I had an online chat with my mate Tom last night. He used to live in Chester but he’s lived in London for a year now and, lazy bugger that I am, I haven’t been arsed to meet up with him for a drink yet, which fact he reminded me of in no uncertain terms.
Living in London does this to you. There always seems to be a million things to do and all the time to do it in, and before you know it time has marched past with the determined air of a fat man who can smell a Greggs shop two blocks away.
So, I said, we will have to arrange a drink, but it didn’t get arranged and I’m fearful that it will be next summer before I get myself organised enough to arrange a date.
I left work early today and when I got home saw that the Ugly One (bless his little e-bay socks) had done all the washing up. So i got out my paints and tried to get some of the blue out of Duilia’s face. I had to work quickly as once more the paints were congealing at a furious pace.
‘Have you fixed her lips?’ the UO asked. I had neglected to lighten a section of her chin the day before which it made it look like she was having a stroke.
‘Yes!’ I snapped, struggling to break through the skin of titanium white.
‘Mmmmm!’ he said, with an air of Brian Sewell about him, ‘I don’t know. Mouths aren’t your thing, are they?’
Everyone’s a critic.