I feel quite golden today. The sun is streaming through my, very dusty, bedroom window and I am in bed soaking up the warm rays and thinking about my forthcoming Caribbean holiday and whether to have a second one in April. I might. Especially if by some miracle I sell some paintings. I know there are a few unsold ones knocking about; I will have to track them down and, in desperation, set up a stall beside the dusty road next to the watermelon lady and the hubcap chicken rastas. One has to suffer for one's art.
I ought to drag myself out of bed and clean the cooker ... suggests Mr Smith; which is odd because I thought staying in bed listening out for screeching monkeys on the roof throwing down unripe mangoes like machine gun fire and dreaming of the sunrise over Monserrat's smoky volcano was a fine way to spend the morning. Mmmmm, not long now, just three weeks and I will be doing just that on the mountain above Gingerland. It's so steep it makes your ears pop as you drive up to Golden Rock. Our family house has fallen into disrepair (the picture is not it, but the house behind), the garden is fast turning back into rain forest; the mad professor who bought it is a scientist with a different agenda than constant cocktail parties on the veranda overlooking the manicured lawn and hedges of red hibiscus. The gardener died so he got goats in to eat some of the overgrown vegetation and the monkeys ate all the hibiscus.
Anyway, back in South West London, I had better stop dreaming of far off lands and think about that greasy cooker with the broken knob - to be sorted in my next. But I feel too much like a lazy cat to stir.
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