More than I can chew ...

As is my wont, it seems I have have bitten off slightly more than I can chew. I always was a child prone to gluttony - not all the time, but if the right digestive experience was to present itself to me it was quite plausible for me to bite off much more than I could comfortably chew.

In this case it happens not to be a feast but a concordance of events. I'm sure most people would stride through them in their seven league boots but as I've only (no slaps please - you know what I mean) been a house-Sheweevil for quite a while now - I have a new job. It's very little but it might help in restoring something of my lost confidence: that or push me over the edge completely.

In addition to that, I decided it would be a good idea to take part in the writing task detailed below. So far I have managed 375 words which means I'm lagging somewhat. Yes, I've got a plot , reading Cheryl's blog this makes me feel rather smug, just no botheration at the mo. This is mainly because, three cheers and a hoorah, the Painter came home last Friday. We have also had news that we are a priority to be rehoused (DOUBLE HOORAH).

It was very weird to begin with and we were both a little, well, the only thing I can equate it to is, shy. We went to Tesco's today (his first trip out since coming home) and he said I could blog about what a crip he is but he did really well so he can go whistle. Supermarkets are a trial when your fit and healthy. I must admit I felt very protective - note to self: just make sure you are not over-protective - and one or two AHs were in real danger of a bunch of fives.

In other news, Samuel MacBeth from the first kiss story below contacted me to say he didn't remember a thing and who was I. Well Sam, I know who I am without the need to google myself (she lied). Truthfully, though, the interweb thing is a beauteous thing. Hi again Sam and thanks for the emails.

On a slight tangent, I can only commend the benefit of bedroom arranging to my mate Ally over at Ducking for Apples. Having been here for a year now and with the vestiges of the first stroke inducing wardrobes still obvious in the bedroom and us still living out of boxes and a couple of skew-wiff argos rails, the backlog of benefit paid for two wardrobes, two chests and two bedside cabinets. Get us with our hotel stylee room. The Painter thought he'd come to the wrong place so tidy and un-trippy was it. I even laid a carpet. What a boudoir.

Thanks Cheryl

For your post about NaNoWriMo. I think I went there once. No, that was Nanaimo. I digress. I've signed up as when I was trogging around the other day I had a bit of an idea. A germ. So now I too can wear my particpant badge with something akin to pride but rather more like terror.

Here it is:




Now, if I can only work out how to link to it you can all get one too.

Friday Picture

Not done one for a while. Check out affordable art at www.minigallery.co.uk/John_Morris .

A bit of a breather ...

I was going to spend the morning running about in preparation for my Mum visiting but she can't come so I can take things a little more easily. I still have loads to do because the Artist has made excellent progress since the last update and on Friday he is coming home for a few hours with his occupational therapist in order to prepare for him coming home permanently next Friday. This isn't certain yet but is looking likely.

Once home he'll continue therapy as a day patient. His leg is getting good now and his hand is slowly improving but it will be a long slog. If you can imagine (or remember) waking up after having slept with your arm in the air - you know, when you wake yourself up by hitting yourself in the face - he's got that kind of level of dexterity at the moment.

Yesterday I came home with such a big smile. I can't wait for us to be a family again.

First Kiss

Back in the day (to irritate my absent husband, who will at some stage no doubt plough through this), 30 years ago today as it happens we moved from what I regarded as home, a sleepy little Cornish village (clicking this link will show you some really charming pictures but your ears may be assaulted by some kind of ragtime tinkly stuff) and birthplace of the Twentieth century's communications technology revolution, to the dizzy excitement of the metropolis of Falmouth.

I moved from a village school and my own clothes to a catholic school with uniform and rules and positively no swearing (no really we didn't). The school had an infant bit and a junior bit and the juniors left at a different time; there were bells and smells and Mass every Wednesday. It was also in a new building with indoor toilets and everything. Shortly before this I had even appeared on the local news in a feature about the village schools outside loo, holding a noddy picture.

I found it scary, regimented and foreign to begin with but actually grew to love that school and the people in it.

My first kiss happened in the cloak room near the girls' toilets in the infant area although as I was 7, I was actually counted as a junior. The bell rang for the end of afternoon break and it happened. Samuel MacBeth ran at me and planted one on my kisser. He looked at me for a moment and then ran off with a nervous sort of smile. I only remember being really taken a back. Kissing was for grown ups. One day I would want someone like Samuel, although not him exactly, but not here and not now. When it did happen I wanted him to be a cross between Carry Grant and Rock Hudson, to be wearing a shirt, tie and long trousers.

It made me grumpy. I didn't feel invaded or violated just thought it was a bit bloody stupid and with my milk bottle complexion and red hair, my face stayed scarlet for the rest of the afternoon. Well at least until we did our times tables and said a Hail Mary.

There, Mrs Baggage, it's done.

Parsnip Fay Weldon

To concur with a certain huffy sister of mine in the comments below the last post, I am indeed a little daft around the edges. The title of this post, however, is not a sign of that vast madness but instead a sign of someone else's.

Having a quick squizz at my sitemeter results is often quite interesting and this morning is no exception - apparently if you google the above I come up second. The question is why would you want to? This must be one of the weirder google searches I have been visited by although not the weirdest. That honour goes to zebra f***ing -a reflection of my wont to use florid profanity and of others strange predilictions. It brought up several links to photos none of which I followed. Not that I'm prudish just of a slightly nauseous dispositon.

According to the BBCs new life change programme How to Get Lucky, having a haircut now counts as Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I can vouch for the therapeutic effect as by another weird coincidence I had one on Monday to cheer myself up.

Curiouser and curiouser

This next little ditty will either strike you as a weird piece of happenstance, serendipity (call it what you will or it won't.

Our local post office is quite good for dealing with straightforward things like the sale of a first class stamp or paying a bill but if you through recorded delivery books at them or present them with a request to send something to somewhere remote and exotic in under three months they tend to get a little flummaxed. Normally, though, postcodes don't throw them - them being a mainstay of the postal service.

The new certificates of posting are all computerised and so you are sometimes faced with the "Computer says no" scenario. On Thursday we had the same thing: woman in the post office insisting the postcode was wrong, me insisting it was right. She decided to hand write the address on the receipt/certificate of posting (probably completely invalid) crossing through the computer generated stuff. There was such a queue (another one) behind me that I didn't scrutinize what she had done but put it in my purse and went to Tescos to buy succour (can you buy it?) for my family.

On Friday morning the receipt is on my desk and something about it keeps drawing my eye. I can't understand how my name is on it as I never gave my name and it wasn't on the back of the parcel. I'm trying to ignore it and phone the BA but the line just rings and rings and this thing is drawing me to it. My name is in the bit she crossed out with a dud postcode at the end. I look more closely and see it says E & F McLachlan (okay, I have an extra a) Architects. Do I send this Fiona a Christmas card or will she just think I'm mad.

Tears of A Clown

Well, baby, if there's a smile on my face it's only there to fool the public. I was forced on Friday to take drastic measures when talking to the people at the local BA. Despite the girly pink wrapper on this blog (skin - I think the cogniscenti call them), I'm not a girly girl. Or even a girly woman. I'm normally a pragmatic, businesslike and no-nonsense kind of a soul.

Ringing the BA every day to see wtf was going on took its toll, though, and when I finally got through on Friday morning and was told that contrary to what had been said on Tuesday (that the claim was on the system and was about to be paid) it was in a queue still waiting to be processed; it was in fact not on the system at all. Furthermore, there was a large backlog.

I lost it and started wailing about the fact that I now had no money to visit my husband in hospital and blubbing. The woman got the paperwork in a bid to calm me down and leafed through and came to the conclusion it was quite straightforward and would only take about five minutes to process. Cheers for that - I already knew that or I wouldn't be hassling you everyday. Anyway, she said she try and get it moved to the front of the queue. I came off the phone feeling rather aghast that I'd actually cried in front of someone not sitting next to me at a cinema re-release of Truly, Madly, Deeply or someone I was related to by blood or marriage.

Don't get me wrong, I cry at the drop of a hat in front of those very specific groups of people - I even cried at the wedding of Peter James Andrea and Katie Price last night on Sky Mix. I try never to drop my guard infront of members of the bureaucracy or to use my tears to my advantage. This is a policy I will be ditching forthwith as on Saturday morning a nice fat giro for gazillion of our British Pounds floated down and landed on our non-existent doormat. So now we're practically solvent again.

Hoorah.

Come day, go day

Well it seems like some small glimmers of progress are finally being made. The Artist's mood seems to have lifted a little and he even phoned me last night - he doesn't even phone me when he's not stricken (some strange part of the verb to have had a stroke - Mary don't hit me). It made me smile for the rest of the evening.

Otherwise, no news on any front. Not on a garage - he'll ring you back; not on a new house - they'll ring you back; not on any money - we didn't receive your claim until the 29th -your letter says 27th - oh - and you returned my birth certificate on 20 - I don't know why there's a missing week but in any case your husband didn't sign the medical certificate we need to return it to him - exasperated remarks about the fact I'm running out of money as the WTC was stopped from 13 and I can't afford to keep going back to the hospital - sorry we can't process your claim until the form is signed.

Tuesday was a very bad day. I flooded the kitchen because I was trying to sort more paperwork out and forgot I was running the sink to wash the dishes. Had a huge row with Arty Daughter, then phoned rescue centres to have the animals rehomed.

Yesterday was significantly better and I cancelled my place on the waiting lists - I we are rehoused we would all be so gutted to have rehomed the animals.

Come day, go day.

The Artist - writ large at Minigallery

John Morris
Interview with the artist

What is the first artwork you ever sold?

It was a life drawing. I was 17ish, and I had some life drawings in my portfolio from school. School? Yes, school. My school was of the "Rowing and Latin" variety, and I was part of a small, dedicated and well-resourced group doing art A-level. Our teacher (a fantastic character called Pete Dryland) was devoted to us and our progress, so he engaged a fellow teacher to pose in a skimpy bikini (I suppose I should mention that this teacher was a she) for the life drawing option of our mocks. I got some lovely pencil and charcoal drawings out of that week. (Incidentally, in order to keep 1st years out of the art room during these sessions, Pete locked the door. The headmaster couldn't get in either, of course, so out came the fags...)My parents split up and my dad bought his own house. His first "girlfriend" was a dreadful American woman who said the word "Art" in a way that made my teeth itch. She bought a bikini drawing to impress my dad. I got £20 which was less than I'd want now...

What is your favourite media and why?

My favourite medium(sic) is Doris Stokes... Seriously, though, it's the traditional stuff I was trained in: pencil, charcoal, watercolour and oil. Absolute favourite for finished work is oil, no question.I love it; the feel, the smell, the taste, the sheen, the smell, the feel, the stains on my jeans. I'm an old fogey. I don't mind that it takes ages to dry, or that it costs a fortune, or that it makes brush cleaning a nightmare.

Did a particular person or event spark your interest in art?

No, not that I can remember. I think I'm a classic case of "always done it" from aged 3 or something. I recall a horse's head, in biro, on a shiny piece of cardboard, that I did when I was 4 or 5. It must have looked like a horse's head, because my parents passed it round the suburban dinner-party circuit with some degree of pride. I don't suppose it impressed those whose tiny offspring were destined to be lawyers or dentists, but I remember I was chuffed, and I did acquire a sort of sense that this was the thing I was made for/good at/going to be etc.Later, of course, I can point to some remembered influences: my art teacher at primary school, Mrs Sparks, my art teacher at secondary school, Pete Dryland (thank you, Droopy), my college graphics tutor Tony Hemingsley (who told me at an important time, very politely, that I needed to get my s**t together), and many others, but these were signposts along a path I had been treading since I was tiny (see above).

How long does it usually take you to complete an artwork?

This is an odd question, because of course it varies. I'm usually quick, now that I'm not so intensely graphic in my style. Some things I do have to force myself to be patient with, but generally, and especially with big paintings, I love the energy that only comes from spontaneous working and the discipline that says "STOP FIDDLING !!" when the thing is finished. I've scrapped and over-painted a lot of work because I've made one brush-mark too many and ruined someting good.As I get older, maybe I'll get slower and more cautious. I don't know. Provided I'm happy with my progress I have no strong feelings about it, so my pace could easily change...

When and where did you first exhibit your work?

On the fridge at home, like everyone else...and on the covers of my exercise books at school, of course. My art teacher at school exhibited a screen print for me, in Richmond town hall, but that was for brownie-points, not money. I've sold some botanical Illustrations at country "fayres" and so forth, but best of all is a painting on the marina wall in Porto Santo (got an eye infection doing that one!).Seriously, I'm exhibiting this summer (2005) at The Art Garden in Plymouth, and on minigallery.

Do you have a favourite amongst your own artwork?

The work I'm working on now has to be favourite, I suppose, or it won't have the positive energy I want it to have. I like my fruit pastels, and I like anything I do with a woman's bottom in it (I'm good at bottoms). Apart from that, I like things in phases, going through peaks and troughs of affection and disdain for various of my own paintings. The one I can look at anytime and never feel negative about, though, is "Catch me if you can" (the giant mackerel). I've sold this, so I've only got photos and memories, but I still think it is a truly great painting. Have any of your artworks ended up in unusual or famous places?Not that I can remember, although my oil pastel drawing "Satsuma" sold this year to a lovely chap in Australia, which is a long way to send a drawing.

Who or what has been the most influential factor in your development?

Well, my mum and dad, wife, children and friends and so forth, obviously. I've had a lot of praise and support throughout my life for which I'm grateful. It's not cool to acknowledge the influence of a schoolteacher, but Peter Dryland was a fantastic bloke with a laid back, low-key attitude. He seemed to just sort of be there, while we learned by osmosis. Without him, etc. etc.More recently, I have obviously to thank my wife Fiona for her (usually) sanguine reaction to my giving up my job to do this full time. I owe her a life of some sort, I suppose.

Which famous subject would you like to use in your art?

Catherine Deneuve.

When did you first start?

I was very little. I've always known. I've run away from it and done other things, but I came back because, insofar as I believe in these things, I was born to do it.What media would you like to try out?I'm open to anything that will make the image work the way I want it to, but because I invisage things done in oil, I need to persevere with it. When I know everything about oil paint I'll move on. That'll be quite a while, of course...

Which is your favourite art gallery and why?

The ArtGarden Cafe on Plymouth's Barbican, because they are hanging my work. More generally though, the Tate in London. It's where I went when I skipped school.The real answer to this question is this: any gallery with art on the wall is always a joy to be in. I love looking at art. Anywhere.

Have you ever had an art-related disaster?

I'm having one now, but I don't want to talk about it.

Do you have a funny story related to your art?

Sorry, no. Should I have? I'm starting to feel inadequate now. Cheers.

What do you like best about being an artist?

Everything. Even not having any money, because that will change. I love it when someone asks me what I do and I tell them I'm an artist. I have the life they want.

What do you like least about being an artist?

The money thing, because it affects my family. Another thing: I really don't like sniffy galleries (you know who you are, with your sign saying "No Riff-Raff" on the door).

What is the most expensive art related purchase you have made?

My freedom, otherwise known as "giving up the day job". On a day to day basis, I struggle with the cost of paint and canvas, etc. If I framed my work then I suppose the cost of that would feature in my nightmares too.

Where do you work, do you have a studio?

I have what I call a studio. It's a converted dining room in my mother's house, but it works for me. I love to work at home (my easel in that case being a short walk from bed) but we have dogs, cats and a young'un, so it can be tricky. My studio is quiet, reasonably well lit and plenty big enough for the time being.

Have you ever inspired somebody to become an artist?

Yeah, me. Seriously, I don't know that I have ever inspired - or caused - someone to become an artist, but I like to think I am a help to my daughter, who at sixteen is off to art college and may well become a brilliant painter. (She may of course choose to be a sculptor, fashion designer or photographer instead, which would be okay. If she becomes a social worker or a traffic warden then I will wonder where I went wrong...)

Are there other artists in your family?

Not that I know of. My wife is a poet, which is an art. My daughter is a painter, but she may become something else in time. Eldest boy is a historian and other boy is two, so who knows? My dad could draw a bit, but he was a policeman mostly. My mum was a restaurateur and my brother is an HGV driver/karate instructor. So it's just me, folks. Sorry.

Describe your routine on a day when you are working on your art?

I'm starting to think this is all a bit nosey. Okay, er...get up, have coffee, get dressed (not necessarily in that order), go to work.Seriously though, I have children and dogs, so I don't get out to the studio as early as some. I don't mind that. I'm not one of nature's nine-to-fivers.At the studio I'll have more coffee and a bit of a think before putting any paint on my brush. As I've said earlier, I work quickly compared to many artists, but there's a lot of contemplation, planning and evaluation between bursts of activity. I stop work when my inner voice tells me to stop. Then I go home and spend the evening with my family. This is a "typical" day but nothing is carved in stone. Days may be similar, but no two are exactly the same.

If you could pick just three colours to work with what would they be?

Black, white and brown, I suppose, but that wouldn't have to be paint. I like Conte Crayon, pastel and charcoal for drawing, so three colours wouldn't feel too restricted. If I could only PAINT in three colours, I suppose I would choose the primaries and mix everything else I needed from those, with the white of the canvas being another colour. So there.

What is in your artistic toolbox?

Various kinds of paint, brushes, palette knives, drawing media, same as everybody else I suppose. I buy linseed oil, turpentine and brush cleaner from DIY shops rather than art shops because they're about a hundred times cheaper and just as good.There's nothing surprising here, because I'm a fairly traditional sort of painter. I'd like to be able to tell you I mix my own pigments or something interesting like that, but I don't.

What item could you not do without?

My talent. Heck, I don't know. If all I had was a pencil, then I'd just use a pencil, I suppose. There are lots of things I would miss if I didn't have them, or if they hadn't been invented: oil paint, canvas, an easel, red wine...

I surrender ...

… to ape something I said yesterday. I’ve always had a morbid fascination with those surrendered wives (well, I say always but they’ve only been around for about 10 years and only exist at all because of women’s lib). Of course, I could never be one, my mouth is too fond of being left to its own devices and beside, The Artist, would not, I think, have ever wanted that kind of responsibility.
Ours is a modern marriage, a blended family. We try to be a team and most of the time it works – The Artist has what he wants: to work as an artist and I have what I want: a third child after years of being denied (by virtue of divorce) and denying myself (that part of my life is passed – at twenty-four!!). We have no money to speak of, our car’s a c**t and we are trapped in the heart chavland. Apart from these minor problems we are for the most part happy.
Now, though, we are apart. I’m on the verge of tears often – last night at the school awards do I had to ask people not to be nice to me. Of course, they still were. I’m very afraid. Afraid of the immediate future: the possibility of being re-housed and the idea that that may well mean we are out of the frying pan and into the fire; afraid of not being re-housed and the idea of The Artist being in rehab for even longer than necessary. I’m afraid that every time this happens a little bit of what The Artist is to me is lost.
The thing I’m most afraid of is that this will happen again. I’m not afraid of having to care for The Artist but I’m so afraid of losing him.

And in other news ...

The visit to the hospital yesterday went quite well after a shaky start. When I got there (outside of visiting hours) I was ushered away from the ward by a woman of unknown job description before I could even see The Artist. I was taken to sit in the day room to wait for the Consultant's ward round to finish. The Two Year Old Genius sat doing his jigsaws, eyeing up the TV which wasn't on and the collection of videos none of which were really his cup of tea (Bridge on the River Kwai et al).

Two agency health care assistants came in and started moaning about their pay, places they'd worked and one kept saying crap in front of the TYOG. I know, I know it was just the word crap but they shouldn't have been talking like that in front of a patient or carer (as I'm now officially known). Oh, and she was American - so it doesn't even mean the same there or atleast is more inoffensive. Really I was just sitting there feeling very vulnerable and consequently touchy. I began to think that I wasn't even going to be able to see The Artist and would have to hand his things to the ward clerk. I felt like crying and in the nick of time the smiling, northern, male staff nurse came into the room, apologised for the length of time we'd had to wait and asked if we would like to go and sit with The Artist instead.

When the consultant's (Dr N) ward round finished he came down to get me, introduced himself by his first name to the TYOG whose unusual name tends to disarm people.

The Artist said he didn't want to come, so I went with the boy genius. He confirmed they haven't been able to pinpoint the exact cause but apparently this is not unusual. We talked about the problems as I saw them and as they saw them - he was very reassuring, kind and helpful and not in the least patronising.

The bombshell was that the Artist's stay is likely to be at least 3-4 months, more if he does not begin engaging in the whole process. His age is on his side and if he suddenly becomes inspired he could be out in two.

That said they have offered to provide any support they can. They use a real multi-agency approach there and believe that support for the family is an integral part of the therapy package.

We agreed it might help The Artist if I were to visit less often, thus making him reliant on ward staff and himself for things instead of waiting for me to come in and sort things out. This has the added benfit of saving our dwindling funds and my slightly frazzled being.

God bless the NHS. Graeme, over at Incorrect use of the soap, I concur.

THE LIFE

THE DRESS

And in my spare time ...

[SEE ABOVE]

When I'm not running around looking slightly more haggard by the moment, I'm just whipping up cocktail dresses for Arty Daughter's prom. She chose the dress and the fabric and of course is completely unsure about it now. I would be adding a picture of it at this point just so you could all see what a domestic goddess I am but blogger has other ideas again.

We (Arty Daughter, Surrealo Sone and Two Year Old Genius) are all going to the awards dinner and then AD is staying on for the bop, as us naval types used to call them. She's not going in a limo - just on the bus. A certain retro chic, n'est-ce pas?

Cheryl is right, most blogs seem to lurch from one crisis to another - this one certainly does. Or maybe it's not just the blog but my life that does the lurching.

What I really want is this life:

[SEE ABOVE]

Maybe I'll become surrendered.

Early one morning ...

It's not unusual (to coin a phrase) for me to be on the computer at this time of the day but today we have an appointment at the rehab centre with the Artist's consultant.

I've been quite concerned about the apparent lack of information and arranged this on Monday. However after visiting with the Artist yesterday - the consultant spoke with him yesterday morning and it appears that they have not found the cause of the stroke - none of the tests have apparently been able to locate the new injury.

So it seems that I am going to have a wasted journey if that is all the consultant can tell me/us. Of course there are lots of questions that this apparent lack of diagnosis brings up in itself: how do we stop it happening again; is it a stroke or something else with stroke symptoms et cetera, et cetera. I feel like I'm in an episode of House. Any second now everything will start whooshing and the Artist will break out in horrible giant hives or start shaking uncontrollably.

So me and the two year old genius have to get ready and get out for the trek to the hopsital [sic] even earlier. My entire life consists of getting on and off buses at the moment.

Thanks for your comment, Vickie. Emotional lability is one of the most profound symptoms remaining from the Artist's last stroke in February. Nobody really tells you that even though your loved one is physically 99% recovered that the person you used to know may actually be changed forever. Some of the survivor stories over at Different Strokes (a support group for younger stroke survivors) indicate that this has led to marriage break-ups etc.

Monday, Monday

Well, this is as frustrating as everything else. I'm trying to insert a picture here but as usual blogger has its own ideas. It keeps telling me it's done it but voila - no picture.

Well the Artist has been moved to the local specialist stroke unit for rehabilitation. He's feeling extremely sorry for himself and his movement is limited although he can now sit and stand - a big improvement on this time last week. I've contacted just about every government and local government agency in the last week and filled in over 100 pages of forms - we need to get out of this place before the Artist can come home, basically. At least that's the way it's looking. So I'm working on that basis.

The car is sitting out the front like a huge white elephant - MOT just expired, tax just about to go, no way or where for me to move it. A known fault that we haven't been able to fix and a duff headlight. I can't even sell the bloody thing. I've applied for a garage but of course there is a waiting list - you have to wait until somebody gets sent down for fencing stuff out of theirs before they become free. I'm sure that's not actually true.

Anyway, paradise has never looked rosier - a shame it's so far away. Poesy for all of you interested is permanently on hold - was going to relaunch in October but will wait for things to settle down.

No news ...

... is not always necessarily good news. Been feeling rotten all summer, compounded by the holidays, tiny shitty little flat and no money. This week started off all vim and vigour: Surrealo Son went back to school last week, Arty Daughter due to start college on 13th. Trying to address my problems and get my head straight.

What could possibly go wrong? Well probably everything if I'm involved.

We (me and the Artist for newbies or those who need to dust my abandoned blog down)spent a very pleasant evening post Ashes (sorry Antipodes) and a lovely dinner enjoying each other's company and generally being rather silly.

We decided to go to bed to watch the very silly film (Soldier Blue) we were sitting up watching at about half past midnight. At around ten to one the Artist started rolling and lolling over the side of the bed (a sneaky tactic to avoid my advances I thought). When this had happened three times (the Artist thought it was really funny) I noticed in the glint of the TV that the residual effects from the February stroke looked much worse on the left side of his face. By this time instead of trying to sit on the bed he had slid to the floor.

I said I thought he'd had another stroke. He couldn't grip my hand. He couldn't sit up straight. He said he was fine. I called the ambulance who were there within 6 minutes.

We are still waiting for a diagnosis - the CT scan only showed the old brain injury; nothing new. His MRI results are being disappointingly elusive. Hopefully he'll have had them now.

Just waiting for Tescos to deliver the shopping and then I'll be off with the Two year old genius to the hospital.

Sorry to everyone who has contacted me over the summer - just not been able to get this or anything else into gear. Have to now though.

Love to you all. Will keep this posted.

The picture is not of me by the way - to see my naked bum you'll have to visit John's online gallery at http://www.minigallery.co.uk/John_Morris/. Reclining nude with red hair is me, not the stick insect above.

Lulu - don't it make you want to shout?

Shameless plug - sorry.

Perplex City - Original Cards for sale

Not been too well - back soon, hopefully, and Poesy too.