loggerheads at all times. 'Twas always a mystery to me how they jogged along together at all. She being the perfect example of a 1950's, dirndyl skirted Dozzer Day wannabee and he being something of a spivvy wideboy. Having said that, his risk taking business ventures afforded us a lifestyle envied by many of my factory fodder parented school chums.

Anyway, I digress, back to the Doormobile...
It had sliding doors which were something of a hazard, in that they slid open william nilliam and seatbelts were not only never worn, they weren't even put in the old mobile at all! 'Elf 'n Safety hadn't been invented then and one could saunter about having accidents that weren't anybody's fault and didn't end in vast sums of money changing hands.

Well, any road up, the front doors slid open and the back doors flew open all over the continent until one day when P braked suddenly and a large truck hit us up the rear, rendering the back doors closed for ever. Getting in and out became a gymnastic feat that I certainly wouldn't attempt now. But we were young and lithe and nothing scared us.

I've gone off me track somewhat...
The Yacht Haven is a ghastly place where unwanted chaps go to 'mend' long since redundant vehicles and boats, and to hide from their wives. Yacht Haven being the escape equivalent of a shed for hiding purposes. In fact, some actually LIVE in abandoned ambulances and the like. There's a lot of lonely men out there filling their days with dirty, stinky men only pursuits. They are obviously in dire need of a female time manager, but are safe at Yacht Haven.

Bloke keeps his mobile scoff wagon there and yesterday we were visiting to pump up the tyres.
For once Bloke was reasonably attired and wearing smart/cashe Lands End items all approved, and paid for, by Lovely One.
His little fat legs were a blur as they went up and down on the pump, putting me in the mind of Michael Flatley, or in this case Michael Fatley.

Who is Kinny?

Sunday, 22 January 2012

In which I let one get away...

Am nursing a ghastly, swollen knee that bears a striking resemblance to a football. Plus, have an egg shaped lump on top of head and all because Lovely One cannot seem to grasp that I'm not the agile, colt like creature of days gone by...

Twas uncomfortably chilly in Maison Moist on Friday evening and as soon as the sun was over the yard arm I swaddled my dear little self in me fluffy. A pleasant evening ensued with Bloke still being adorable (how long will that last) and snuggled down to catch up with the soaps.

Not a drop of laughing water passed me lips, I swear! Yet I still managed to sprawl headlong and injure my already battle scarred darling little self.
If only I'd made two journeys up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire instead of loading myself up like one of those poor little donkeys one sees on TV asking for £2 per month in order that they may live.

But no, I hung me laptop bag over me right shoulder, a vast and overloaded handbag over the left which rendered both hands free for me scalding hottie and current book, a devilishly interesting tome about a 1600's murder by mercury enema. (I like a bit of light chick lit)

My fluffy pockets were loaded down with bottles of fizzy water for the long night ahead. And it was thus that I set off up the two flights to me boudoir for a kip.
The first flight passed without too much discomfort and I'd built up such momentum on the bend of the first landing that it was with resigned acceleration that I propelled in a forward direction to the second flight.

It was then that I inadvertantly caught me foot in the hem of me fluffy and shrieking in the manner of a banshee and scattering the contents of both bags down the stairs I thrust forward my arms to break the fall. All to no avail, sadly. And having smashed down on my knees my head shot forward and crashed against the door jamb.
Now falling on One's knees shouldn't ordinarily prove too fatal but having never recovered from the injuries sustained during a 'care in the community' course, for Lovely One it was dire! On that occasion I had mysteriously managed to hook the handle of my bag under the leg of my chair and a closely positioned table thereby creating a trip wire.
Since then I have never been able to kneel down, hence my not having retired to a convent. Bloke likes to infer that it would be a re-inforced knee that would stand the ever increasing weight of Lovely One, but that is not to acknowledge the injuries sustained in my care of the needy and dying.

Any road up - I am yet again indisposed - but still able to frequent the Gallery.
Whereupon I have already sold a Beryl Cook and am on the cusp of offloading one of mine own masterpieces to a dear little pair of Janners.

Oh shit - they've escaped!

Thursday, 19 January 2012

In which I hold out hope for Boy's future...

Last evening was planning to rise at 6am in order to attend to jobs various before making the journey up to see Boy. As I mentally allotted time to each task I suddenly had an epiphany moment, in the manner of...
'Are you a mad woman?'
And the answer came - a resounding 'Yes'

Boy, still in some kind of weird parrallell universe where one need neither attend further education, get a job or indeed, sign on, had requested that I make the trip on Thursday instead of Saturday as 'it would be more convenient.' I imagine this had something to do with his elderly amour.

I DO sympathise with anyone suffering from depression. Heaven knows I have a supremely tenuous grip on mental health myself, but it has to be said, Lovely One is not in the first flush of youth or indeed good health at the mo.
So, I contacted Boy and told him I didn't feel up to the drive. I felt V bad about it since I am always 'on call' as a Mummy should be, but I certainly benefitted from a day sorting out tax return, job apps etc...

Today Boy is upbeat for a change and investigating the prospect of going to Leeds University that has a foundation course specially designed for persons such as he who have had reasons various for not completing their courses.
Please let it happen! I can't bear the thought of him blowing his future.
Here am I doing what I can to get back to Wivey in order to bring some influence on his life and it looks like he'll be off even before I get there.

A price worth paying.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012

In which I am in a fug...

Misty and gloomsville down on the Barbican. Two browsers thus far - one picking his nose and eating it and one with tourettes. Special Needs day out today then!

Spent yesterday in a fug. Felt just like I'd had a night on the vodka. Sadly, not so. Had instead been awake all night worrying for Boy and our impending move back to Wivey. Boy has burnt his bridges where college is concerned and now lies in bed all day wearing his Onesie and appearing briefly, and occasionally to consume calorific and nutrition free scoff. V ex H is unable to coerce him from 'neath the quilt it would seem and just shoves off to U.P.'s to work on his 'project.'
I nearly laughed out loud when he, very excitedly, told me about this project, the latest in a long line of non-starters that will end in no money being made and with no takers. This time it's a device to measure the velocity of bullets. Apparently lots of people make their own gunpowder and would find such an invention a 'must have' at £150. I'll 'mange me chapeau' if they do!

It's at times like this that I remember all too well why we went our seperate ways. 'Tis true, he is a lovely natured chap, calm, docile and kind, but absolutely unable to accept the fact that it is vital to have some kind of employment that pays for one's way in the world.

When first Boy and Lovely One de-camped to the Malthouse and Dear Little Lovely One began the endless round of unpleasant and demoralising jobs in order that we should have some sort of quality of life, I did hope that Boy might have understood that sometime's One has to do things that are not One's first choice in order to survive. But, it would seem not. Maybe he is depressed. He certainly suffers from some kind of nervous disorder, but he has got to try to help himself.

I waited half the day yesterday for Boy to call me and organise coming down here on the train. He didn't get out of bed in time.
I am supposed to be driving up there tomorrow, but I feel that it's time for him to realise that I have to work in order to support him in his hour of need.

I sheared to Auntie Wainwrights to collect my cheque and her shopping list. D the D was encamped in the comfy chair bemoaning his fate having had a communique from his insurance company telling him that his car insurance had increased fourfold. If he told me once, he told me four times! He's losing it, the poor old elderly gentleman.

Any road up, I got me orders and shoved off to Mozzers. Upon my return, the Butterball Hamster was squashed into the comfy chair, the builders (putting in the funny old person style walk in bath) and D the D (hoovering) all completely ignored my arrival, so I packed away the shopping and made my escape.

Methinks that I may need to assert myself in the near future to one or two of my associates and members of my immediate family!

Friday, 13 January 2012

In which I go all poetic...

Checked in with Auntie Wainwright this morn before opening up the Gallery.
'We have a new accountant coming in today and he's only got one tooth so DON'T laugh at him!'
Now, dear reader, had I not been informed of the unfortunate fellow's lack of biting devices I should have happily ignored his defect and welcomed him into the fold of the Three Ring Circus that is our happy little band of art purveyors. As it is I shall very likely be quite unable to look anwhere but into his gob and probably load up me Tena Lady in seconds.
It has, however set me to thinking...

The Toothless Accountant

An accountant with only one tooth.
Can he really be very much uthe?
Dining 'pon bread soaked in milk
Not the carniverous fare of his ilk.

I prefer mine to be sneaky,
full toothed and beaky
And a stranger to honour and truth.

Has he sucked too many fishermen's friends?
That his teeth came to stubby black ends.
And when one little teggie was left
And the rest of his gob was bereft,
Why not go for those porcelain gnashers?
those perfectly formed, sparkling flashers.

Surely accountants can afford such enhancers?
Those shifty, manipulating, dastardly chancers.

And if not, why not?
Is he honest and true?
If so, we don't want him
Well really! Would you?

An accountant with TEETH could save us a buck
Not one who can merely deploy a good suck!

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

In which me equilibrium is shagged to feckery...

Fairly serene and fostering an optimistic outlook Lovely One sashayed Gallery-ward to begin another masterpiece producing day.

Having been to gain instruction from Auntie Wainwright, currently confined to bed with stiff finger syndrome from flicking through wads of 50's, it was with a hopeful heart that I set out upon my day.
In a good mood - hopeful - optimistic. That was my first mistake...

Issuing a cheery 'Good Morning' to the window cleaner I opened the door and switched off the alarm - or not - as it happened.
Yesterday the alarm company had been to service the device. Good job there then!
Would it go off? Would it buggery!
I'll set the scene for you, dear reader...
Alarm goes off
I swipe it
Alarm stops
Alarm goes off
I swipe it
Alarm stops
As above for 45 fecking minutes...
Window cleaner watching frantic activity chimes in
'shall I come back later for me money then?'
He left with his wiper blade inserted horizontally up his chuff box.

In order to alert the alarm company it was necessary to traverse the joint and get to the phone, but there wasn't enough time to dial the number and get anyone before the bastard went off again.

I continued thus until eventually able to alert someone who led me through the long list of instructions how to silence the, oh so recently serviced, alarm.

It's now an hour and a half since I meandered in and still haven't taken the top off me pen!

Enter customer...
'My wife's an artist.'
I COULDN'T GIVE A RAT'S FAT ARSE
'Oh that's interesting,' I reply.
'Yes, we had a thriving business in Japanese Garden Centres.'
WHOOPDY FECKING DO - ARE YOU GOING TO BUY ANYTHING?
'Is that JAPENESE Garden Centres - or JAPENESE GARDEN centres?'
'Garden Centres in Japan'.
AS IF I GIVE A COCK
'She does machine embroidery.'
'Mmmmm lovely.'
ARE YOU GOING TO BUY ANYTHING OR AM I GOING TO EMBROIDER - BOLLOCKS - ON YER FOREHEAD and give you a chinese/japenese burn on the knob.

seems like hours passing where I watch his lips moving and begin to fidget in me chair. You could have rogered me through me Spanx and I wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

Having used up an hour of my life that I'm never going to get back, he then, without as much as the purchase of a fecking card, effs off!

Virgin Media man arrives to check the phone line, which the alarm oaf says is causing the fault.
Several minutes pass while he tests a wall socket that he then discovers is unused. Where do these twats come from? Don't they realise that they are tampering with the equilibrium of a fecking genius at work?
Any road up, nothing wrong with phone, so now awaiting the Alarm man.

I give in - no masterpiece today!

Please note;
My best Christmas present was a 'Knit your own Cat' book. I am already halfway through creating a brand new ginger long hair pussy.

Tuesday, 10 January 2012

In which I nosedive into gloom...


Today is a bad day. I began to panic wildly about what will become of us when this house sells and we have no home. I want to go back to Wivey but the flat is on a buy to let mortgage, so technically, I have no home to call mine own. I made the error of vocalising these fears last evening and the dark clouds visibly descended upon Bloke. What to do?
Things ARE different for Lovely One now, having had the stroke. Previously, I had intended to take another job in Care to make enough money to live whilst I re-established my art sales in Somerset, but I can't do that now. I'm neither physically or mentally capable of Care work any more.
Here, I have three days work per week, the rental income from the flat and my sales.
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO
I need to be on hand for the errant Boy, I need to make a living, I need to keep Bloke in a good mood.
TODAY I SIMPLY CANNOT DO ANY OF IT

A nice long sleep would be lovely.

Sunday, 8 January 2012

In which I bleat...

Greeted by a small ugly crowd of Polish down and out drunks in the trader's car park this morn. Battened down hatches of Aston Martin and mosied off to Co-op for croissants.
'E was just stuffin' the Lambrini down 'is trousers when I saw him,' one assistant was saying to another, 'I got it out and bunged it back on the shelf.'
Now, I'm assuming the incident was connected to the grubby personages loitering in the CP.
Mental note to self:
DO NOT BUY LAMBRINI IN THE CO-OP

DO NOT BUY LAMBRINI PERIOD

The aforementioned loiterers appear to be a fairly representative example of the human slurry abroad this very morn.

Currently being annoyed by snotty customers who can't even be bothered to make eye contact or reply to my cheery 'Good Morning.'
Hope they get run over.

Yesterday was a bit dead apart from a nice little cash sale for me. I was alerted to it by a text from Anal C whilst having my afternoon nap. It really is very satisfying earning spons when I'm tucked up in me fluffy pushing out the z's.

Today I intend to draw sheep. Not any old sheep - some Henry Moore inspired sheep. I have had in my possession a set of place mats with said sheep on them for ages. Drawn by an old member of Red Hat, I thought they were of her invention, but no, exact copies! I shall have a go then, not exact copies of course, just inspired by.

This time of the year is excellent for farm animal pics in my experience so I shall get on the band wagon, or should that be the farm wagon.

Boy is giving me sleepless nights again with his elderly amour. What can I do about it? Nothing, if that's what he wants, I suppose. What with him and the Elderly Squeeze and Vile Ex H and that foul smelling troll, I hardly have time to complain about Bloke, and that'll never do.

MINDING MINE OWN BEESWAX IS NOT AN OPTION

House sale still dragging on. Been in limbo now for almost three years. And you wonder why I've gone doolally?

Friday, 6 January 2012

In which I attain the 'Shit Happens' award for 2011...

Back on the Barb - distinct lack of Janners with groats burning holes in their overalls...

Visited Boy and Vile Ex Husband yesterday. Boy seemed to be getting to grips with life and has more or less abandoned college for the mo.

Alarmingly Vile EH has continued to associate with the Snaggle Toothed Troll from whom I rented the shop many moons ago. I suppose she has some plus points, though for the life of me I can't call any to mind. I finally severed relations with her when I borrowed a substantial amount of money in order that she could pay her mortgage and thereby secure the shop for all us Red Hatters. She chose not to use the funds for the purpose agreed and, well you can guess the rest...

ALSO there is most definitely an unwritten rule that one does NOT move in on one's associate's ex hubbsters/partner etc. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out the discarded and ask them to 'fix her computer.' I could cheerfully smack the yellow toothed little goblin for drawing the unstreetwise ex into her soiled web. I KNOW, I KNOW, it's none of my beeswax etc etc bla bla... Although their hygeine habits are of the same subterranian level - their respective toiley boileys are positively hazardous.

Boy and Ex VH are still revelling in their freedom from the military junta cleaning regime imposed by the Vile Dictator - Lovely One, but surely living in squalor is detrimental to one's mental health?

Have just been visited by my Eldery Gentleman Number Two, who has just come from hospital having been detained therein over Chrimbo and the NY with heart failure. I was able to trounce the blighter with 'me stroke' though, and declare Lovely One to be the outright winner in the 'shit happens' stakes of 2011.

I have been left with a scant regard for my wellbeing and an even more 'Devil may care' attitude, if that were possible. The display I maintain for my adoring public and those around me is so at odds with the maelstrom within that I have to conclude that I am a black hearted rogue.

Wednesday, 4 January 2012

In which I reflect on my stupidity...

Back in the gallery at last mourning the loss of sales, although not quite so much as I thought.
The streets are bare apart from delivery vans and the odd ranting special needs cove.

I expect you are all holding yer breath re the hound. Well, ridiculous wife number two lost it in Ivybridge and the furry stink bomb was wandering unsupervised for two days and nights. I have to confess that the lack of dog hair wiped across me strides noir was rather welcome but only the hardest of hearts could ignore the adverse effect on Bloke.

The pecking order has become apparent and it would appear that the hound is numero uno. Kipper's Dick? Do I? Not a bit of it! I have come to realise over the past weeks that One is completely alone on this mortal coil, so One may as well get the hell on with it! The upshot of the found hound appears to be that Bloke is in something of a serene mood and is even being profoundly nice to Lovely One following an initial surge of horror.

I am forced to conclude that I am of little importance in the scheme of things and that it is entirely down to my own poor decision making and a deal of bad luck. I would give a limb to be living with poor Boy to help him. How stupid was I to think that he would charge down here every weekend and play happy families?

It's as if I do something really selfish and stupid and then about a year down the line I wake up and see what a fool I am. Would Boy have been better with me? I don't know. I really thought that the omnipresence of Vile ex husband would be of more benefit to him than me who is always working. The truth of the matter is that he would have fared better if we had all stayed together as a family, but it just didn't happen, did it?