In with the new. Baby Ed born within earshot of waves crashing on Brighton
And out with the old. Old friends older parents and older parents old friends
taken by that eternal tide.
A final text message blinking on the knocked about Nokia.
Christmas and other deep midwintwer (but unseasonably warm) festivals of
striplight and shopping thankfully over, I can go back under the covers til
at least half eight, when woken sweetly by ball of wrestling, screeching children.
R has returned to Aberdeen, where they had to defrost the plane
before takeoff, and found she didn't need her bearskins and plaids in London afterall.
Holbein (a Christmas present) was brilliant.
So now, unfashionably reactionary, I declare there is more Art in John Moore's
right arm than in Turner Prize offerings. Can relate to 16th Century better than 21st .
Could be that space/time rift. Must do more drawing. Use it or lose it.
If I put Ritalin in their spag bog, would they sit for a portrait? No - instead
sketch " Man With Can of McEwans Export Watching Life of Brian".
" He's not the Messiah. He's a very naughty boy!"