Thursday, March 31, 2011

Why?

I don't see why we need a shed. The grotty old one was fine. As you may detect, the novelty of erecting a Finnish Log Cabin is fast losing its appeal. I have painted 15 bits of wood so far (two coats) and am now fatigued. I wonder just how much it costs to get in a man.

I'm sure it will be lovely once we've done it. I don't doubt I'll be very boasty. Watch this space.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Every man needs a shed

This morning I went to the hospital for a blood test. It was quick and didn't hurt a bit. I had eaten nothing since 6pm yesterday, as instructed, and found myself so ravenously hungry I was salivating at the sharps box of used syringes. I got home and had serious porridge - divine. However, on fourth mouthful the Apprentice's log cabin kit arrived on an enormous lorry so I had to move my car and wave goodbye to my oats. We then spent the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon unloading the shed which came in 1,350 heavy pieces and took three and a half hours to move from lorry to lawn ... and it rained. I may never walk again. "I could have done it without you, honestly, Mum." and I could kill you honestly, son.

We now have to assemble this bloody Wendy House using a stupidly small booklet of scanty instructions along with a download on Youtube of a couple of blokes erecting the thing in 5 minutes and making it look suspiciously easy. It's not what I'd call a log cabin as it isn't made of logs. It's made of chunky, very heavy bits of wood that, if you get it right, slot together. I have discovered you have to paint these before assembly as it's going up against the back fence and you wouldn't be able to get to it afterwards. Where's the paint? They didn't send it. I would not have liked the be the young man who I spoke to/ranted at on the telephone. But I did have a point. We can't start assembling until we've painted it. In the end he agreed to courier the paint. Then it rained. I can't paint in the rain. I went shopping.

I bought a beautiful pale beige jersey with little pearl buttons from Benetton. Mr Smith warned me not to spill bolognese sauce on it at dinner. Oh! It doesn't really fit me anyway, but it will when I'm thinner despite the little orange blobs.

Gosh, I ache. All that unloading. "I told you to get a man in" says Mr Smith. Who, an osteopath?

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

High maintenance

I seem to spend much of my life these days stopping my body falling apart - do you? Starting at the top and working down: I make more and more frequent trips to the hairdresser to keep my hair any colour other than grey. Then there's my scalp which seems to need some attention as my hair is getting a bit thin - probably from all that colouring. Then there's teeth, I am long overdue a trip to the dentist - the special dentist that is, to look at the results of an operation I had last year under my gums - ghastly! Then the hygienist - a sadistic bitch from hell who prods and pokes and makes my gums bleed then says all is well. I have to pay vast sums of money for this reassuring information - but I do. My forehead likes a bit of botox from time to time so I am less wrinkled of brow and eye. Then I mustn't forget the optician who prescribes me specs through which I can see absolutely nothing but blur. I also need a long overdue glaucoma test. My skin needs attention so I have to go to the beautician and whilst I'm there I'll mention my saggy neck. My hairy caterpillar eyebrows need shaping and my nails need a manicure. The hairs on my legs need pulling out and my bikini line needs some attention. And I need to take my aching shoulder to the osteopath, my boobs to the breast cancer screening clinic, my insides to the gynecologist, my feet to the chiropodist and my brain to the psychiatrist (no I'd rather not open that box of frogs!). I am also woefully overweight so need to go to the diet clinic.

Absolutely none of these very expensive things make me look or feel notably better - except the botox which is probably the least necessary of any of these treatments and encourages vanity to extreme.

Today, I'm taking my greying, thinning, blind, wrinkly, hairy, ratty, fat, old body to the doctor for a chit chat about my general health. Hope they've allowed extra time.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Cement works

Exciting event of the week: The Apprentice son's log cabin kit is due to arrive on Wednesday. I suggested he cleared all the hazards down the side of our house to enable easier delivery to the end of the garden where it appears I will be constructing it. Yes, this came as a surprise to me too. Under some rather flimsy plastic sheeting I discovered 10 bags of hardening cement that he had over-ordered when making the base. I can understand being out by a few but ten bags seems a seriously idiotic over-estimation. Never underestimate the Apprentice's idiocy. Anyway, fear not because I have a brilliant idea of making my own paving slabs. All you need along with cement is a mould and a spade and a bit of sand and grit and determination and release agent and strength and a religious belief so you can pray it'll work. I can get most of those at B&Q. They are only for my vegetable garden so they don't need to be perfect and I don't want to spend loads on proper paving.

I think Mr Smith has the menopause. He is showing nearly all the symptoms being rather sweaty at night, bad tempered with mood swings and no periods. I am going to start him on a course of HRT shortly.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Spring Forward

Mr Smith wakes me at the lark's yawn of dawn. "Come on, shake a log, seven is the new eight." Oh GO AWAY and take that rather sleepy looking bag of smelly fur with you. The dog looks like he has jet lag. He doesn't care for this clock changing thing any more than I, except he gets his dinner earlier. Mr Smith zealously did his summer daylight saving alterations last night so we wouldn't be tempted to sleep in. I have cooked him breakfast and am wondering how I can sneak back to bed with the newspaper without him noticing. The dog looks very keen on a morning of comfortable snoozing. We have an hour of catching up to do.

I was very excited in the night as I thought I was having hot flushes and, between you and me, I am really quite relishing the thought of no more monthly periods even if it does mean serious ugly knitting instead of sex. I was mistaken; it was just our central heating going wrong. Oh, boring. I'll have to get in a man, and have sex with him - gosh, hope not.

Went to a boat race party yesterday. It took us ages to get there to someone's freezing roof in Fulham/Hammersmith. It was snoringly boring and I was wondering if we should have gone to the riots instead. We weren't allowed to stand on the Feng Shui garden. Someone was having a laugh there - slatey stone henge and a bit of gravel. After several glasses of indifferent champagne my friend Wendy walked across it in her Jimmy Choos. I am Oxford faithful (past shags etc) and I was pleased they won. We left with Mr Smith in a mood because he was rooting for those men in pretty pale blue wellies and a greedy man with bad manners won the sweepstake (not him).

Friday, March 25, 2011

Hairy contest

Tomorrow is the final of the East Wittering moustache growing contest. Sadly, I cannot be there as I have a dog and a husband and two sons, all busily ignoring me whilst I make their dinner, so I am at home. I have sponsored the moustaches of Adam the printer, Al the fish and Mark the Gay who is coming as Freddie Mercury though he needs some major miracle to occur overnight if he thinks he can turn that wispy little thing under his nose into a proper tash by Saturday night.

Apparently, a new law has been introduced to keep down the speed of commercial vehicles. If a van exceeds 60mph the driver will be done. Hairy Bill says if his clapped out old van exceeds 60mph he'll do himself.

I saw my friend who is no longer my friend and nearly made it up with him ... but not quite yet. I have removed the spell of warts and very hard poo I had cast upon him but I still gave him something in his tea that will make him very hairy. I suppose he could always enter the moustache competition.

Did you see Embarrassing Bodies last night? Nor did I as I was hiding behind the sofa. Mr Smith did seem strangely interested in that black lady's enormous booswams so I changed channel.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

A Dog's Tale

Our dog used to have a wonderful big bushy tail. I was proud of his tail. When spaniels arrive they have tails like tightly furled umbrellas which gradually open out and fluff up, especially with a bit of help i.e. pulling and preening by their owners. Our dog's tail got rather lean when he had a skin ailment but with some pills it was restored to full brush again but, of late, it has been getting skimpier by the day until he has but a few wisps and a bald patch showing at the end which is a bit embarrassing. I was going to cut some bits off his very furry ears and glue them onto his tail but, in the end, I took him to the vet. "Aha, yes. Bring him in tomorrow and we'll do some tests. That'll be £250." Good grief, two hundred and fifty pounds for a new tail? I do not want to let Mr Smith know that I cancelled the insurance last month because it was so stupidly expensive. I do not want Mr Smith to know the dog is at the vet's. I volunteered for the morning walk. "Where's the dog?" "Oh he met some friends and has gone for breakfast at their house. He'll be back later." I thought that didn't sound particularly convincing so I told him the dog has been kidnapped, or rather dognapped, and we will probably have pay a ransom to get him back. I've told him I'll phone the police later.

Mr Smith is designing little posters for the Common. MISSING: Fat smelly dog with bald tail.

I now have a whole dog free morning; it's like having a little holiday. I will hoover then go and collect him and tell Mr Smith the good news. "I've found the dog, but I had to pay the dognappers £250 to get him back."

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

What? Who? Where? When?

This is a bit scary, I keep forgetting things. I couldn't remember anyone's names yesterday. Well, I remembered Mr Smith and the Apprentice and Student sons but who on earth was that chap who used to be in that thing, you know who I mean, whatshisname? Apparently, we're all the same. I also forget words and end up having to give elaborate descriptions of the things I am talking about - yesterday it was Defection and Mr Smith could only guess Emigration - honestly he's no help and just as forgetful as me. Place names elude me completely which is a bit of a problem when you want to go somewhere and you can't remember what it's called. I write things down more these days but invariably can't remember where. I will have to read past blogs to give me a hint of what I've been up to lately.

I have made a new vow to myself to get up a bit earlier these days. I normally lounge in bed with newspaper and cup of tea until about 9.30 am. Those of you with school runs and jobs will be horrified. Well, I used to do all that and am now enjoying leisurely mornings of languid idleness with the crossword for mental stimulation and a smelly snoring dog at my feet for added pleasure (his). So, sorry dog, you will have to kip elsewhere today as I am rising with the lark's fart in order to get first shift in the bathroom then off for a swim. Don't worry, I am sure it's just a phase and I'll be back to stroking smelly dog's ears for hours on end whilst staring into space in no time.

Do you think more morning exercise will result in better memory? I'll ask the man to whom I'm married - Mr Thingy.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Walking on fire

Yesterday I went for a walk - a very big walk but not as big as it should have been. I was aiming for ten miles but there was a factory on fire along the Grand Union Canal so I had to give up after 7 miles. It was a very exciting fire with enormous flames and huge billowing smoke. Mr Smith said he could see it from his golf course over ten miles away. I was actually there feeling like a reporter on the job - Mrs Smith coming to you live from outside a burning building in West Drayton... and now back to you in the studio.

I am being paid to carry out a survey of my travel habits over the next 4 days. I am planning on staying in and then writing lies about fictitious trips to shops and friends. I have to estimate the mileage which is a bit tricky. I have found a really fun tool called Google Distance Finder to give me slightly more accurate and less shirty estimates than Mr Smith's "How the hell should I know how far it is from Ealing to Hatton Cross - look it up you stupid woman". It does the whole world so you have to be a bit careful that you put in the right corner shop and not one in Mexico or it will be 5,583 miles to get some milk. Find it at www.daftlogic.com.

Mr Smith is taking me out for lunch; at the boring golf club. I have just found out the cost will be deducted from my golf club card. Good grief, the man's generosity knows no bounds.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Chocolate rabbit

Dish number one: Rabbit in Cider was presented to the tribespeople last night. Verdict: A bit overcooked and bony. Oh well, I tried. Only eight more disappointments of my gourmet frozen meals to go then they can go back to the usual "What's for Dinner? I don't know or care." Kedgeree tonight.... stand by for moaning.

Eight days of my Lenten fast have passed with no chocolate and let me tell you it ain't easy. There is chocolate everywhere you look. Every pudding has chocolate invested into it. Every cake has a chocolate topping, tipping or dripping. Every biscuit has a chocolate chip nuzzled between its crumbs. Every coffee shop smells of hot chocolate with cream and a melty flake on top. Every station is covered in chocolate coated kiosks selling bars of chocolate. I am staying in bed thinking of the Boosts and Green & Blacks in our kitchen cupboard. Oh woe is me.

It will never rain again as I bought a new mac yesterday. It's a sort of Sherlock Holmes type of garment and very just the thing .... for a rainy day.

I met the Lovely Claudia in John Lewis and we went for tea and did something so naughty. I brought along a couple of cupcakes I had made as a gift for her and we ate them looking around furtively for fear of a John Lewis food prefect berating us and throwing us out of the cafe mid tea slurp. Verdict: better than that rabbit stew.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Ping dinners

Yesterday I opened up a cookery book with lots of pictures and the Apprentice and I selected a whole heap of things we would like to eat. We then went shopping. I spent the rest of the day cooking (and washing up). I am now whacked with sore hands but our freezer groaneth with many a wonderful dish. There are lasagnes and sauces, rabbit in cider, lamb curry, hungarian goulash, steak and kidney pie, veal casserole, scones and cupcakes. Oh I was busy. I love cooking when it's that productive but I just don't want to do it every single day. Now I don't have to. It can be Ping Food - microwave from frozen - for the foreseeable future and a happy Mr Smith.

I am meeting the Lovely Claudia today. We are shopping. We like shopping. We excel at it. Actually, she's rather good at sniffing out a bargain. I am the opposite; the price inflates the moment I arrive then I have to lie to Mr Smith about how much everything cost.

I was thinking of my friend Pru whose grandmother had a kitchen drawer that contained nothing but hot water bottle tops and another full of brown paper bags. I think there was a bits of string drawer too. Anyway, Pru lives in Scotland, posh Scotland, on the Firth of Forth. I am thinking of going to stay with her soon. I love going to Edinburgh; you fly in an aeroplane that looks like a cigar with propellers; well, I did last time I went. Mr Smith can wave me off and eat his way through all my gourmet freezer meals whilst I'm away. Shame he can't work the microwave.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Ideally shown

Ooooh how I love the Ideal Home Show - all those gadgets that you feel you just can't live without but when you get them home don't really work quite like they did for the man with his ever so camp demonstration. Also I am so impressed by the naff houses that they construct inside the retail temple that is Earls Court. Hideousness seems to be the main theme and opulence the other. You can buy a hot tub jacuzzi for your garden with a chandelier and a hot tub house to put them in, all for thousands and thousands of pounds. We bought a shed and very grand it is too - about four grand actually. It comes in flat pack, apparently no more difficult than lego. I am crap at lego. We are now awaiting delivery and the Apprentice is very excited, I am getting ready for serious construction and Mr Smith is suggesting we get in a man. Not him.

I bought SO much crap. Honestly, I am a sucker for all these kits. I bought a "Make your own photo/paintings" kit, "Cut up your vegetables for stew and salad" kit, "Tart up your cup cakes" kit, "Tart up your face with bronzer" kit, "Remove your leg hairs with a bit of sandpaper" kit, "Watch dvds every day of your life" kit and some gorgeous cheese. I managed to not buy an electric cigarette, a ridiculous cheese grater with a free second one ... but only just ... and a fur coat. Mr Smith should be pleased at my self control rather than horrified by all this rubbish. I'll make him a trendy salad and a vegetable stew tonight.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Handy Mandy

Usually my boys take it in turns to drive me demented but this week they've gone stereo.

The Apprentice son is just not handy. I, on the other hand, am quite handy - so would you be if you were married to Mr Smith who can't change a lightbulb. Much of the Apprentice's apprenticeship was spent in France building a house where surely he must have learnt something (?) He decided to replace a broken kick panel in our kitchen; a job I had requested 5 months ago. He went off to the shop and came back with something in the wrong size, the wrong shape and the wrong colour, despite taking an old piece with him. He then tried to hack it up propped against the dining room table with my new jacket underneath. I have just given him a basic carpentry lesson in how to use a workbench, a tape measure, a pencil, a jig and a saw. I always find a measuring device more reliable than guesswork. Maybe that's just me?

The Student son's request for an artist's studio in which to film is impossible. There just aren't any. I am going beserk looking to no avail. I am beginning to think my mother got it right after all; leave them to bring themselves up but maybe I'll go easier on the undermining and cruelty.

The Apprentice is trying to do "handy" damage around the home as I promised to take him the Ideal Home Show to buy his shed today. He's trying to get into my super good books but these catastrophes around the house are not entirely winning me round. I have asked him to put up a clematis outside the playroom that is trailing all over the ground in an unruly manner. He is drilling it to the wall like Jesus on the cross! There is some trellis there somewhere if he looks. He gives DIY it's true meaning - if you want something doing properly, Do it Yourself. And I will. Mr Smith will watch.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Day of Culture

Culture always makes me think of yoghurt. I went to meet Boston June at the Tate Gallery and we looked at lots of yoghurt. It was their grand Watercolour exhibition featuring many a Turner et al; sadly no Constables but many other worthies to make one feel suitably art educated. I took along my accessory, the Apprentice. He's charming and clever in an arty sort of a way. I felt rather proud to own him. I now want to paint. So does June.

The Student son is searching for an art studio complete with artist to make a film. I have failed magnificently to find him one. Well I have tried two sources one of whom will get back to me ... I'm waiting. I'm not quite sure why I am doing this. My mother says I am a very good mother. I am better than her but that's not exactly difficult. This implies I am speaking to her ... slightly and warily.

Tomorrow the Accessory (Apprentice son) and I are off to the Ideal Home Exhibition; my feet are tired just thinking about it. We are going to buy a shed. Well, actually it's a bit more than a shed. It's a big wendy house in which the Apprentice can keep all his electrical gear and do his electronics. I wonder if I could take it over and make it my studio then the Student son can make his film in it. I am really trying to work out how I can cunningly get Mr Smith to pay for it.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Walking the walk ... or not

The pudding went disastrously wrong on at least 3 counts. It went soggy, the cream filling was too slushy and it just didn't look like the picture. Oh well, I tried and Mr Smith ate it with his face on; you know, that "I don't like this" face that he reserves for craft fairs and Coronation Street.

I thought today I would raise arse from sofa and walk a big walk. The next leg of my current big walk, the London Loop which is more or less inner M25, starts at Heathrow and finishes at Uxbridge. Right: map, water bottle, sandwich, mobile phone, teeny bit of money and oyster card. Oh bugger, it's raining, add cagoul. The good thing about grotty weather is the muggers and rapists don't tend to go out in it - nor do I. So, back on my sofa .... I wonder if there is a rerun of Corrie?

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Carrot legs

I cleaned the kitchen this morning, including the cooker, the hood and all the cupboard fronts. Can I have a star please? I am not cooking in it ever again except I agreed to make Mr Smith a rather lovely looking pudding he set me from the Cordon Bleu book in a "bet you can't cook that" kind of way. Bet I can. Oh God, I've just read the recipe and it involves making hard caramel then grinding it up with nuts to make a special praline dust. We might improvise here.

I was going to see Internet Dating Jane at her country retreat today; a house near Folkestone that she is redecorating in order to flog. I bet she's done a grand job. However, she is not well today and there was some hint of me helping with the decorating so I am not going. I hope Private Ryan is looking after and her little dog nicely.

Imagine the brightest orange you possibly can, now up it a bit, and that's the colour of Mr Smith's golfing trousers today. All he needs is a little green hat and he'd make a passable nuclear carrot. The dog tried to avoid his morning walk and the bin men fell about laughing. I am wearing dark glasses in anticipation of his return.

Cor, bet you're glad you don't live in Japan. Looks dead scary. I'll avoid sushi for a bit.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Richard, Judy & Mrs Smith's book club

I have to confess I still have failed to apply brush to canvas. I have in mind a series of paintings about my dog walks. I have even bought a dog walk shaped canvas - long and thin. I will paint but not just yet as I have other things requiring my attention like all that space I have to stare into. Actually, since I tidied my sewing room, carefully folding all the bits of fabric and placing them in their new Ikea basket drawers, there is considerably more space to gaze into vacantly. However, I haven't yet made a start on the workroom where I (sometimes) paint.

I have been reading loads of rubbish lately so thought I'd write you my reviews:-

Trespass - Rose Tremain. A bit like Joanne Harris without the chocolate. A charming tale of a feud between sister and brother over a tumbling down farmhouse in southern France with a dead body thrown in for excitement.

Started early, took my dog - Kate Atkinson. Quite enjoyed this as a ripping yarn. A bit tv detectivish with Pauline Quirk playing the lead. Too many characters at the end.

Her Fearful Symmetry - (By Time Traveller's Wife author) Dire rubbish, please don't bother.

The Art of Racing in the Rain - Garth Stein - written by a dog about motor racing and family life. Totally brilliant.

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Attwood. SO GOOD, why on earth had I not read this before?
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Attwood. A bit heavy going at present.

Running with Scissors - Augusten Burroughs - Fabulous, amazing, sad and funny. Have just read the prequel - A wolf at the table. Please read these.

One Day - David Nicholls. I saw people reading this on holiday, quite a few people, so I assume it must have something. I have only just started so will let you know.

Mr Smith asks me what I am going to do today. Finish my book. Not really cooking his dinner is it?

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Dry stone walls

I had to leave Mr Smith waiting for me to cook his dinner and whizz down to the sea and back again, carefully avoiding all chocolate on the way. It was fleeting. I spent the night as I had to see a man about a leak early this morning. Believe me when I tell you this, screaming hysterically down the phone like a mad woman works a treat - they come running. Never employ the calm approach unless all else fails. I had become mighty shirty with the useless managing agents and demanded that they sent a surveyor to my flat pronto .... and do you know what? They did. They took my complaint most seriously and ummed and erred and took measurements and damp readings (dryzabone) then said it was probably a bit of condensation and not a leak in the roof at all. Oh, I see, as you were then.

A note to all drivers of enormous lorries including cranes etc. Please be sure to drive along narrow country lanes over the South Downs as I do so love being stuck behind you for flaming miles. This is particularly good fun when you meet another one coming the other way. Please find different route!

Now I am home getting ready to go out and open fridge doors. My opinion is being sought on my preferred layout for a fridge interior. God, I wouldn't know but it's funny how, for a few quid, I will become an absolute expert on the tardis qualities of a fridge freezer. I have done this before. It was held in the ballroom of a hotel where the fridges, like wallflowers, stood around the edge of the room waiting for dance partners. I then opened and shut fridge doors until I sustained repetititve motion strain, marking my fav to least favs on a questionnaire. I imagine today's will be much the same. Meanwhile Mr Smith will still be waiting for me to come home and cook his dinner.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Forbidden Fruit

Ash Wednesday and time for our Lenten fast. No more chocolate for us for a while. I thought last night the Apprentice and I might have to hold a chocolate eating contest ramming Boost bars and Twirls down our throats until we were almost sick but instead I decided to hide all our chocolate, including the two big bars of Green & Blacks that Mr Smith acquired yesterday, kind but not helpful. This morning all I can think of is the chocolate calling me from the back of the cupboard. Ooooh a Boost for breakfast - yes please. This just isn't going to work. I am going to have to get someone else to hide the chocolate but I know I will somehow sniff it out. I am not usually that excited by chocolate. Yes I like it, especially superior brands, but I can take it or leave it unless I am depressed and need a teeny fix. Just now I feel at the depths of despair, my chocolateless world just isn't worth inhabiting. I'm sure God wouldn't want me to be this suicidal. Maybe I'll just see how the chocolate is doing in its new home high up all lonely on the top shelf behind the jars of marmelade and chutney. I could read it a story; I could sing it a song; then I could ram it into my big fat gob. NO, this is my Lenten fast. And I will stick to it. Forty days and forty nights.... and I will not have Sundays off or have stupid things like chocolate biscuits and pretend they don't count, because they do. I will be perfect and less spotty, less fat and less craving for chocolate.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Shrove Tuesday

It's Mardi Gras today which literally translates as Fat Tuesday. I do feel a bit fat. Pancakes tonight and a debate about what to give up for Lent. The Apprentice and I have chocolate at the top of our list but I am also considering alcohol. I never succeed anyway. I am just not Jesus. "Get behind me Satan" seems to turn into "Ooooh goody goody wine and chocolate, Come here Satan, bring it on."

Mr Smith brought home a horrid little publication in the form of an alcohol unit chart that you can attach to your fridge. It advises on the bossy government's recommended daily alcohol consumption and throws in the calories for good measure. You line up your preferred tipple e.g. white wine small glass, (OK, large glass) then read the numbers in the little window. 3.5 units, 290 cals. Below is stick man and stick man in a skirt. Skirty's daily allowance is 2.5-3 units. Oh well, I've blown it now; may as well have another.

Miss Ross, who lives a few doors down from me, has alzheimers as does her dog. Yesterday they lost each other on the Common as usual. I helped in a half hearted fashion; I went home to see if the dog had gone that way. There was a severe frost in the night making everything look prettily sugar glazed this morning. I so hope Miss Ross and Holly were reunited as I would feel great remorse if they had spent the whole night out searching for each other and now look like crystalised fruit.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Another day

It's Monday and have I made a start on my paintings? ... well um er not exactly. I finished the book I was reading. If you thought Time Traveller's Wife was a pile of pants this one by the same author, Her Fearful Symmetry, is much worse. Thanks to my dear mother for passing this absolute stinker on to me. I cannot believe I wasted so much time ploughing through such a pitiful load of nonsense.

The student son came back from his shoot in Highgate (film not hitman). He was full of beans. I made him breakfast so he was then full of more beans. I did his laundry, charged up his phone, gave him words of praise and sent him on his way back to university to finish his Film Making degree and make me proud. Oh my little Spielberg.

I then cleaned the hovel. It still looks freshly burgled but maybe less filthy in parts - nice clean stairs.

I then went swimming. I had the pool to myself until a very splashy fellow swimmer invaded the water. Most antisocial I thought and put me in a bit of a mood. I then ran over someone in the car park and came home to last night's washing up and a think about dinner.

It's now time to walk the dog and forage dinner constituents. Eye of newt etc.

And that's my day. Note to self: start painting tomorrow.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Words of praise

Thanks Arty Antonia, Boston June, Tony P-T, Everyone at the Seaside, and even Mr Smith. You are all so kind and have given me great words of encouragement and I will paint again. I just get a bit depressed by firstly, how much work it all is to achieve a fairly mediocre result and secondly, how absolutely everyone can paint far better than me. Maybe I try too hard.

Boston June, who has come to England so is therefore no longer Boston June, came over to the seaside with Geoff, her lovely husband, the other day and we had lunch. It was so nice to see her again and she was so enthusiastic about my painting and did encourage me to pick up the brush again. She is a really good artist so words of praise from her are not taken lightly. We are due to depress ourselves stupidly this week by going to the Watercolour exhibition currently on at the Tate where all the paintings will be masterpieces. We really need to go to a dreadful exhibition of absolute rubbish and feel uplifted in the knowledge that we can do so much better. I'll trawl through Time Out and find something suitably awful.

Right it's time to clear my workroom and think about a new collection of paintings.
Note to self: start Monday.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Supply and demand

I am an artist; I stare into space. Very occasionally I paint something. I am not a very good artist but I am not absolutely awful - somewhere in between. I have nowhere to sell my paintings so I don't do any. Should anyone ask to see my paintings it would be mighty tricky as I haven't actually got any. So, perhaps, I should paint madly and get a collection together then consider what to do with it subsequently. This would at least be a little more industrious than staring into the void whilst dunking a Duchy Original in my tea. Note to self: Start Monday.

Mr Smith could change the moans to "All you do is work" .... mmm I don't quite see that happening .... pass those buttery shortbreads.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Banjos at dawn

My flat leaketh. My flat roof leaketh unto my flat. If only the weather would be a little less biblical.

Tony P-T came to stay and jolly nice it was to see him. By breakfast the novelty had worn off and I realised how much I value my solitude in my bolthole o'er the waves. Regrettably, there was no sitting peacefully watching the sea do its thing with the odd seagull flying past as Tony got out his banjo .... at breakfast! Anyway, this didn't matter as what could have been my quiet moment of meditation and insular thinking was interrupted by the caretaker who had come to inspect the leak and Tony in his pyjamas and me in my nightdress ....OH NO It's not like that, honestly. I had to march the man through all the bedrooms, leaky and not, so he could carefully note two unmade beds before I got the reputation of whore adulteress through the whole village before elevenses. The caretaker took the matter seriously and informed me the whole block of flats is falling down, the managing agents are to be sacked and the future doesn't look orange.

I went home and met the Lovely Claudia. We ate cupcakes and drank tea then went to the Silversmith's Fair down the road which was small but perfectly formed just as we like these events to be. All the lovely glittery sparkly things made me temporarily forget I have invested my entire wealth in a crumbling damp flat by the sea.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Flying pie

Yesterday evening's work, that wasn't work, was a focus group ascertaining my reactions to a government initiative to make us all doubly glaze our windows, stuff our duvets into our walls and waffle weave our lofts. It wasn't quite as boring as it could have been. I thought it was all fair enough really. If you're going to shove a bloody great big extension onto your house put the rest of it in order first. However, my fellow comrades were very "Englishman's home is his castle" and were of the opinion that should they wish to live in an uninsulated freezing cold house with holes in it, that was their right. Yes, but there again .... I tuned out at this point, wondering if Mr Smith and the Apprentice were enjoying the cottage pie I had lovingly prepared for their dinner.

"Too much mashed potato and it's a bit dry." It doesn't look dry to me. Why do I bother? Mr Smith says I set myself such high standards of culinary perfection but, though delicious, it just wasn't as good as some of my previous pies. I threw it at him. Really he and the boys should have learnt by now that if you do not wish to wear your dinner you should not upset the cook.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The oldest profession

I hardly have time to read a book these days let alone write one. Suddenly it's Wednesday and I have a million things to do and a million people to see. I am working this evening which is a great way of getting free money as it's not really work at all. No, I'm not on the game!

Sensible Alison popped round yesterday and jolly nice it was too to pass time and drink tea with such a good friend. She is the Student son's godmother. We discussed the family silver as she stirred her tea with a £200 teaspoon - I exaggerate, she doesn't take sugar. She couldn't believe the awfulness of my darling parents. They gave me the silver which I thought was kind and generous until they followed it up with a bill for a thousand pounds which I am simply not going to pay. I don't know quite where this inner strength has come from. I am bold and brilliant and probably a bit foolhardy but it's about time I stood up to my horrible mother. In this instance I have no choice; I don't have a spare grand to spend on a few knives and forks.

This morning, out of the blue, I got a call from Tony Poor-Traveller. He's not really called Tony Poor-Traveller but I invented this name for him as he and, his now ex, girlfriend seemed to be moving around like nomads whilst their property was being done up. He's coming to stay - oh yippee. He's such a nice chap.

Just time to make a cottage pie for Mr Smith and the Apprentice son's dinner, write down "place in preheated oven til cooked" instructions, walk the dog and tart self up for work - No, it honestly is not what you think.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Shall I write a book?

There is supposedly a novel bursting to get out of all of us. I have the plot - it's a sort of Fatal Attraction meets Brokeback Mountain. It is beautiful, cruel and sad. The trouble with writing is one worries it to death then never gets started. Maybe I will give it to Sarah to write; although she writes books of a dubious nature that live in people's bedside drawers and need brown paper covers.

Writing a novel must be absolutely exhausting. You must have to live it every moment and hardly be able to sleep or eat for months; a bit like a painting. I usually manage to switch off when I am not actually in front of the canvas although portraits can be a bit tiring; there never seems to be a suitable stopping place. Writing, I feel, would be much the same.

Getting to the end of a novel might be tricky. If you are not careful you have written War and Peace and still not unravelled your whole plot - actually, just like War and Peace which, by the way, I have read - Natasha is one of my all time fictional heroines and she's such a cow. I suppose you just have to make it a trilogy or quartet. Perhaps I am becoming a little over ambitious here.

Mr Smith has a hard enough time living with an artist with painters' block, I think a novellist with writers' cramp would be asking too much.