Here it is, my new blog address

http://www.roadtokazakhstan.blogspot.com/

Back

This blog has now ended and i am on theroadtokazakhstan blog from now on.

Quiet on the blog

I  am back at work.  The council can't seem to manage without me.  So with a bag full of radishes, a banana and a bottle of mineral water I am back in adult ed.   At least it puts off having to make any decisions at home.

Here is a link to the health benefits of radishes

http://www.organicfacts.net/health-benefits/vegetable/health-benefits-of-radish.html

Celery

As I my hands are tied and I am unable to do anything meaningful, as if I ever do, I will give you a nutrition tip, to go with the radishes for liver cleansing.   Celery is a good source of riboflavin, Vitamin B6, pantothenic acid, calcium, magnesium and phosphorus, and a very good source of Vitamin A, Vitamin C, Vitamin K, and folate and potassium.  

Don't make any arrangements

Not only is Friday the final eclipse of three it is also the New Moon.

Life as me and the road to Damascus

I feel isolated. I am on the road to Damascus.

Times of change

Although I am holding back on major decisions at the moment I did go out yesterday and buy a couple of art-deco pieces from the second hand shop and I ordered and paid for  the Moroccan tiles in the afternoon.   I did not achieve any  accurate measurement  for how many tiles I need as I got completely muddled with deducting windows and doors and ended up plucking a figure from the air and going for all the colours I like and hope I can just work something out with them when they arrive.  Pierre brought the pieces of furniture home for me and we have stuck one in the kitchen and one in the pantry and now I am not sure about them although I like them as individual pieces but not sure what to put where.  Pierre likes how we have put them which worries me.  I spent the morning in Magdalen Street which must be by far the most interesting street in these parts.

I went for coffee at Waitrose today and read the papers and discovered that it is not unusual for women not to want to have babies.  Yes, I know that.   I couldn't get hold of the Sports Section which I am sure would have been more interesting.  I didn't buy anything apart from the coffee and a cake and didn't speak to anybody.   I thought it would be nice to go to Damascus but as it is in Syria it is a bit off limits at the moment.

Holding back

My horoscope says I have one more eclipse to come so have to postpone major decision making for the time being.  I am in the midst of powerful and unsettling but ultimately productive changes and anything I do for now is subject to change.  So I didn't order the Norwegian farm shed.    The next, and third eclipse is on 1st July.   I told the builder to hold back on everything.  

The moon

I didn't see anything of the eclipse last night.  At least life seems to be getting back to normal today and I have been able to make decisions again.

Red Moon Eclipse

Tonight is red moon night, the eclipse of the moon when it gets behind the earth's shadow.  Go outside and have a look at around 9.45pm but could be difficult as we might only see a little bit of it on the horizon.. ..

Monday

Today I have been at home.  No work.   I woke able to breathe.  My cold seems to have gone at last.  I distempered the pantry, such a nice comforting word, distempered.  I don't really know why I did it but just felt I needed to do something as a token effort towards getting nearer to the end of the chaos I am living in. In fact the distempering created more chaos because I had to move things around yet again and in no way brought the end forward.  The washing-machine repair man came and I told him about the flood.  (I flooded the kitchen on Friday afternoon when I removed a bung to see if I could empty the machine that way.  It worked.  Niagara Falls in the kitchen was a new experience).    He nodded knowingly but didn't speak so I decided to keep quiet and be like him.  We got a bung out of the machine silently as we knelt together staring into the insides and he worked out how to take it apart and we found it was clogged with fluff bits.    We silently touched the fluff together, looked at it closely, and I stroked it.  I didn't feel silly about not discovering the fluff block  because he made it look difficult to get out and I couldn't have done it alone.  I paid him.  I gave him a tip. He thanked me and left.  I couldn't be bothered to do the washing because quite frankly I don't know where the dirty washing is.

As people who take any notice of me will know, I read an Ian McEwan book every few years to remind myself that I don't like his books.  (I just read Solar and believe it or not it wasn't too bad although I skipped a lot of the global warming bits being a bit of an agnostic in this regard but I sort of didn't mind Beard and his multiple wives and girlfriends and there was quite a gripping episode when he had a pee during  his trip to the Antarctic which was quite funny).    Well  Martin Amis beats him. I cant even finish a Martin Amis book.   I just tried to read the Pregnant Widow and had to give up.   I didn't see any sign of a widow or a pregnancy and wondered if the title was just a deceptive trick.   The  only Martin Amis book I ever finished was the Rachel Papers.   Ever since then he has totally lost me.  And I also just read Howard Jacobson's something or other book about worrying about being a Jew or whatever, or exploring Jewishness I think.  Comic book, the Guardian said.    I note that the Guardian also said Jacobson side-stepped the reader a number of times.  He certainly side-stepped me.  I didn't warm to Finkler or Treslove or the old guy and it didn't seem funny at all. But I did finish it.

Reunion

Regular readers will know that I am in the throes of organising a school reunion.  I have just sent an email to the class informing them that they  will be going  on a group tour of Moscow and St Petersburg with a visit to a working mine and a steel works.  I am waiting to see what happens next, who replies first, and who says they thought we were going on a picnic to Southwold.

Later still the same day

I have decided to go to Algeria if it is quiet next year.  Anybody want to come with me?  

Later the same day

I am now relaxing with a glass of wine (sod the bad throat, fever, loss of voice and lemsips and England losing) and I feel better.  

Today I have made a decision, well almost,  between a summerhouse, a shed, a garage, and an open farm type cart shed for the garden made from Norwegian logs from a Norwegian Wood, been to a charity shop and found two stools for a total of  £2 (thus continuing to fill the house with near useless objects which I said I would stop doing ), and  Terence Conran's "The Complete Guide to Home Design" circa 1969 which I thought was just about the right year for me also for a £1.  I have been in touch with a nice man at Secret Suffolk who says it is possible to rent two beach huts side by side.  So there, it all suddenly feels so much better.  And my voice is coming back.

Reunion

I am finding the Reunion thing quite stressful and it is only in its foetal stage.
 
I hear a trill of voices singing  "told you so" la la la la laaa "told you so".

The End

The new team clerk - a line from Clare in the Community (I model myself on Clare)

I am starving.  I also have a cold.  It was my last day at my current place of work.  I got lots of cards and notes, messages. They had this idea about an envelope with your name on it and then you got it filled with messages if you  were liked or lucky or something.  I got loads, of course.    I am all these things:  Clever, witty, helpful, adaptable, thoughtful and calming (where did that come from?), likeable, intelligent (naturally), understanding and, again, funny and witty, and the conclusion  was, you guessed it "we loved your sense of humour".   Funny thing is I was always deadly serious when I was there.

Some photos, kitchen before and after, sunsets outside the door here, rainbow, dog at the exhibition.

rainbow and sun and shadows

shadows and rainbow start of

shadows and rain (there is rain in the distance but we didn't get any)

old kitchen now gone

old kitchen shelf

sunset

Sunset outside my front door (just as good as Morocco I might add)

The diver

A dog at the exhibition 

The tap! (French and lovely)

The new French ceramic sink!  You cant really see the speckles and I love it whatever

The next day

Got up this morning and lit the fire in my lovely empty kitchen.  I am actually sitting in the kitchen now.  This is an almost new sensation.  When the builder put the wood burner in the kitchen last year he said this would happen, I would want to redesign the kitchen so I could sit by the fire.    It is almost June the 1st but the weather appears to have turned cold in the night and the house was cold and I just wanted an excuse to light the fire, the merest teeniest drop in temperature.

Yesterday afternoon we went out.  This is pretty rare and I recalled that the last time we went out together on a Sunday afternoon my mother was still alive and we left her asleep in bed and I rushed out and locked the door before she noticed.  We went to the same place, Bressingham Garden Centre.  I like it there.  That time it was in the winter, very cold and  it snowed when we arrived I can still remember feeling so free I didn't care about the weather.  We bought a rose that time.  It died later, along with my mother.  This time I bought a hat. Safer.  Would you believe finding a really good hat, nearly as good as the pipe cleaner pink hat, at Bressingham Garden Centre.  I was gob-smacked, especially when Pierre said "Buy it".  On the way back I told him about how I decided yesterday when I was having coffee in Waitrose on my own that I want to be more normal from now on. He surprised me by saying he doesn't want me to be normal because he likes me the way I am.  I felt all warm and glowing and said ok then, I will  stay as I am.

This morning I have been trawling the web for a stainless steel rack for the kitchen and a holiday house by the sea that sleeps at least 12 (for the reunion).  I came up with the idea in bed this morning.  If I book a large house by the sea that will be the reunion solved. (I promise it won't be Burnham).   I will then say please send me a cheque for £150 (that should cover everything if at least 12 people come along and you have said you want more luxury this time Linda) and make your own travel  arrangements and meet me there at a specific date and time. I am not sure what sea I am talking about.  My next move is probably to ascertain which is the most popular sea:  Mediterranean, Timor, Baring Straits, etc. you know.

I have tracked down a Moroccan tile supplier in London.  I have worked out that I need 5200 tiles for the pantry alone.  I have asked for a catalogue and price list.   I think I will become a Moroccan tile importer.  It might be simpler.

Kitchen, and reunion

The French ceramic sink is in!  No pictures yet.  The kitchen is now a much bigger space and on Wednesday night I comfortably ate my tea on a table in the kitchen and I could walk all the way round it without getting jammed between a wall, a chair, a fridge, a washing machine, a cat, a dead mouse, a pile of firewood etc.  The units have now all gone.   Otherwise, the kitchen is visually in one hell of a state where stuff has been pulled out and it is apparent that whoever put the original units in didn't bother too much about what was going on behind because it was out of sight. But the dishwasher is working.  I said to the builder whatever you do the dishwasher must be working before you leave.    I am now planning the next stage and trying to track down some Moroccan tiles as on the spur of the moment last night I found myself going back to the Moroccan kitchen idea and digging out photos of Moroccan interiors taken last year.   So we will be living out of boxes for a few more weeks but it will be worth it, believe me.   In fact I am getting used to having just two of everything which is what I left myself with when I cleared everything out in preparation for the coming of the builder.  Two plates, two cups, two sets of cutlery etc.  I think I will take all the surplus to the charity shop and stop all the entertaining (joke, what entertaining) we do or else ask people to bring their own.   Then I won't need to worry about what to do about cupboard space.

The school reunion replies are coming in slowly.  Come on girls I need some help.  Perhaps my questionnaire was too long and required too much brain power.  With hindsight I think I should have just put two questions, do you want to have a reunion next year and, if so, would you like me to arrange it.  End of questionnaire. (If any of you are reading this please feel free to condense the questionnaire down to just these two questions and ignore the other rubbish questions).     After all we are getting on a bit, this important year coming up which is necessitating the question of a reunion, and the grey matter is disappearing and I suppose most of us can't even cope with shopping without a list these days.  I have never used a shopping list in my life  but I  am rapidly getting to the point where I need one  to remind myself what I have gone out for.   I often go down to Waitrose  for something specific like cat food, or bread, or porridge and come back with just the Guardian and a bottle of wine.

Simon Granger at Outpost

As I walked up to the gallery I passed through the youths who inhabit this gallery approach and I  nodded by way of acknowledgement.   As I entered the gallery I wondered if I had missed the exhibition as all I could see was a bare wall, have I missed it, is this the clearing up day, or have I lost a contact lens?   So I forced onward and further and I came upon four little paintings of birds, two on one wall, and one each on two other walls, and the fourth wall empty.  Still I questioned was this the taking down day because the empty wall seemed lost and a trifle awkward and there was so little to be seen.    No, I concluded, all was quiet and no gallery staff were to be seen inside the gallery, all were happily occupied outside in the sun.   No this was obviously Granger in  minimalist mode.   As ever, the four little birds, I will call them that to start with at least because this is what they are and after all the exhibition title is Waxwings and a waxwing is a bird, are meticulously crafted as is the way with Granger to a fault, beautifully painted, each line perfect and not a blot or a spot. Believe me,  I looked very closely.  One imagines him working in a spotless, clinical space with a hand-drying machine and a No Entry Beyond This Point sign.    They are  staring strangely sideways but directly forwards, and I feel hesitant as I glance at them and then look full on and attempt to stare them out.  Of course they win and appear to jeer and mock.   I want to shout at them but they continue with their fixed stare.       I go closer to one wearing a baseball cap.  Now he is less of a bird, more of a flying object zooming, no dive-bombing, vaguely human.    Granger knows how to do movement.  I look closely to see how he does it, how does he get that look of flying dodgem cars or space ships?  Puzzled about the answer to this I conclude that Granger is clever with paint    I like the baseball cap, cheeky enough to make me feel better about the creepy jeering look and I warm to him a little. But still he is not a friendly chap.     If you keep staring he just stares back.   You want him to smile but he doesn't.    He knows nothing about animation or game boys  to set him free,  except he wears a baseball cap just to make him a little bit more with it, like a "I don't care" sort of attitude.  Yes, he's got attitude.   I like him. And so I walk twice then three times around gazing at these birds, come animals, come fairground creatures  and wonder if Granger is really a zoologist who goes mad in his laboratory one day and these are the result.    I still wonder about that bare fourth wall or a hidden room that I have failed to see, or exhibition continues sign.  I laugh out loud at the craziness of it all.  I compose myself and  ask demurely if there is a Visitor's Book.  No, the boy says, looking around and asking another boy, who looks at another boy, "is there a Visitor's Book?",  "No",  a voice mumbles from somewhere I cannot see.  "Okay", I say and leave.

Bob Dylan

I am just listening to Bob Dylan on BBC 4 and decide I will suggest the in-house counselling workshop is dedicated to listening to non-stop Bob Dylan tracks followed by a group discussion of the lyrics.  

Today

The cat had the rest of her stitches out.  The vet remarked that she is now free to go back to hunting in the hedgerows.  I replied that she has never caught anything in her life at least to my knowledge and what a waste of space she is.   The nurse looked frightened.   I shoved the cat back in the cage and left hoping that she doesn't die on the way home and the £350 has been wasted.

Bought present for Secret Santa thing at work (office closure) and delivered it to the office although it is my day off.  Hope my present is appreciated but as my present is slightly off beat  and  I hardly know the people I am working with I can't be sure.  I am interested to see what has been bought for me and how I am perceived.  I hope it is not bed socks or a cuddly toy.   This job is due to end next week due to Council cuts.  The staff are having in-house counselling and a party tonight.  I was asked if I wanted to join in.  Nobody has ever cared about  me before.   I suggested the theme for the counselling workshop should be moving-on and not poems and readings about the past.  However, I went wrong here.  The organiser is no longer speaking to me.  I was told I don't understand. I have decided not to go to the party as I am not into hugging and kissing women.    As one who has lost count of the number of jobs she has had I thought my suggestion about moving on might help, but decided it best to keep quiet from now on after my obvious  faux pas.  I don't fit the profile of a Council worker.  A job has never been for life for me. I would get bored anyway having the same job for 30 years.

The reunion

The school reunion replies are starting to come in.  I think I should have just made a group booking to Shanghai and said here it is, this is what we are doing, send me a cheque,  meet at Gatwick and bob's your uncle. Easey peasey.   Instead of that I have to deal with can't do Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays, March, April May, September or October, please avoid the Olympics Rachel, only want to go to London, don't do weekends, don't want an overnight,  and don't want to come at all.  At least don't want to come at all is easy to deal with, thank you Bridget.

Kate Atkinson

Kate Atkinson
My first
Like losing my virginity I suppose
She would like that
Didn't feel a thing
I remember Leeds United
Of course, stupid
And Lesley Whittle
And the Ripper
Kate wouldn't care
Wouldn't give a toss
Joie de vivre the Guardian called it
All a bit bleak to me Tracy
I mean Kate
Starting early, took my dog
I always think sex is over-rated

Being an artist, the Reunion, chapter one

The diver is now hung at the Fringe exhibition in St Benedicts.   He is on his own diving down the church wall because there was no room for the palm tree because my space was narrow and although I painted the tree to scale it needed to be placed at least six feet away from him and this wasn't possible.  I feel extremely protective about my work all of a sudden - a sensation I have not had before.  I think it is quite healthy to feel this and may have something to do with my acknowledgement at last that I am an artist.  Previously I have been unable to confront the demon of being an artist and would dodge the question and say anything rather than that.  I think I will change the diver to something else next week because I found a series of paintings called The Board of Directors that I did years ago and thought, wow, these are great and I want to show them.

I have had the first reply to my Reunion letter, the first form back.  I hope more will follow and then I can get a feel for what sort of thing people want to do.  The first form back is from Karen, we had coffee together today and she handed it to me.  Karen has come up with some interesting ideas which I will be following up.  Anyone up for a gap year instead?  I think perhaps I should have included one further question on the form - how much are you prepared to spend? 

Ask a busy person

I am currently involved in the following:   preparing for a new kitchen and having kittens about the ceramic sink as well as knowing that I am going to have the existing kitchen ripped out within the next 10 days and everything has to be moved; painting kitchen in some particularly bad areas before the sink is delivered because don't want man to think I am too scruffy;   chucking out clothes that I haven't worn for the last 10 years finally facing reality that I am not a size 10 and in fact I only need a limited number of garments in any case because I wear the same clothes day in and day out; experiencing stress of wanting a barn and knowing I will end up with a  shed;   hanging the Diver at the Fringe Show tomorrow along with the Palm Tree and the Sunset and deciding how to do it and whether to leave out the Sunset; having a puncture in the car back tyre at Waitrose last night and limping home and changing wheel; getting new tyre next day (Pierre did this bit for me but I had to wait for him to come back before going out because I didn't want to drive without a spare in the boot); buying blu-tac (minor event I know but involved visiting local shops); clearing kitchen cupboards and shoving crockery, glass and cutlery (I pass the senile test here because I can still recognise one from the other as I note that this is one of the Oxford University tests for progressing senility) outside into the garden (good thing it is good weather); organising a school reunion and exposing myself diabolically in the process and making a garlic and pepper sauce for later; drinking a can of lager but here I fail the test because I can't remember the name of the lager although I only touched the can a few moments ago, and reading the worst Tim Dowling column he has ever written.

The cat with bandages

French kitchen

I bought a French ceramic kitchen sink yesterday on what can only be described as a shabby chic wooden base.  (Please Christine don't tell me these sinks are really cheap in France because I paid a lot of money for this thing).     I had arranged to go to this place "just to look".   Pierre came with me.   Pierre is immediately chatting away to the man like an old friend, talking about cars  and at the same time choosing a sink and telling me to buy "that one" whilst I am trying to squeeze in with a tape measure.  However, within minutes I found myself agreeing to buy this speckled blue sink.  Not what I had gone for at all and now I can't even remember what it looks like but I have promised to send a cheque and the nice man will deliver it "when I am ready".  God, what have I done?   The man asked me what I do and I said I am an artist.  Pierre almost fainted.    Great.   Anyway, after the sink place we then went to my favourite secondhand furniture man for me to, again, look at things for my new French kitchen (actually I wanted it to be a Moroccan kitchen but since seeing the French sink (recommended to me by my builder incidentally) the kitchen is rapidly becoming French not Moroccan.  Once again Pierre was encouraging me to "put my name on this" and "buy now or it will be gone when you want it" etc.  This time I put my foot down and said no fearing that my bank balance was not going to stand any more, I was just looking and until the old units are out and the speckled ceramic sink is in (God am I really having it?)  I won't know how much space I've got or what I will need.     Anyway I made lots of notes about old dressers and took measurements and told the man I was only getting ideas and wouldn't be buying today.  I am beginning to wonder exactly what  a French kitchen is and I want mine to be a kitchen cum studio and not just a kitchen so it is not going to be a kitchen at all really, except for the bloody sink.   I had to have a couple of  Nurofen when I got home.

the diver

The diver and the palm tree as they are today and the logo of the little horse.

Off line, a drawing, a logo and a cat

I have been without the computer for three days while I had it de-fragged or whatever they call it to make it speed up.  I had been putting it off for a long time but finally got so fed up on Tuesday whilst waiting 15 minutes to open an email that I threw it in the car and rushed off to the computer shop screaming.  It is now home having been serviced and de-cluttered and it is a whole lot better.  I don't know what exactly they do because I used to delete the history regularly  but that was never enough to speed things up very much.  Anyway, I am happy to have it back all better.

I have been doing a drawing for a show coming up, part of the Fringe Festival here, and it is a diver.  Yes, a man diving into water.  A1 size.     He is going to be a bit Hockneyish.  This is a space specific piece because I have been given a long, slender end wall, well a tiny jutting out high wall. I like drawing swimmers so I thought here is my opportunity to do a diver.  He is nicely long and slender and he may even have a palm tree above him, there not being enough room beside.  I will take a photo tomorrow and let you see  him. I started to paint him and he is rather more orange than pink but I think that he will stay that way because I have grown to like him as he is.  

I have also been asked to design a logo for a new company dealing with children's special needs.  In fact the logo is now finished and has been accepted.  The logo is a rocking horse.  I became  rather fond of him too as he emerged on my drawing board and very possessive and didn't want to let him go.

I bumped into someone I hadn't seen for ten years the other day and he asked me what I do now.  For the first time in my life I said I am an artist.  That felt good.

The cat had a £258 operation.   When I got home Pierre said "how much'd it cost, 50 quid?"  

Marrakech

I have put a photo of Marrakech over the rooftops with the Atlas Mountains in the background as a tribute to Marrakech, the city that I love.  You may have seen that a terrorist bomb went off in the Argano Café on Thursday killing 15 people and injuring many more.  The Argano is a favourite haunt of mine when I am in Marrakech and I have spent many happy times sipping mint tea and eating delicious pastries there.   Such a sad time.

Spring clean and de-clutter

I have spent much of this week cleaning the house - I am having the house decorated in May  and it needed a good spring clean before the decorating can start.  I wish I had hired a skip such is the junk I discover I have accumulated: things I had long forgotten about. I found the  bag I took to the Sahara Desert the year before last  contained a  missing pair of socks I looked for all winter.  (We were advised to take thick socks because the nights are cold.  Some even took hot water bottles.    Rubbish, we didn't need them and it was just  unnecessary stuff to carry).  

 I went to the Joan Miró exhibition at the Tate Modern  on Monday - thank god I went on Monday before the weather really heated up in London.   Joan Miró blew me away so much I am planning a pilgrimage to Majorca to see his studio.  I also managed another look at the Orozco exhibition which is finishing on the 25th April.  It was just as good a second time as the first, in fact even better because I was able to take a more intelligent view of things if you know what I mean.  I am invigilating on the last day of my little show tomorrow and then back to work next week.  Ugh.

A short walk in Norwich this morning

The missing exhibition week found

Pictures from an Exhibition

These are the pictures from the three weeks of my Exhibiton.  One week is missing because I cant find any photos so maybe I didnt take any. It was my minimalist week dedicated to Brian Haw with a picture of Blair and Prescott. I can reconstruct it at home and take some.    The current week is the long arms and  faces and paper cups and will run until the end.   The first week was random, a bit, although not so random to me.  The second week was obituaries and things in threes which was lost on most people and then it was Brian Haw and now finally it is coffee drinking, McDonalds, paper cups society.  Again I guess it will be lost on most.    The show ends on April  23rd.  

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday.  It was an ok day.  Most people forget my birthday.   Today  I had a horrible day at work.  Most days are bad and I make the most of them.    Hunter S Thompson helped the day to pass and I will dedicate him to the office when I leave and make him compulsory reading.   This year for my birthday I received five cards, one from Pierre, one from his mother, and three from school friends last seen at a reunion 20 years ago, a  box of Dairy Milk from his mother,  and a bunch of flowers and a cheque from Pierre who, even he, has ceased to think of anything exciting for me himself. New this year were two greetings received via Facebook.  I tried to work out how to respond to them both simultaneously but failed so sent two separate thank you's.    Tonight I received a late card and a bar of soap via Pierre.    Spurs are not winning which is a nice consolation.  Mourinho looks as sexy as ever.  Nobody at work would understand this and probably nobody who reads this will understand.

More art

It is Sunday, change over day.  I didn't realise that it is a week since I last wrote on the blog.  I am just back from the gallery having changed my show again.  This week I took some of my text stuff  along thinking I was going to make a text only show but  at the last minute I found an old newspaper cutting of Blair and Prescott and some soldiers in Iraq.  I put everything in my portfolio case and off I went.  As I drove along I started planning what to do.  An old  piece of text saying  "space reserved for Brian Haw" (the anti-war protester who has been camped in parliament square for years but recently got closed down) which I have used before, the cutting of Blair and Prescott now cut in half with  Prescott glaring at Blair from the other wall,  and the soldiers in Iraq.  That's it.    So week three is called "Space reserved for Brian Haw".   I wonder if the five year old's father is following all my shows or whether his five year old is now at the Royal Academy.

I am really enjoying this. I wonder why I used to freak out about degree shows.  Must have  been because of peer pressure and all that.   Now I know it doesn't matter at all.

Sunday

I spent about an hour changing my work at the exhibition in the morning after first getting my head around the clocks changing.    I took down all last week's drawings.  Following in the footsteps of my now favourite artist, Gabriel Orozco, I assembled a spontaneous show.  I decided to arrange a small show around the random newspaper cuttings I have been collecting  for some years.  It was all put together rather quickly and as soon as I had finished I thought of other things I could add and should have brought with me.    As the show is small and the organiser very  friendly I may add some more bits during the week if I can get some time away from this job    I received a comment in my comments book "my five year old could do better than this" so I concluded that I have arrived as an artist and am now up there with the likes of Pollock and Picasso.   No doubt the author of the comment, who did not leave a name(but I am sure was a man), will tell me next  that his five year old is familiar with the writings of Baudrillard, Sontag and Bergman who feature in this week's show.  Oh what a clever five year old he must have.

The show and other things

This morning I did 3 1/2 hours invigilating at the art show, and I am just thawing out.  The weather here has deteriorated considerably and we are now in Siberia. Norfolk is  twinned for six months of the year with the Tundra.    The show attracted 25 visitors this morning which isn't bad considering it is a Saturday when most people are out shopping and not thinking about art. I was disappointed not to see any of you wanting to catch up on the news with me.   

Tomorrow if you want to see me and my work

I currently have a small show at the St Margaret's in St Benedicts Street.  I will be at the gallery tomorrow morning.     I am enjoying this show because I can do what I want without restriction and have the space for five weeks and will be changing my little show each week    It is fun and unfettered and it is my space to do what I like with because I paid for it.  I like.   Today I have been thinking about the week after next's show because I already have next week's show under control, sort of.  On Sunday I will change this week's work.  I like the idea of arriving at a gallery and having nothing prepared for a show; Gabriel Orozco (currently at the Tate Mod)  and the shoe box comes to my mind.  So there are interesting things to come.    The original of the blog heading, The da Vinci Code, is on display this week until Sunday.  It is one of my early text pieces and was in my degree show in 2006 for those of you who didn't see it.

Life goes on, a new shelf, an air traffic controller goes to sleep, I want a blackberry, Karen gets a Kindle and DCIS, and I get a bottle of wine

How much longer can I live without a blackberry or an iphone I ask myself.    I need to be able to blog and tweet on the move.   If MPs can do it so can I.

Sorry this is all going to be rather disjointed.


I have had shelves put up in my house this week.  I have waited 25 years.  They are the most beautiful shelves I have ever seen and too good to put books on.  I  sit admiring them and sniffing the wood.  One day soon I will pick up all the books from around the house.  Seven metres of shelf space.

Seriously, this is the first phase of a clear up the house project.  The next step will reveal itself when the floor reveals itself.    I will see what I have got.  It has been hidden for years.

Tonight Karen who makes the most comments on this blog is in hospital and will be entertaining her fellow bed mates  in the Solzenitzen Ward.      Karen will  be reading on her Kindle as she goes into theatre and  while she downloads the latest epic on offer from Amazon she asks the Anaesthethist  to hold on a moment.  

So life goes on, an air traffic controller goes to sleep in Washington, Karen downloads another book,  I open a bottle of wine.

Detox

I am on a major detox so the kitchen is full of bunches of beetroot waiting to be boiled, and pickled, or baked and eaten with swedes and nettles (a bunch of young nettles is on the worktop as I write).    On Wednesday night we had rice cooked with Chinese Five Spices and I discovered that I didn't need to even find a Chinese grocers shop because Waitrose had Chinese Five Spices on the spice shelf.  A little disappointing really because I was looking forward to actually having something real to buy in the Chinese grocery shop instead of just browsing around like an idiot as I usually do and then selecting a tiny packet of cloves because I feel I have to buy something.  However, it was so much easier  in Waitrose and now I have my own personal scanner I don't have to speak to anyone, can avoid certain checkout girls who I don't want to speak to or who I suspect of having a cold or germs.     I promised Pierre that by the time he arrived tonight I would have them all done but I haven't.  It is now too late.  He will have to have a raw salad with radish.   We are on a detox and have become vegan for a temporary period.  (Vegan but I am still allowed to eat Maltesers at work)  .  I find being a vegan from time to time  a great way to get that  goody goody feeling and indulge in feeling like a saint.   We gave up dairy products three years ago, except Pierre eats cheese but I don't, and we only take soya milk. But I have recently had a craze on pancakes and eat these but don't make them myself so don't touch the milk or the eggs  and they are nice.   This time we have also given up tea and coffee and alcohol  (actually we don't drink coffee at all so neither of us have had to give it up) and we are drinking hot water only.  I put the hot water in a wine glass for me and pretend.    This is  terrific.   I now have a bad throat, a cold and a headache, a cough and a rash.      

New Work

I am starting a scrap book of Norwich.  I ripped my first poster from a wall, location secret.   Man on a tight rope with girl's face between his feet further sets the scene.  Please note the indifference of the passers-by  who obviously see tightrope walkers everyday.

The priest later the same day

The priest hurried across the street, his rosary in his hand.   I stood waiting for him at the door of his church.  My feet were killing me in six inch heels.   As he approached he ignored me and unlocked the church.  I followed him in.  He locked the door behind me and followed me to the nave.  I sat down and kicked my shoes off.  He stood looking down on me.   I asked him if he would like  to bathe my feet like Jesus did the apostles.  He hesitated and then to my surprise he said yes he would  and he disappeared to fetch water.  I took my coat off, lifted my skirt higher and rolled down my stockings.  When he returned he knelt in front of me and took my feet in his hands.  He began gently splashing them with water.    He had a small cloth and he bathed each foot separately. I noticed he was praying.   He said how much he missed me when I was in Berlin and how much he longed for my return and how he had prayed for me whilst I was away and how lonely he was.  I thanked him but said there was really no need to keep wasting prayers on me. I said I would rather he prayed for Arsenal.     He took my foot to his mouth and sucked my toes.  I didn't recall this bit in the bible but didn't say anything.     He did this very slowly and I began to wonder when he was going to finish.     I did not speak.  After he had bathed my feet and kissed each toe he fetched a towel.  He placed the towel on the stone floor and asked me to stand in front of him.  I did so and he placed his hands on my legs and smoothed my skirt down. I wanted him to hurry up.   He said how much he loved my skin.  I was thinking, "cut the crap Father and get on with it".  I told him I was living with an artist on the left bank and I would be coming to the church less often.  The priest fell to his knees and sobbed.  Oh dear, I said the wrong thing, I knew I shouldn't have mentioned it.  I said I would still come if he wanted me to.     I stepped away from him and put my stockings on.  He watched me closely.  He said he liked my shoes and stroked the heels.        He asked if I would model for him.   What Father!  You want me to model for you?  I said I was shocked and asked what he was talking about.  He said he would like to draw me.  I said I didn't know he could draw.  He attended classes at the Sorbonne before he became a priest, he said.  Where would we do this, I asked.  He said at his apartment when his housekeeper had her day off.      I said I would have to think about it and let him know.   I wanted to get away quickly.      I  walked to the back of the church and asked him to let me out.    He asked me what the artist was like. I pretended not to hear and headed off to the nearest bar.  I needed a drink.

Drogheda revisited

Ah yes, the Thorn Birds.  Meggie and Father de Friggaset or whatever.   Yes, Karen I remember it well.  Rachel Ward and Richard Chamberlain, better known to us all at the time as Dr Kildare.     Personally I never found Richard Chamberlain very convincing in the part although I did not think he appeared to be gay (see Karen's comment below one of my Priest episodes) and he isn't anything like my priest in Paris.     What's this Irish film you are talking about?  I didn't know The Thorn Birds was made into a film.  I  find Jeremy Irons too thin and  not my type.

And of course I am in control of my priest.  .

I do not wish to talk about Camp Nou, Barcelona, Messi, Van Persie or a referee called Busacca but  all I know is  I should have gone to the church and knelt on the stone floor wearing a hair shirt and  prayed with the priest and left the bloody  stockings until later.  I really wish I had been in Barcelona last night though.

Untitled in Red 2011 (text on paper)

Nobody understands me

The Priest next day

As I crossed the Boulevard de la Chapelle I quickened my step.  I needed a drink before seeing the priest.   He would have seen the football results and  would be expecting me.  I was not in a hurry to get there.  I entered the Gare du Nord, bought L'Equipe and went to the bar.  I ordered a Ricard and an espresso.  I started to relax.  I crossed my legs and noticed a  slight ladder in my left stocking.  Damn it.  I would have to buy a new pair before seeing the priest.    I straightened my skirt and continued to read.   I looked at my watch.  Morning mass would be over and the priest would be in the vestibule hovering around the door waiting for me.   I finished my Ricard and went over to the kiosk and bought some black stockings.  I put them in my bag.   As I walked down Boulevard de Magenta I saw the priest come out of his church and lock the door.  He crossed to the other side and disappeared through a door.  I recalled that he said he had an apartment near the church.  This must be it.  I crossed over and went to the door I had seen him disappear through.  I pushed it.  It wasn't locked.  A stairs led straight up in front of me.  I went up three flights and the priest must have heard footsteps because he appeared staring down at me and looking agitated.  "What are you doing here?" he whispered, a sharp edge to his voice.  "You cannot come here, my housekeeper is here, go, I will see you at the Church in ten minutes".   I was by now breathless.   I leaned over to his shoulder and kissed his cheek.  He became more agitated and I started to laugh.  "Shut up, she will hear you".    I heard a voice from inside  "Father, is everything all right?".  He pushed me towards the door.  I laughed again and said I would wait for him outside the church.  I told him I wanted to change my stockings.   He looked like he was going to have a convulsion.  I turned and left.

Untitled in Blue 2011 (text on paper)

Nobody understands me

The priest re-visited

   As I crossed the Boulevard de  Magenta and approached  l'église I saw the priest  standing staring at me with his hands buried deep in his alb.  I was late.    On arrival  in Paris  I had gone straight to  the station bar and sat  for an hour drinking and  talking with strangers.  I did not want to go to the priest immediately.    As I got nearer he took his hands out of his alb and took in his left hand the beads of  his rosary which hung around his girdle. He let the beads go slowly through his fingers.   He did not show any recognition of me and nor I of him.  I felt his breath on my cheek as  I brushed his arm.   I entered the church and walked to the font.  I genuflected and prayed.  I could hear him approaching by the sound of the rosary beads.  He stood over me as I prayed and  began praying too.  As he continued to pray he took the church key from the vestibule and walked back to the door.  I heard the hinges  creak and then the door slam and then the turning of the rusty key.  He started to pray fervently as he walked back to where I still knelt on the hard, stone floor.   I continued to pray.  He said I was praying more than usual.  I replied, yes, I am praying for Arsenal.   At this point he threw himself to the floor and began crying.     After a while his sobbing subsided and he began the rosary.    I told him I thought it was too late for Arsenal and said he should stop and stood up and went to the tabernacle and picked upsome  wine he had obviously been preparing for Mass later.  I drank it.  The priest stood up and shouted at me for drinking his wine.  I shrugged and went to his vestments and began ripping them up.  He came to me and asked why I was  so angry. I said it was because of Arsenal.  He said he was sorry.  I shrugged.  He offered me a bed for the night.  I said I had met with strangers earlier and had already accepted the offer of a bed for the night.  He said he would pray for me.  I laughed.   He looked frightened and went to fetch more wine for Mass.    I looked at my watch.  Mass would be starting soon. The old ladies would be coming.    He returned with the wine. I took it from him and  I drank it.     I said I was sorry about the vestments.  He said it didn't matter.     I said I had to go and asked him to unlock the door. I walked to the back of the church and he followed with the key.   He started praying and once again asked to kiss me.  He reached up to my face with his hands.  I could see he was sweating.   I dodged my head to the left and he missed.  He looked disappointed.    I said I would come back tomorrow if Liverpool beat Manchester United.  He said he would pray for the result.

Ian McEwan

Every time  Ian McEwan has a new book out I go and buy it (and read it)  to remind myself that I don't like his books.  I can't stop myself.  Is there anything I can do?  Is there an antidote?  I need it soon because he has one out now.

My website

My new website design is up and running.  If you click on the link at the side you will get to it.   I am now my own name and nothing else.  Click your refresh button if you still see the old stuff.   Hopefully this will get me going on new works.

Now I will tell you briefly about my visit to London.  I went to see the British Art show at the Hayward and Gabriel Orozco at the Tate Modern.  I want to be Orozco.  I was so excited I wanted to attack people on the escalator.  Attack them nicely I mean, and make them laugh.    When I want to attack people like this you know I have enjoyed myself.  When I left the Hayward I wanted to do nothing except enjoy the damp, dank day and the rubbish in the Thames.  .   I walked along and ate my chicken sandwiches.  I took a picture of a chair..   It was more exciting than the British Art Show (thank god they didn't call it the Great British Art Show because it wasn't). I really only went to the Hayward to see Erik Van Lieshout's film in a Rotterdam shopping mall, given my love of spending time in the Chapelfield Mall with my phone camera.   Erik didn't disappoint.  Except 49 minutes is a long time to hold my attention listening to Erik and shoppers and shopkeepers  in a shopping mall.   It is not so hilarious as the Guardian review said, or the man sitting next to me seemed to think, but then again I am from Norwich, but it made me smile a little and I did like it.   More about  Orozco later and a little more about the British Art Show  at the Hayward.  But later.  Orozco is loads of  fun.  British Art isn't.

A Tate cup and Barclays provide everyone with a job locator helper

I went to London today.

Art

I just read the best article about art/artists I have ever read. It is by Peter Schjeldahl, art critic of The New Yorker. Read it in Frieze, March edition. From the article: ........ to beat up on a specific example: we live in the age of an educational abomination from hell: The Artist's Statement... Wonderful, fabulous, I have been wanting to say this for years, well something like this. I don't have an artist's statement. Of course over the years I have been forced to write them. I wrote my statement for my first degree whilst watching a football match, I wrote about what was happening in the game. I still have it somewhere. I remember one of my tutors saying later that it was the best statement she had ever read although she didn't understand what it was about. For my MA I wrote my statement on the train and I wrote about people and bars because they seemed to roughly parallel my work. You can look at my work and think what you like/do what you like with it. (Again from the article) .....A fan one said to Bob Dylan "you changed my life". Dylan replied "what the fuck am I supposed to do about it". We once had an artist's talk (another thing I hate "the artist's talk" as if the artist is something who everybody wants to hear talk, we have never had "the dustman's talk" at the end of our road on bin day) and Hilary Lloyd was asked what was her work about and did she think about her audience. Hilary was silent for a few moments and looked totally dumbfounded that here she was being asked what her work was about when we had just had a half an hour of it (her films). She treated the question with contempt. She said she didn't give a fuck what her audience thought and asked for the next question. The hall fell silent.

Read it somewhere.

I've had enough

Hi guys, don't you just hate wasters? I do. Lazy, good for nothing, thick tossers. Nous? never heard of it. This country is full of them. Give me this and give me that, and I am entitled to this so I am having it. No you are not. Go out and get it yourself. I think this country would be better if it were 1950, with food rationing, austerity, secondary moderns, hand me down clothes, no tv, no pizzas, few cars, piss all to do except listen to Mrs Dales Diary and the Archers, no dyslexia, no drugs, no holidays, no internet, the cane at the back of the classroom, knit and cook with your mother, no credit cards, no mobile phones, no facebook, Saturday morning cinema, football and rugby league results on a Saturday afternoon and you learned how to pronounce Keighley, recite the shipping forecast, read your dad's News of the World on a Sunday listen to Radio Luxembourg with both parents and the Top Ten and they knew all the records, be seen and not heard, no central heating, frost indoors, no traffic jams, run wild and free and a tangerine and a pink mouse for Christmas. And you would be bloody happy.

The blog is back

Hi again I got my blog back. All the text disappeared yesterday. Somebody trying to attack me on the 13th or merely a bug in the blogger font editor? I think the latter.

Happy St Valentine's Day.

Wrinkles and drawings

I missed the train to London yesterday.  I got up late and decided not to go as by the time I got up I had already missed the early train, the one  I like to get if I go for the day so didn't get to the Hayward to see Erik Van Lieshout's latest video. I have another 10 days left to see it.     So I went shopping instead  and everything was like it is on a Saturday for me but an hour later than it usual    I hate getting up late.   In the afternoon, I dithered around and lit  the fires, sat down and did some drawings.    Horray.  A day not wasted after all.    Now it is Sunday  and I am sitting here with a manuka honey face mask and going out to meet a friend and I am late again.  What is happening to me!     The face mask is supposed to be on for an hour but I am due to go out at any moment and the mask has only been on for half an hour.  So what,  the wrinkles wont disappear as much as they are supposed to I suppose.  Nothing really and I don't expect it would have worked anyway.

2 hours later.  Back from meeting friend; no half disappearing wrinkles, they are all still there.  Bolton Wanderers and Everton coming up.  Um, well I suppose it will have to do.

Comment - welcome

Thanks, Jane for your comment on my poem in January.  Purgatory always sounded like the pits to me.    Limbo was just a watered down purgatory and to be avoided.   Hell was going to be my scene although I didn't know it at the time.  My favourite band  the Sex Pistols and my favourite film Trainspotters.  Apart from all that I am pretty normal.    I love comments.

How do I look?

A cat in a tree from the mobile phone and a leek

Thank you to Wolverhampton Wanderers  for making a horrible afternoon just a little bit bearable.    I turned the tv on and saw that Arsenal were winning 4-2, not realising that a little bit earlier they had been winning 4-0.  I was relaxing whilst pouring a glass of rosé when I heard that Newcastle had been awarded a penalty and suddenly it was 4-3.  I turned the tv off.  I knew what would happen.  And sure enough it did.  Newcastle 4 Arsenal 4.    I don't think I can take much more.     Even wearing the hair shirt doesn't seem enough. 

                 

Rachel wore a silly pink hat, did you see? Yeh.

 And bollocks to you all.