EYE EYE AGAIN

As if setting off for the North Pole, I donned hat, scarf and warmly-lined wellington boots. Obviously there was appropriate clothing in between. Mr A donned jaunty fur hat, scarf and strong walking boots. Obviously he too wore appropriate clothing in between. Our intrepid daughter drove through the lumpy icy snow and took us to the mainline station where we caught the train to London and trudged through puddles, slush, foreign tourists, Christmas market stalls and freezing-cold entertainers to St Thomas's Hospital.

The reason for the hasty trip was that my eye, operated on seven weeks ago, had developed a worrying scratchy pain, as if something was in it. I had thought I was out of the woods, but now a blooming great tree had loomed up. Well, more like a bit of grit actually, but I'm keeping the metaphor going. 

After the initial assessment in the Eye Drop-in Clinic - no I'm not going to make any obvious jokes - I was examined by a female doctor and this is how the conversation went:-

She: You have a yellow cyst under the top eyelid and that is what is causing the discomfort. It should disperse by itself but bathe it with hot water.

Me: Oh, I've been doing it with cold water but I'll ...

She (cutting in): Okay, do it with cold water.

As she spoke, the gritty pain was intensifying and I spoke my thoughts out loud.

Me: I feel as if an oily antibiotic would make it feel ...

She (cutting in again): Okay, if that's how you feel, that's what you need.

Me: But, but ... it's what you say ...

She (taking up a pen): I'll write out a prescription for an antibiotic ointment.

By then, my other eye was feeling scratchy.

Me: Can I put it in the other eye too.

She: If that's what you need, yes, put it in both eyes.

If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have said my navel was feeling scratchy so could I put it in there too. Also my ears and other orifices, some of them quite rude. There was no end to the fun I could have had. But, of course, I said nothing, being very grateful that the eye problem was nothing to do with the surgery and that my retina and other eye components had remained firmly in place.

Mr A and I bounced off to the Pharmacy Department with a spring in our booted feet and relief in our hearts. At least I'm assuming that Mr A's springy steps weren't merely to rush to a table to gobble our packed lunch and to battle with six across in the cryptic crossword that had so far eluded us.



   

It occurs to me that there should be different words for different sorts of lenses, and I'm not talking concave or convex here. I mean words that explain whether you are talking about the lens that is actually embedded in your eyeball or one that is in your spectacle frame.

I know they both do the same job, but at the eye clinic in St Thomas's Hospital, confusion reigned when, pointing to the left half of my spectacles, I told a nurse that a new lens had been fitted about two months ago. She, of course, saw me pointing to my left eye. Frowning, she riffled through my notes. Are you sure? she demanded. Yes, I said, slightly miffed that she could imagine I didn't know when I'd had the, frankly, expensive new varifocal photochromatic lens installed. I might be old, but I'm not doolally, I thought, rather morosely and, in hindsight, rather unfairly. 

However, under cross-examination, it gradually became clear that I was talking about my specs and she tutted in obvious exasperation. Which is why, now that I reflect on it, I think it would save confusion and irritation to use the term 'inside-eye-lens' for the one in your eyeball and 'spec-lens' for the other one. 

The 'inside-eye-lens' could be abbreviated to 'i-lens' (like i-phone and i-pod) and then the one that you have been born with could be your 'nat-i-lens' (nat = natural, if you haven't worked that out) and one that is a replacement lens made of silicone could be 'sil-i-lens'  for a laugh. (And following on from that, for women who have enormous solid silicone boobs jutting out, sili-breasts would seem an appropriate description and also another laugh!)



Whilst on the subject of appropriate and inappropriate nomenclature, for many years I have thought that professional sport is not actually sport, in as much as it is mostly not sporty. Whereas amateur sport, generally is - sporty that is. Therefore, the word for professional sport should be spelt backwards and become TROPS and then everyone would know what to expect. TROPS for games played for money. SPORT for games played for fun, exercise and the taking part. That's quite a relief to get that off my chest because it's been there for years, like undigested cheese.

Perm and eye op

 Since writing my last blog I have had a major eye operation and a perm. Both, so far, successful. The perm has given life and body to my still-brown-though-slightly-silvering locks in a modern kinky kind of way. The eye operation has given me a new lens and an eye-ball filled with salt water instead of the more traditional vitreous jelly which has been removed. When I asked if I could have the vitreous jelly to take home with me, a look of horror, if not revulsion crossed the consultant's face (and, in fact, the faces of everyone to whom I've revealed my jelly request) and he told me that the jelly was like transparent egg white and, as it is sucked out, the replacement salt water is squirted in. He used a differnt word from 'squirted' but you know what I mean. Could have fooled me it was like transparent egg white. More like frogspawn tangled up in fishing nets from my perspective. I've had to look through the stuff all my life and would have liked the chance to look AT it.

Never mind. My modified eye sees clearly and the new lens has made me realise how white pure white actually is. Not the rosy cream colour I still see with my other eye. An eye that will have to be dealt with when the trauma of this has subsided. What a brilliantly clever surgeon that Mr Alistair Laidlaw is. And dishy too! Just hope he concentrated on looking solely into my eye and didn't take in the unbecoming back-fastening robe, the tight white socks, and the unflattering mob cap I was obliged to be togged up in.

On a whim, I joined Twitter the other day and was prompted to go to the website again today because I received an email saying that someone was following me. On line that is. Not in the spooky sense of a rapist or murderer. As I'd only written one tweet which didn't amount to much I thought I'd better investigate.

However, reading a few tweets posted on Twitter I have come to the conclusion that you'd get more sense out of an actual bird. I have found Stephen Fry's tweetings and asked him to explain what his latest few cryptic words meant. Don't suppose I'd be able to understand his answer even if he does repond. Him being a famous intellectual and question master of QI. But, one never knows.

As you'll see from my previous postings (ignoring the boats theme) my life seems overrun with birds at the moment - injured ones, not injured ones, brightly coloured ones, and now incomprehensible human ones. Instead of tweeting and twittering like sparrows or canaries, I'd prefer a more wholesome Caw. Perhaps I could make a fortune by starting up a new social network system for cawers. Any suggestions for its name?

                                                                   A wholesome cawer

After going to the private view of the Royal Society of Marine Artists' Exhibition in the Mall Gallery on Tuesday, we staggered over to Trafalgar Square to see the ship in a bottle, the latest bit of nonsense, I mean art, installed on the fourth plinth. Depictions of my two brightly painted collared doves mentioned in my last two posting might have been more interesting, especially if they moved. I have to say there were a lot of ships on display in London, although as we'd just been viewing a maritime exhibition maybe my judgement on that score was skewed.

Disappointingly, there were no nibbles or wine on offer at the private view so by the time we arrived back home we were ravenous and scoffed the fish and chips we had bought en route using our fingers and ramming the food into our mouths in a quite disgusting way. Food had rarely tasted so good.

The two collared doves mentioned in my last posting were sitting very still in the garden today so I had an idea.

'Where are the tranquilisers I take when I go to the dentist?' I asked Mr.A.

'Where d'you think,' he replied in an acid tone, 'they're in the medicine cupboard stored next to the toothpaste.'

Ignoring the sarcastic barb, I dashed to said cupboard, snatched up the pills, bashing one them into smithereens with the end of the lavatory brush (which was nearby), mixed the resultant powder with some honey which entailed a trip downstairs, went up again to find my old blow darts which haven't been used for a while, brushed the pointy ends with the tranquiliser mixture, ran into the garden, quickly taking aim at the peacefully sitting sweetly innocent collared doves, hitting the targets cleanly one after the other, almost at the speed of light.

I watched them, keeping a look-out for signs which I was familiar with from my visits to the dentist. And yes, in just the same way, their eyes started to swirl, their claws slowly relaxed, and one after the other they gently fell to the soft lawn below. Hastily, I got out my acrylic paints, large paintbrush, special acrylic palette and water pots, eagerly painting the slumbering birds a fetching orange and turquoise. I hope they like the effect and it won't psychologically upset them, I now ponder. But I must say the colourful display gives me a lot of pleasure. The dove grey was lovely and soft but these colours are zinging. They look quite like parrots.

I noticed this bird sitting completely still on our back lawn. 'It's a pigeon,' Mr A said, as if that explained its inertness and also its shape. 'It's not!' I snorted, provoking a spat which ended in me grabbing up our Bird Book and riffling wildly through the pages, eventually discovering it was a baby collared dove. About an hour later I saw it was still there so I walked down to investigate. As I drew near it studied me peacefully, which, for a dove, was only to be expected I suppose. Using my high-pitched gentle cooing voice I spoke to it, hoping it would be fooled into thinking I was its mother, which it may not have had time to fully take in, being so young. It stared at me with what seemed to me like love in its little round eyes and I wanted to snatch it up and swaddle it in my mother's hand-crocheted shawl, if only I'd have kept it, which I hadn't. 'Stay there,' little one I squeak-cooed, rushing back to the house to get it some bread and water.

As I ventured close I reassured it again with my female-collared-dove high voice. It didn't budge, just gently gazed at me. I tore off a morsel of bread and threw it underarm but it didn't get near enough for it to reach. I tried again. And again. Then I took aim and chucked a chunk overarm, accidentally hitting it broadside on, sending it into a frenzied wing-dragging limp away from me and up onto a plank of wood where it perched displaying its poor shredded tail.

 

Sadly, we had to leave the bird to fend for itself all night. The next day - which happened to be the very lucky date of 10.10.10, a date that pleased me no end - I went down the garden and found it sitting patiently under the conifer tree. Carefully I pushed a shallow container of water towards it but, once again it took flight, but that only in the 'fleeing' meaning of the word. Obviously, with a wing like that the other meaning was impossible. So much for the tenth of the tenth of the tenth being lucky I thought, mooching off. But later, when I went back to check on it, a miracle had occured because to my utter amazement another baby collared dove was keeping it company!

On the morning of the 11th, just the uninjured bird was there, sitting about two feet up on the branch of the conifer tree. No sign of the demise of the injured one, no feathers or bloody corpse. Zilch. Nothing. And by the twelfth, even the miracle comforting bird had vanished into thin air. 

If I had a photo of me looking fed up, I'd download it for all to see. But I haven't so I've used a picture of a chimp instead. The reason for my fed-upness is that after many problems on line and on phone I've discovered that to make the return rail journey from Tunbridge Wells to London at rush hour times costs £55. And the trip takes less than an hour - always supposing there are no leaves on the line, or pigeons or chimps. Fed up and flabbergasted, that's me because Mr A will be making the journey too and that will cost over £100, which will make my eyes water. And as the reason for going is for an eye surgeon to look at my eyes that's pretty droll. Anyay, we'll have to buy senior railcards which allows all and sundry to see that we're ancient, including the handsome young man in the booking office who I bat my eyes at. That last bit isn't true, but most of the rest is. Hey ho.

Wending their weird and weary way

Weirdly, this picture I painted of sheep wending their weird and weary way did not sell, even though it is two foot six square and was boldly hung in a local shop window. Such is the life of an artist. Hope, quickly dashed by disappointment.

I have now fully recovered mentally and physically from the exertions of the first Crowborough Arts Festival in which my weird sheep picture was but a miniscule part: a lone little pixel in a full colour chart. Artists, actors, musicians, photographers, sculptors, adults, children, all were involved. I shared a garage studio with a talented American photographer - a garage that was lent to us by kind people for the two weekends of the Show. My now-very-old husband and I nearly froze to death in that wondrous place on the last Sunday as an icy North wind blew leaves in to twirl around us. This demise was averted however by hot soup provided by our garage hosts and an hour's reprieve by our daughter who took over so that we could warm our ancient bones. Picture, print and card sales were made, so hope prevailed, and, what's more, friendships were forged - which was the major intention of the Festival.

So, hooray for art, artists, musicians, writers, singers, children and grown-ups, and generous people who give up their time to run such events and lend out their garages!

My husband's very old birthday celebrations and my granddaughter's weird and absolutely wonderful wedding

My husband reached a very old age in August, a very old age that I shall also reach in December 2011. I am just  hoping that by then my husband's very old age celebrations will have ceased in order to give me a bit of a look-in. His treats and high jinks started this June when he flew Concorde in a simulator and have carried on ever since with a lunch here, a holiday there, games of pool with grandson there, another lunch here, a day at the races there, and the final one day cricket match England v Pakistan (hisss). He is a very happy man, having flown Concorde underneath Tower Bridge and having watched England soundly beat the Pakistani team minus their alleged cheats. I write 'alleged' to be on the safe side. You never know who will be reading this and the last thing I want is to spend my very old age birthday in December 2011 in a Karachi jail.

Our granddaughter got married the day after the very old birthday and rode to the reception on the back of a tandem. In order to protect her beautiful dress, and also prevent a visit en route to the local A & E Department, she stepped into a black bin liner with leg holes pre-cut into it, and set off behind her new husband looking weird and absolutely wonderful. That's my girl. I was so proud of her.

I am encouraged to pick up my laptop and start blogging again because somebody has expressed disappointment that my last entry was 10th June. Blimey, this person had logged onto my blogspot specifically to look into my warped world. And, blimey again, is it really over two months since I last blogged?!!

It's a fact of life that as you get older you just have to blink your eyes, or, with my painful dry eyes, dash in a few drops, and a week flies by. Einstein didn't mention that in his general theory of relativity did he. He only said time sped up or slowed down according to how fast you were travelling through timespace. He didn't mention the old age time whizz thing, did he.

At any rate I'm here now and as this is meant to be a sort-of diary I'll mention our five day holiday in Exmouth from 28th June to 2nd July. Unusually for us, we had paid top whack for a sea-facing superior room at the Imperial Hotel, Exmouth, Devon. When we entered the magnificent room and stepped out onto our balcony, breathing deep sighs of contentment as we looked across the swimming pool and vast lawns to the blue sea beyond,  we were not to know what hell awaited us, starting at about 4.30am and going on for two or three hours every morning. The sounds of boulders crashing down, heavy furniture being moved, and heavy footfalls clomping around just over our heads, dragged us out of our sleep each night.

To our astoundment, it turned out to be nesting seagulls on the flat roof above us, crashing down clams to break open for their babies.

On our last night I arranged for the night porter, who I was told was called Jean Philipe and therefore I judged to be sexy, to come up to our room so that at least one member of staff could experience the din. At 4.30am as usual, the racket began. I got up, brushed my hair, covered my bareness with a slinky robe or, in actual fact, an M&S dressing gown, and reached out for the phone. As I started to dial, the racket stopped. I waited. Nothing. Zilch. Just my husband's gentle breathing. So Jean Philipe did not get invited to our room.

It transpired that the rowdy baby seagulls had fledged and, I guess, the brief burst of noise that woke me up, was from ma and pa seagull having a celebratory party.

Anyway, I leave you and this blog, with a warning. Do not book a superior room at that Devon hotel for the dates mentioned above. Seagulls breaking their clam shells and crashing about are noisier than you or anybody might think!

Being forced to tidy my studio to make room for my daughter and American niece who were coming for a painting session, I started combining pictures to form collages, and was quite excited by the results. 

FLYING SPINNAKER acrylic on canvas

Have today completed the final adjustments to the above 75cm x 75cm painting.  It has a wide flat limed pine frame

BLUEBELL WOODS acrylic on canvas

 This  painting and another similar one 

 approx. 32 x 22cm    

price on application (ericaadams@talktalk.net)

This time of year the woods are carpeted in a magical haze of blue and mauve bluebells. This picture, painted last year, was in Ashdown Forest near where I am lucky to live.

 

Greenwich trip 6th May 2010

This is a photo of the sundial at Greenwich which pinpoints the time in the shadow-points of the dolphins' tails. So beautiful and clever.

In the Planetarium we saw the 'Starlight Show' describing, and showing, the birth, life and death of stars and planets, and afterwards were lucky enough to have a talk from a female Doctor of Astrology about things to look out for in the sky that night - seeing the stars, constellations and planets that were being described in the nightsky projected above us. You lie back in inclined seats and watch the beauty and wonder of the universe - a fantastic experience, absolutely awesome! There is also the Meridian Trail to follow and rooms of hands-on exhibits relating to astronomers and the universe. We drove there and parked outside the Observatory at the top of the steep hill - amazing views of the buildings of Canary Wharf, the O2 dome, the Thames and the famous Greenwich Maritime buildings. And of course we stepped over the O degree meridian line several times!

It was, of course, election day, but we had already done our electing in postal votes so we were free to roam in the fresh air instead of queuing in a polling booth. Today is the 7th and we all now know that no party is fully in charge so, presumably, our debt will grow while the three main parties try to organise dubious alliances. It is quite mind-boggling and a bit scary, but not as mind-boggling and scary as the vastness of the universe.

The true story of St George and the dragon

Talk given at a day-late St George's Day dinner party

Not a lot of people know that St George was married to a lady called Norah. She was not a saint. Far from it. She was fiery, aggressive and always up for a fight. In fact, behind her back, people called her the dragon. And, to divert from this informative essay for a moment, it is for this very reason that many of our English pubs today are called the George and Dragon instead of the perhaps more interesting George and Norah.

George's friends always spoke of him as Poor George, poor meaning that he was to be pitied, rather than not being wealthy, because, in fact, he was loaded and owned a string of Arab horses. However, the epithet 'poor' was changed to Saint when, on the 23rd April in a year not recorded, George got his pike out and, holding it firmly in both hands, approached the unlovely Norah who was reclining on a rustic seat upon the castle lawn.

‘You can put that thing away,' she said, taking a drag on her ciggie. 

'But it's been months,' he said limply.

By a stroke of of good fortune that was to change world history, at that very moment a buxom hand maiden appeared and poor George was re-invigorated. 'I have had enough of you Norah,' he said, standing erect again.

'And me you,' she roared, smoke belching from her nostrils in a quite frightening display.

The buxom handmaid ran behind a far-off tree, peeping round to see, and then record, the shenanigans going on.

As George and Norah glared at each other, one of his beautiful horses ambled into view. Holding his pike at a forty five degree angle, George backed away from Norah and gingerly mounted the steed. (Not in a sexy way you rude-minded people!).

Norah took another drag at her fag. 'What are you going to do George?' she sneered, fire and smoke now belching out of her mouth and trickling out from her nose. 'Stuck up on that horse, clasping your pike. What are you going to do?'

'You, you old dragon,' he yelled.

'Oooo, you're so sexy when you're roused,' she said, stubbing her Marlborough out and lying back invitingly.

And that was how George overcame the dragon. It was easy really but, according to the handmaiden who told anyone who would listen, George had fought long and hard with the fiery dragon before laying her.

'Why, he's a saint,' said his friends as one man. 'Laying that fearsome dragon right out in the open like that.'

Of course, due to political correctness, the story became St George slaying the dragon, rather than laying the dragon, it being more acceptable to tell young people about acts of violence than acts of sex.

This story has been passed down from generation to generation in our family because, and internet research has confirmed it, Saint George happens to be my great great great great uncle on my father's side, and that makes him decidedly English and not Turkish as some historians would have you believe. And that is why we have him as our patron saint and celebrate his victory over the dragon every 23rd April, or in this case, the 24th!!

Wednesday 24th March 2010: The Van Gogh Exhibition

Went to see the exhibition of Van Gogh pictures and letters to his brother Theo on show at the Royal Academy, London, and I felt so sorry for him. All that artwork, so full of  verve and colour and excitement, and poor old Vincent only ever sold one canvas during his ten years of painting. It's so unfair. The tragic man could have had no idea that people would be thronging to see his work and that collectors would pay millions for just one piece when, in the depths of despair, he lopped off an earlobe then, later shot himself. All the poor bloke wanted was recognition and a buyer or two. It's so very depressing.

It was a magnificent exhibition marred, for me, by one thing - in fact many things, the 'things' in question being the gallery walls. In one of Vincent's letters to his bruv he extols the virtues of the yellow house in Arle with its whitewashed walls which show off his pictures so brightly. And what do the organisers of the exhibition do? Why, they paint the walls of each gallery in different strong colours, yellow, green, deep wine, blue, etc. As a painter myself I know that the colours used as one creates a picture are greatly affected by subsequent colours used and also by the colours of mounts, frames and walls around the finished item. To me, it appeared that the coloured walls in the various rooms displaying Van Gogh's pictures, deadened their vibrancy. Well, that's got that off my chest so I'll go up to my studio to dollop some paint around.

But, before doing that, just to say that today, Tuesday 30th March, I was on steward duty for the morning at our local art exhibition where the walls were bright white, the pictures sang out, and I was content!

Sunday 21st March 2010, people lining up for the one o'clock Sports Relief run

I went with my daughter and family to Brighton where some of the one mile sponsored runs that were taking place all over the country were being run in aid of Sports Relief.

I had toyed with the idea of tottering round the circular course myself, even though I hadn't registered, but by the time I'd tottered down to the far side of the pier from the station my hips, legs etc., were in dire need of a rest so I left it to the crazily dressed-up people, the hoolahoopers, the families, the youngsters, the people walking backwards, the dogs, and all the rest of the hoards who were helping to raise millions, and I sat on a concrete block and ate an icecream in the sun.

Wonderful that all the fun, happiness and excitement was raising so much money to help the vulnerable and poor.

This bag holding Rummicub tiles has been used every day for nigh on 8 years by Mr A and myself as we play our nightly game. We shake it up then dip our hands in to get out the tiles, but now, as you see, the bag has become transparent and cannot be used. So we are in a quandary, for no other bag can be found that offers the right depth, the right feel, plus two little rope handles. We're making do with a small metal wine cooler that chaffs our wrists as we dip our hands in and, before very long, we'll be bleeding all over the carpet.

I'm not usually a competitive person - if a rival beats me at some sort of game it pleases me to see them so happy: But Rummicubs with Mr A is different. I have to try to beat him. And he has to beat me. So night after night we play on regardless of the danger. So, if Hennessy or anyone else has the right kind of bag please let me know and our nightly battle will continue with undamaged wrists. As it is, there is a danger that if we lose too much blood we'll pass out and the people who find us will believe we've slashed our wrists and been party to a joint suicide pact!!

New gas mains

The view from our porch as new gas pipes were installed was not a pretty sight, as you can see from the picture.

For over a week the gas men have been toiling, pneumatic drills screaming, diggers crunching, compression units whining, beaters thumping. But in all the noisy chaos that engulfs our small cul-de-sac and the streets beyond, the smiles and patient endeavour of the men working so hard in the freezing weather have made us grateful. And their wonderfully uplifting bright red and yellow working clothes - the yellow perfectly matching the colour of the new plastic gas pipes being installed - pleases my artistic soul.

No matter that my deafness is now worse on account of the noise. No matter that my chilblains are worse because we were without heating for one day. No matter that the daffodils in the front lawn are the worse for wear having been dug up and then replaced. No matter that our beautiful tree may find it hard to blossom, its fine roots having been severed to get at old pipes. Our house has new gas pipes safely installed and the red and yellow men still brighten up our streets with their efficiency, hard work, smiles and radiant colour!

Think negative, it saves a lot of fed-upness.

Today, my twenty-four year old granddaughter expressed relief, via an e-mail, that Spring would quickly follow this short month of Feb. Not wanting her hopes to be cruelly dashed, I cruelly dashed off this reply:-

Oh lovely granddaughter, try not to be fooled by the promise of Spring after this short February month. Daffodils and baby lambs are all very well but they don't stop the snow and icy winds blowing. I know that years ago you wouldn't believe me when I told you that Father Christmas wasn't real, but as I was proved right then (although perhaps a little un-grandmotherly) you should now heed my following words:-

 It is better to expect and be prepared for the worst than to hope for the best and be let down. In other words, think negative. It saves a lot of fed-upness.

A hard question.

Can anyone who is a believer please tell me what their God was doing before he made the universe and where on earth he dwelt. See, I've gone into religious language with the 'dwelt' bit. But that only means I was brain-washed during my formative years. And, when I say 'where on earth' he dwelt, that's just an expression. I don't mean somewhere like Bang Kok or Tunbridge Wells. Now I'm worried whether I've spelt the Kok of Bang Kok right and have just realised it's a rather rude name.

Also, if there is somewhere outside the universe where this God spirit dwelt (see, still at it, brain-washing is hard to overcome) was mass and energy in existence there? But, since the word universe means everything that exists going on to infinity, by definition there can't be another place. However, if we imagine that another place does, or did exist, why did this God spirit bother to create the universe. Or, was the big bang that created it one big cock-up, or kok-up, made by God, like the one made by my science teacher who exploded me and the whole of my form?!!

Answers would be appreciated. (Except on the spelling front.) And parallel universes don't count. If they do exist, the God spirit would have had to have made them, so the question remains, where was he dwelling before then?

Today's advice: have negative thoughts to avoid disappointment

I have spent a good deal of my very long life nearly 'making it'. My fortune that is. And for 'nearly' you could substitute 'not'. Not making it. However, the trying to make it has been wonderful, adding a zest to life that can only normally be obtained by a triple espresso or sex.

At eighteen I bought a rusty old bike and spent hours rubbing it down and doing it up but ended up getting rid of it at a loss. I'd like to say that at that age it was the same with boyfriends but I never did any rubbing down or doing up so that may have constituted a problem.

At nineteen I bought an Adana printing set and spent night after night dreaming of the printing factory I would eventually own. But my cousin 'borrowed' it and then had the nerve to send me a Christmas card printed with it, a fact that still rankles with Mr A all these years on!

Today, I am waiting with bated breath, but no hope, to hear whether I have won a writing competition, the closing date for entries being yesterday. I imagine the judges mulling over which one is best, mine or another. And, although hope flutters in my breast, I make myself believe it is 'another'. because I think the power of positive thought is all hokum and that it is best to be prepared for the worst and absolutely amazed by the best. Those are my words of wisdom for today. Think negative.

There is a Penguin God fantasy

From reading another few pages of The Hair of the Dog book, and also viewing a programme on TV last night, I have learnt that some infinities are bigger than others. Yeah. Right. As far as I'm concerned, infinity goes on for ever. End of story. It's easier for me to believe there is a god chucking down fish for penguins than to believe there are different infinities of varying sizes. So that's that!

There is a pig god fantasy

If you believe there is a god for humans, then why shouldn't there be a god for other live things, such as pigs, penguins, dogs, ants, bees, aliens if they exist, perhaps even bacteria or other microbes. For, in my opinion, life itself is the unexplained miracle, not just we humans.

Imagine there is a bacteria God and you could conclude that he-she-it works hard for them, creating mutations, ducking and diving, always trying to outwit human endeavours to eliminate the ones that are bad. No wonder so many of the nasty little devils thrive.

I don't believe there is such a thing as a god - pig, dog, penguin, bacteria or other - but if I am wrong and there is one for humans, he-she-it has proved to be very unkind and has certainly got it in for old people. It wouldn't have taken much effort to devise a death that is pleasant and doesn't involve a long drawn-out painful breaking down of body and mind. Something to look forward to.

Having just looked back to my 22nd January ramblings about a dog god and manna from heaven in the form of bones, I see a theme is developing. Watch this space. Well not this one obviously. You've already read this.

The parable of the infected foot.

I look back to the picture of my infected foot taken last February and know that I should be pleased that the only foot problem I have this year is a couple of chilblains. But I am not pleased. Even though the chilblains are a minor complaint compared with the infection, they still blooming well itch and hurt and drive me quite mad!

Similarly, if you know that some people are experiencing greater pain or hardship than you, does it make your pain or hardship seem less?   Probably the answer is Yes while their greater problems are fresh in your mind, but No when your difficulties expand to fill your whole head.

Here endeth the parable of the infected foot..

Increase in boob circumference and other things

In the constant quest for knowledge that bedevils us humans, I have been reading The Hair of the Dog and Other Scientific Surprises by Karl Sabbagh and have learnt how to work out the extra amount of rope needed to raise a length of rope encircling the world at the equator by about 3 feet or 1 metre. Thinking along the lines of the size of my waist when I was young, and the size of a belt to encompass it now, I thought the new length of rope would need to be a good few miles longer than the equator hugging line. But I was wrong. Not only that, I have learnt that you don't even need to know the circumference of the world, or its diameter! There are equations to explain it but for readers of this blog it is sufficient to know that the actual answer is about 6 metres, or 18 feet. Which is about a thousand miles less than the answer I had in mind. It turns out that any size of rope circle needs to be lengthened by 3.14 units to make a circle 1 unit larger in diameter; 3.14 being pi.

Excited by this newly-gained knowledge, I have just been encircling my left bosom with a tape measure in order to work out the size of bra I would need if the circumference of the  bosom in question was increased by half a cm all round, which would, of course, mean a base diameter of twice that size, namely one centimetre. Based on the rope-round-the-equator lesson I think the circumference around my boob would be 3.14 cms bigger.

When I tried to explain all this to Mr A, saying the new boob measurement was all to do with pi, he said, 'You should've put the tape measure round your belly then if pies are involved.'

Sadly, of course, and I expect my female blog readers will have worked this one out, all of this careful measuring and the imaginary 1 cm extra around the base wouldn't give me the new cup size.

'I'm just going to read on to see if Karl Sabbagh has included a chapter on the increasing mass dimensions of mountains,' I told Mr A.

'Yeh, right,' he responded, 'why not see if he's written a bit about mole hills, that'd be more near the mark.'

And, again he wondered why I hit him!!

Dirty stairs

A frisson of excitement fluttered through me as I bent double on the third stair from the top, dustpan in left hand, hard-bristled brush in right, vigorously brushing the crack between the flat bit and riser of the top stair. Gingerly, I backed down a step, breathing deeply as I started to attack the next stair. It was then that the realisation hit me that my life had become somewhat mundane. True, I had painted a lively portrait of an exotic lady on Tuesday, but this chore had pathetically sent my pulses racing. Not only that, I was cleaning even though no visitors were expected! By the time I'd denuded the fourth stair of dirt (my target number for the day as it happens) I had worked out a plan to get the zing back into my life.

'Darling,' I purred.

Mr A dragged his attention from the Murray match, a brief startled look shooting into his eyes as he took me in before turning back to the tennis game.

I had discarded my jumper and bra for a see-through top, and the dustpan and brush for a feathery anti-static mop that I wafted seductively over his crotch.

'Get off,' he said, grumpily, 'Murray could win this.'

'I've been practising,' I said in my sexy voice, 'if you come with me to the stairs I could tickle the crack between your flat bit and the riser.'

'No thanks, but I'd like it if ... Good shot Andy!'

Knowing the stairs weren't a good place for such activities, I waited for his suggested change of venue. 'You'd like it if what?' I prompted, jutting forward a hip.

'I'd like it if you'd put the kettle on. I'm dying for a cuppa.'

He wondered why I hit him, but, to tell you the truth, when I thought about it later, I was slightly relieved. Shenanigans on the stairs at our age could have ended in disaster and it would have been difficult explaining it to the medics, and our neighbours, and the kids!

Tuesday, 26th January 2010. Today, Newton's Inverse Square Law

I have been trying to battle with Newton's Inverse Square Law, don't ask me why, I don't know myself, but I just need to know.

I have learnt that if two objects attract each other with a gravitational force of 16 units, and the distance between the two objects is then doubled, to get the new force of attraction which would, naturally, be less, you must square the doubling which is 4, then inverse it which is 1/4, so the new force of attraction is a quarter of 16 which is 4.

How Newton worked that one out from an apple bashing him on the head as he lay under a tree is beyond me. I once had a large tom cat land on my head as I lay under a tree and all I discovered was that it hurt. If I'd been Isaac Newton though I'd have have probably calculated the moggy's weight from the gravitational force that it hit me. Instead, I experimented with centrifugal force, spinning it round by its tail then releasing it at high speed back to our neighbour's garden where it belonged, except that it overshot the mark by several fences.

It proved to be a scientific experiment of sorts though because, according to next-door-but one, as it passed overhead its meow was a clear example of the doppler effect. Quite satisfying to a nerd like me in my constant quest for scientific knowledge. It would be just my luck to die just when I'd got the hang of it all.

Rid Planet Earth of human beings. A serious piece, for once..

The big problem with Planet Earth, as most people will agree, is that too many human beings are trying to live on it and off it. The logical solution, therefore, must be to stop so many babies being born, and to lop off a whole tier of old people. 

Stopping so many being born could be achieved as follows:-

1) Get the Pope to change his view on contraception - participating Catholics please lobby him, it is urgent.
2) Only give child benefit to the first two children born of any one woman. And don't give it in money, give it in things essential for children's welbeing, like shoes, preferably made in the country where the children are born. (Helpful for jobs and carbon footprints - no pun intended.)
3) Encourage homosexuality. It is clearly on the increase and well done to those who already practise it. Maybe God has got his/her/its eye on the situation and has decided to create more gay people who are unlikely to bear offspring. Or maybe Planet Earth itself has somehow managed to influence human DNA in that respect as a self-protective measure.

Lopping off a whole tier of old people could be achieved as follows:-

When people over the age of three score years and ten become ill they should be denied treatment of any sort and, if their condition worstens, be given a delicious-tasting lethal cocktail, with their favourite music playing and their loved ones around them. A death to be looked forward to instead of the ghastly endings endured by so many whose lives are dragged out to the bitter end.

If the human population continues to expand there will undoubtedly be more famine, droughts, wars and disease and, if the planet ultimately manages to rid itself of humankind, all the animals, plants, fish, etc. would rise up and cheer, 'Good riddance to the lot of you, you destroyers of a perfect world,' if they were able. Hopefully, when the next batch of homo sapiens then evolved in a few million years time, the planet would have recovered from our lot.

There we are. That's solved!!

There is a Dog God

I have called this picture There is a Dog God and it is thought- provoking because, firstly, it assumes there is an animal-specialist god and, secondly, the words dog and god happen to be anagrams of each other. Ignoring the anagram thought-provocation and addressing the greater issue, could it be that a God - dog god, pig god, penguin god or otherwise - could organise food to fall from the skies. It is a concept that is a bit hard to swallow. Not the doggie bones, you understand, but the idea. Were the Israelites really treated to manna from heaven during their flight from Egypt, or were they telling porkies?

Say No to the Common Market!

Cutting edge news this is not, but this is a picture of a meaningful poster I have kept since the referendum of 1975. The year when the British public blew the chance to break free from Europe. Sob. Very nice people individually, I hasten to add, and even en masse, but not good to work with, i.e. quite good at making rules (which we keep) but no good at abiding by them.

In the run-up to the referendum of 5th June 1975, my Common-Market-loving husband was aborad on business so I took the chance to display this red poster and another blue one (that I still have and I am open to offers to buy either) in our front windows. When he returned from his trip he was not best pleased and it is a miracle that both posters were not immediately torn into shreds, as well as his hair (which he had in abundance then). I don't really remember, but I guess I must have invited him upstairs, nudge nudge wink wink, and whilst he was shedding his trousers and his brief case, carefully crept down to remove the posters, managing to stash them away for this blog thirty-five years on! What a lost opportunity that referendum was though. Sob again.  

More jolly good advice

I am reading about canny little entities that seem to have awesome fighting spirits and minds of their own, namely bacteria. For every new antibiotic that is designed to kill them, they try to figure out a defence strategy. It's like a very dangerous game of chess or a fencing match between an ill person and a bacterium, with death being a strong possibility for the loser.

They don't really have minds of their own of course, they just reproduce and evolve in a matter of hours and, if just one of the millions mutates to be resistant to the antibiotic during  that process the descendents of it will flourish even though the rest of them perish. It's all very complicated but my piece of jolly good advice today is always finish off your course of antibiotics and don't wear pink shoes.

Honestly, that owl!

They say pets often resemble their owners, but not that they sometimes ridicule them. However, could it be that this owl's choice of hat is a case of imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, or is the owl being downright insolent? 'Twit twoo' tells us nothing, so we'll never know. We'll also never know whether the dog placidly sitting with the owl on its head is in on the joke or is dreaming up a plan of its own.

Talking of dogs, our daughter's dog was beside herself with delight when we went to their house for dinner last night. She twirled and twisted then lay on her back with her legs in the air. She wasn't at our house on New Year's Eve so I don't know where she's learnt that kind of behaviour.

If you look carefully at the picture you should see the Christmas puddings (from our Xmas crackers) nestling in the twiggery and branches of our tree. We have had our fun winding them up and racing them so they have been put out to retirement. Just like old greyhounds. And donkeys. And some old men!

Life is back to normal: dinner at friends

Fabulous dinner at friends last night. 'If you could invite ten people, alive or dead, to dine at your table, who would you ask?' was a question posed. I personally would like to have Jesus, to ask him who he thought his Dad was; Princess Diana to ask if she knew who bumped her off; and Claudia Winkleman because she seems such fun. Mr A suggested Mao Tse Tung but was rather put off when it was pointed out that he wouldn't be able to understand him. And Bart Simpson was ruled out for obvious reasons, i.e. he wasn't real. As it was, the people actually sitting around the table couldn't be bettered: four artists and their spouses lead to a lot of jollity, deridery and good almost-clean fun!

The weather-enforced confinement is finally over but it has taught Mr A and me something. We discovered, during that imprisonment, that we were amazingly compatible, which, although having being married for 56 years, has come as a pleasant surprise. So we did make the right choice, we both contentedly sighed as we sipped our cocoa. That last bit was made up - we don't drink cocoa.

Was beginning to think agoraphobia, due to the surprisingly enjoyable weather-related confinement, had set in but no, with nerry a glance back I skipped outdoors and into the passenger seat of our snow-released car. It is now I must apologise to my regular blog readers, for it has been pointed out to me that bottoms seem to feature a worrying amount. But, despite that observation, I have to report that somehow the melting snow had seeped through the car door and into the cushion residing on the passenger seat - on which, of course, I sat down. Without mentioning the b word again, it is sufficeth to say a part of my anatomy became wet. Anyway, after flinging said cushion over my shoulder onto the backseat, though clipping the headrest first sending it obliquely into my husband's head (which didn't go down well), I located a plastic bag and sat on that for the journey that my derring-do husband accomplished with expertise, our slushy icy sideroads still being somewhat hazardous.

We had ventured into town a) for me to keep my appointment with my very nice hairdresser who keeps my hair trimmed in good order (I would say 'very nice' even if I hadn't given her my blog address thus knowing there was a good chance she would read it); b) to return the slanket (blanket with sleeves)given as a present, because it is so vast you could hide a herd of elephants in it; c} for husband to change the M & S trousers I had given him because I had got the inches and cms mixed up and he had never ever been that shape.

Sent my lovely sister-in-law a card to express the whole family's relief that her hip operation had been a success. Hip hip hooray. The old ones are always the best.

In the item below, written this morning, I was devoid of words of wisdom to pass on, but now inspiration has hit me and I am passing on a tip to help with oil painting.

If your paint is too thickly applied, lie newspaper over it to remove paint and then re-establish.

However, if you are out in the fields, quietly painting a landscape, and you realise your picture is a gungy mess, you can do no better than Freda (the protagonist in my novel The Pig and I). In her determination to create a masterpiece, she bravely slides her bare bottom over her overly painted mess, thus creating a painting of subtle beauty. This selfless act was inspired by her pet pig, Hermione, who, a few months earlier, had knocked her portrait of the local mayor off her easel and then sat on it, leaving a gross imprint of the mayor's face on the pig's backside and a work of art on the canvas. This set Freda on the path to success in the portrait painting world. A lesson to all of us.

On reflection, the newspaper method is best.

'My mouse is playing up,' I groaned.

My husband vacantly dragged his eyes from Jamie's Dinners, looking slightly concerned. 'What's wrong with it?' he asked, knowing he had to respond since reading Men are from Mars Women are from Venus.

'I have to push really hard on the left side to get it to do anything.'

His attention was now definitely off the lasagne recipe he'd been studying. 'Is that what you do?' he asked, looking amazed.

'Yes, and now I have to roll it around the mouse mat like mad as well.'

Now Jamie's lasagne recipe wasn't even being covertly glanced at. 'You havc a special mat for it!'

'Well, you can do it on the desk top but it isn't so good,' I explained, trying in vain to sound patient.

'Oh, the computer mouse. Do we have any fresh rosemary, thyme or bayleaves in the house?'

'They're all in pots on the decking hiding under melting blankets of snow,' I anapped, although I shouldn't have. Tonight's dinner is going to be good.

Yesterday, I rashly wrote that I would write a helpful hint each day. But already I've dried up. Any ideas would be welcomed.

WHAT NEXT? SAID THE SNOWY OWL, rather grumpily. What next indeed!! It's more like living in Narnia than the UK - but with central heating and no bad people or lions.

My Nearly-New-Year Resolution is to include a helpful hint in my random musings. Today's is for artists and is about mixing greys.
1. Cadmium orange + blue (not cobalt)
2. Ultramarine + Alazarin crimson + cadmium yellow OR yellow ochre
3. As 2 but use cerulean blue for a cooler grey
4. Cobalt + Light red for a warm grey
5. Ultramarine + burnt umber
6. Cerulean blue + permanent rose for a silvery grey

Having displayed the group sculpture below, I now can't resist showing off my d and g-d's giant octopus which is spreadeagled on their table-tennis table as if trying to flatten it. If it really could iron out the curves and waves in the wood surface the whole family would have to alter their well-practised ping-pong shots because we've all got used to the ball shooting off at weird angles. But there you go. Good and bad. Ying and yang. Full cream and skimmed.

It is snowy white, plump, firm, yet malleable - no, not my bum as one might think, but the free sculpting material that has dropped down from the sky. My daughter and granddaughter have been at it again (see Sophie the snow woman in a previous item) and proved that my artistic DNA has permeated down through the generations and my living has not been in vain.

Still snowed in! Have had to cancel the Tuesday portrait session, so the 21 talented artists who usually show up to portray the sitter in whatever medium they choose will have to do a self-portrait or get their spouse or dog or cat to sit. A pity tortoises have hibernated, because they would clearly be best, a cross between an animal portrait and a still life.

Talking of tortoises, reminds me that years ago when we had three of them - this is a very sad true story - when we lifted them out of the snug straw and crumpled paper in their normal hibernating box, they looked rather glassy eyed. All three of them. After tucking them back in for a few days, they still looked the same. Not sure if they were dead or alive, I buried them up to their wizened old necks under a bush hoping that if they were alive they would scrabble out. But each time I bent down to check on them it was the same. Three inert tortoise heads with glazed eyes stared blindly back at me. See, I told you it was sad.

Today I am languishing indoors thinking up another good invention which is how to program ones car go from A to B by itself, so that you can have a kip as you travel along. Until the finer details of that one have been sorted out, the picture above shows another idea for the advanced life drawing group: the trampoline session.

Another day of imprisonment due to yet more snow. I'm quite getting to like it. No need to get dressed or washed. Just placidly sitting thinking up good inventions. Currently, I'm trying to work out how to make road surfaces turn red to warn a crossing pedestrian when a dangerously close vehicle is approaching.

In the meantime, I'm displaying a painting of another good idea for an advanced life drawing group. This one is the skateboard session.

During this long period of enforced imprisonment due to the ice and snow, I am thinking up new inventions: outer-space solar generators, virtual hairdressers, etc. But while my fevered brain works out the finer details, I am displaying a painting of one of my previous ideas for advanced life drawing sessions, this being the parachute jump one.

How deep is the snow?

How deep is the snow? I wondered, unable to venture out for a second day for fear of falling and thus, on account of extreme age, breaking into a smithereen of bones. I dug out some welly boots and, armed with a ruler, stepped outside, dragging my feet through the thick virgin snow on the tundra decking. Reaching the table I lunged my ruler vertically down into the the deep blanket lying on top of it. 23 cms was the answer. I then bent and jabbed the said ruler several times into the cold squeaky whiteness around my feet. 23 cms also. It was then that I noticed that I was wearing a long woollen skirt which had become thickly coated with great blobs of glue-like snow.

Back indoors, the welly boots refused to leave my feet and, during the struggle that ensued, seemingly more snow was delivered onto our carpet than was lying on our entire back garden. Eventually the welly boot tussle was won and I mooched off to change my skirt and put on my indoor boots - worn all winter to stop chilblains - but it never works. I then rooted around to find a proper ruler which I measured against the snow-measuring one and found that the snow was 9 inches deep. When I told my husband he just nodded and smiled. Through this agreeable response I realised he hadn't heard a word and that his ears were plugged into the cricket. 'Looks like we'll lose,' he groaned, 'the three worst batsmen are left and there are two sessions to go.'

'Just two sessions,' I scoffed, guessing that a session might conceivably be longer than an over. 'Of course our three worst batsmen can hold out - it will be a draw.'

And it was a draw. Respect!!

'Nine inches,' he said later, 'are you sure?!

It may just have been a coincidence that he was looking down at his flies area as he spoke. I often find that the time-lag that occurs between me speaking and he responding quite often leads to misunderstandings. 'Yes, that's 23cms.' I said.

'That's about it,' he replied.

As if to prove that art and woman's lib genes are inherited, my daughter and granddaughter created a fetching snow-woman and coloured her with powder paint.

Clearing up the meaning of my blog name

For anyone interested, Artistricky It is not Art is Tricky as some people have deduced (although, of course, art is quite often very tricky). It is Artist Ricky, me being an artist. And me once being known as Ricky until many years ago my then-young husband put the kaibosh on it by saying it sounded as if I was a floozy, thus displeasing me but pleasing my dear mother who thought it sounded as if I had rickets. I had liked the friendly warmth of Ricky, compared with the rather hard-edged sound of Erica, but, there we go, girls let men get the better of them when they are young. So Ricky went out the window - until now.