annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary
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Arty McFarty
Well. More good things - amazeballs etc. I arrived at the recovery centre for Friday art group to find this on the post outside:
That's my painting being used for the poster! Eeeek!!!
The Open House starts tomorrow, but omigod, two of us have sold work already, before it even started. Me:
And my mate C, under the byline 'Bronte Fuller':
Honestly, this is a photocopy of a postcard I sent her when I spent the day with Son at his work, before the Westm1nster murders, but of exactly that place where it happened. I had no money but this only cost 10p in the kiosk on Westminster Bridge because it was ancient and crap and I knew C would like it. She coloured in the sky and stuck it onto a printed 'frame' and bunged it into the exhibition with a price tag of £80, for a laugh, and someone bought it! Amazing - we were both so thrilled today - there are loads of exhibits but we're the two who've sold already - woo hoo!
This is what I painted today:
Still on that pot of tulips - I like this one best of the ones I've done so far, but it ran when I lifted it up, which I don't like so I may try again tomorrow.
Earlier this week, I went to the beach to pick up debris and as I was putting my hat on I had a terrible realisation:
I am an old woman, and I was wearing purple, with a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me, just like in that fucking poem:
"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth..."
and blah blah blah, but fuck off, honestly. You see groups of women in the city sometimes, wearing red and purple, being brave, or feisty or some fucking thing, but luckily for me I never gave a toss about being a laydeee and have always sat down on the pavement when I'm tired and gobbled up samples and do spend my pension on weed and stupid things that catch my eye in charity shops:
and never had a sober youth, and only accidentally wore red and purple, honest guv....
Anyway, I showed that selfie to my friend M, a fellow English teacher and she nearly pissed herself laughing, so that was good.
Yay, two days in a row I've blogged.
Last night though, I dreamed that me and YD were out with ED and YD was pushing her in the chair and it hit a stone with a big bump and ED said, "What the fuck was that?" in her old, normal voice, and undid the seat-belt on the wheelchair and got up and it turned out a trapped nerve had been causing all this, not MS, and it was free now and she was fine, and set about being bossy and gobby and getting on our nerves like she used to and then I woke up and it had been just a dream. It felt so nice to spend time with her and hear her voice and her laugh, but it was fucking hard all over again to find that she was still gone. So I went to visit her and took her out down the town and into a hipster coffee bar I recently spotted, where we sat listening to the cool music, snuggled up, with me leaning right into her in her chair, whispering slanderous commentaries on the other customers and the decor (I mean, really, still with all the pipes and shit outside the walls, below the ceiling, yawn).
Today I am grateful for: an art group to lark about in; a meeting with a worker at the recovery centre about me possibly setting up a writing group there, a mixed ability group about enjoying it, not aiming for anything, which she was dead enthusiastic about; a new daily photo challenge - marine debris based (I'm on instagram as @annam46 if you hang out there); ED being just down the road, not halfway round the fucking M25; being a beach cleaner, which makes me feel I am making a contribution, however tiny.
Laters, peeps xxx
12:03 a.m. - 06.05.17
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