obey their parents and
everyone is writing a blog.'
I've had a fit with my leg in the air,
by way of sorting out my studio.
To call it a studio is perhaps a little
ostentatious, although a liberal pinch of
pixie-dust never hurt a girl.
Let's cut to the chase...
I can't draw, I can't paint, I can't sew
and to add insult to injury with my arthritic thumb
I can't even pretend I can!
This year I've hardly ever darkened my studio door.
Unless we have visitors, then all gunge and crud is shoved
into my magic cupboard.
The beds are made, the shower room is Vimmed to within an inch of its life
and all is good in my artists retreat.
On visiting Charleston I quietly lust after the skills required to have a
proper studio. Or in their glorious case an improper one...
The closest I get is a pelmet, the work of
Duncan Grant who designed it with curtain fabric to match in 1931.
The original fabric can be seen in the Garden Room at Charleston.
The material I made the wall hanging from, is some that I think,
was copied in the seventies.
Mine hangs in our oak room...
A cat may look at a king
I've finally got around to sorting out the studio,
driven not in some small part, by the fact we have friends coming to stay
at the weekend.
Who would think sorting out photographs and a little light feather dusting
would hurt a thumb?
Such a piffling thing; such a piss-poor result.
All fur coat and no knickers!