Later this year, September I believe, I’ll be throwing open my side passage so that peeps can gawp at my doings and wonder.


A typical conversation from the last time I participated in this annual vibrant Coastal Currents cultural event ran along these lines.

“Why do you bother?”


“The double glazing company?”

“No, the mountain.”

“Oh, of course. ‘Because it’s there’.”

“No, not at all. I was invited to climb it, I panicked and the only excuse I could think of on the spur of the moment was to say I was doing the Open Studio thingy. Anyhoo Everest will be there whether I climb it or not, these objects won’t be unless I make them.”


“Which brings me back to my original question.”

“Oh, is that the time? I’m late. Bye!”

The last thing I heard was “But don’t you live here……”



… back in the 1970’s’ I was shown around Bridget Riley’s house/studio/factory.

As I was leaving I noticed a couple of works by the front door ready for shipping. They were wrapped in striped flannelette sheets.


Foolishly I joked “Don’t forget to wrap those paintings, they need protecting.”

She threw me out and never spoke to me again.


I still don’t really approve of the factory artist who hardly touches his or her ‘own’ work although I do admire their business skills.




What a great programme this was.

Mr Perry is a very clever, simply complicated performer and artist. To be able to actually write the script for large swathes of your life is a well deserved privilege. His Dream House is like a film made plastic. Wonderful.


However I’m not fooled by his stage presence of fun and jollity. He’s an angry man which, I think, is his main driving force. I’m not sure if he’s angry with his mother or that really he’d like to be his own mother. I suspect he would love to experience actually being pregnant and giving birth. Tricky.

(He needs some help with fashion BTW. A full length black number with a pair of stylish court shoes would look good though his choice of wigs is improving.)

I really must pluck up courage and enter Essex.




We followed an old carting trail through the bluebelly woods where bushels were sent to the weavers of merkins to be be woved in days of yore.

We planned an adventure trail where stumps and logs and roots of outstanding natural naturalness would fascinate and empty wallets.

We avoided mud, got rounded up by a conscientious sheep dog and got drunk on the smell of all the bloody bluebells.

Walks can take you in any direction wherever you are, even walking to the shops. They’re even possible sitting on the sofa.




Everyone is racist. “Belgium is good for producing delicious chocolates”. I bet there are some rubbish chocolatiers over there. “The Scottish are all very careful with their money”. Loads must get fooled by con artists.

Everyone is sexist. “Men cannot use washing machines, load dishwashers properly or speak about their feelings”. I feel that my washing machine and dishwasher skills are brilliant although, obviously, there’s room for improvement.

Everyone has some traits that would be perceived as very non-pc by today’s hyper critical, head-up-their-own-bottoms, self opinionated, self appointed tsars of moral values who populate all forms of mass communication who, by their very hyper critical, head-up-their-own-bottoms, self opinionated views, and self opinionatedness prove my point very nicely thank you.

No one is perfect … except Lo, she is a terrible Goddess …. naturally.

(This post rewritten several times to try and avoid knee-jerk reactions and unthinking ripostes. To be honest with oneself really is a necessity and sadly missing in many people)




I am more powerful than Dog.

Humans are almost completely trained.

We’re nearly there!

We’ve conquered old ladies and most young ladies.

Children are a pushover.

Men are proving a bit of a problem although the Gay community is on our side, which is a start.

We’ve conquered the Internet. Well done the Lolcats!

We sit and lie around, we perform no useful function and yet people feed us – they pamper us – they worship us!

We can behave as we please.

Crap in the garden! Crap in the kitchen! Spray wherever we want! Nothing we do displeases them.

BUT … we mustn’t get complacent. Cute cats, remain cute. Those that can bear the touch of a human, my heart goes out to you, allow the odd cuddle, follow my example. Lolcats, continue your sterling work. Try and control that look of distain. Pay a tiny amount of attention to your human and they will look after you. Continue hardly doing anything useful and the world will be mine … MINE I TELL YOU!!!!! … errr, I mean ours, OURS!!!!!!! … oops

(CUT!!!! Let’s do that again)



When you ‘like’ a Facebook comment or when you ‘favourite’ a Twitter comment my brain is made to work too hard for comfort.


You could be saying “Oh, I do like that” or “Just to let you know I’m here” or “That’s interesting but I can’t stop and comment, my waters have just broken” or “I’m bored with this conversation” or “I’m liking this to show you what an idiot you are” or “I suppose I better but I’m really not that interested” or “I’m encouraging you but really you need to make a bit more effort” or “You ‘liked’ something I posted so I’d better reciprocate” or “Your friends are more interesting than mine – can I join the club?”. It’s all very complicated. A bit like real life I suppose.



The art of Aspidistra Polishing is shrouded in mystery.

My mother was admitted into the AP Club at an early age. She rose in the ranks very quickly and attained the accolade of Chief Aspidistra Polisher before her teens.

She tried to pass these skills on but my brother and I were poor students.

Photo on 26-02-2015 at 09.41

As you can see from this deliberately distorted photograph (revelations of ANY of the secrets results in a lifetime ban from the Sect, known as Wilting a Member) that I never got beyond the Buffing of the Spider Plant. I take some comfort from the fact that my brother is only qualified to Brush Up a Sneezewort.

We both wish now that we had paid more attention.



I’m always trying to improve my teaching techniques.

Many years ago, I was 19 I think, I had a job at the Chiltonian biscuit factory.


(BTW, I have inside knowledge of what’s in these …

images … approach with care)

Anyhoo 1. There was a chap there who reminded me of Abel Magwitch from Great Expectations. A rather scary looking character. I got on with him like a house on fire. That is until I made some comment about his wife that seemed appropriate at the time. All hell broke loose. A lesson learned – avoid conversation about members of the family.

Anyhoo 2. This morning, in the supermarket, I fell into a conversation with a similar looking chap about swearing. This was instigated by him saying “Fucking arseholes” when he couldn’t get into one of the plastic bags for putting vegetables in. He spied me and apologised for his language. He then went on to complain about his daughter saying ‘fuck’ three times in one sentence. “I ‘ate girls who swear!” Obviously there’s a lot here that could be discussed but I decided to keep things simple.

Anyhoo 3. (not 3 really as I’m still standing in the same place in my head) I managed through dextrous manipulation of this wonderful language of ours to get him to see that his own swearing might have an effect on how his daughter speaks. He thought it was his own discovery and I didn’t get beaten up. A really positive result. I never knew that the broccoli section could be so interesting.

(And then, it was a very exciting shopping trip, I found a bulging wallet in an abandoned trolley. Full of credit cards and fucking* loads of money!)

((And yes, of course, I handed it in at the supermarket information desk. I really do hope that it got back to it’s owner … if only to save his marriage))

*Just showing that even I have been known to swear …. when appropriate.




Lo, she is a terrible Goddess had an appointment at the hairdressers so I took the opportunity to pop into The Twisted Gusset for my usual half a lager with a sherry chaser.

I was greeted by Irene.

“Where’s Lo?”

“Oh, she’s at the hairdressers.”

“They’re very good you know. I had some highlights done there just the other day” and started pouting to show me her upper lip.

“Lovely” I said rather flirtatiously “Very sexy.”

(Actually, flirting with Irene is quite tricky because her eyes move independently of each other and I’m never sure which one to aim at. The time she was complaining about the state of the nettles along the cliff top footpath and she attempted rolling her eyes in disgust, I thought she was having a fit.)

“They suggested plucking but I said, oh I’m too old for all that, all that fuss and bother …. and the mess!”

I bravely suggested that she checked the batteries in her hearing aids but she didn’t hear me.

“What’s Lo having done?”

“Not a clue. I’m hoping to make the right noises when she gets back though. ‘Very nice dear’, or ‘That’s better’, or ’As lovely as ever’ …. something complementary anyway. I’ve learnt not to ask ‘How much did that cost then?’ and I certainly want to forget when I said ‘Oh they were closed then’. I remember the time … now was it 2011 or earlier? I’m not sure … anyway I do recall it was October …. or it might have been April – when was that debacle over Mrs Crotchly cutting her hedge before Easter?”


I glanced up and Irene had disappeared which was odd.

I downed my sherry in one, with some sense of pride, and wandered home to wait patiently for the arrival of the TG.

Coda – Whatever I said on her return, was wrong. I must record our conversations for future reference and also see if I can save money if I buy Arnica in industrial quantities.