I am pissed off with the world and its wife telling me what I should be, what I should do and how I should live my life. I AM AN ARTIST. I will live my life as an artist and if the rest of the world doesn't like it, the rest of the world can sod off and get over it.
I've just spent the last half hour or so reading about cabbage white butterflies on the web; I was shocked to discover that all most sites talk about is how to kill them. The one on the left, I can assure you, died a natural death and now lives on as a work of art! It was sent to me via post by Chantal of course, and I hope she'll forgive me for the fuzzy photo, because it is a very beautiful thing - not done any justice by my shaky hand and crappy mobile phone camera. My little bit of research has revealed some interesting facts about this lovely insect though, not least that the one pictured is female (because she has two spots on each wing - well she would have wouldn't she!), and, according to the BBC, they're also known as 'summer snowflakes' - how beautiful and descriptive is that! Why anyone would want to kill them off in favour of a cabbage is beyond me...one of the most foul tasting things on this earth - yuk. I bet even the butterfly tastes better, though being a vegetarian I'm not about to try it and find out for you, even for the sake of art.
As part of my 'research' (very loosely termed, believe me!) I did a picture search for the cabbage white and what I'd like to know is, just where do other people get all those lovely images from that they post on their blogs? Do they actually pay Getty or what? I can't believe they do, so where do they get them from? Are there a whole load of copyright-free images out there that I just can't find, or are there lots of blogger thieves, denying artists and photographers some control over how their images are used and a right to their meagre livings?!!! I mean, if artists and photographers, or whoever, were actually paid for their images it might mean that they could make more lovely images for us instead of having to do the whole gamut of low-paid, desperately un-creative work to keep the wolf from the door. The amount of exceptionally talented people out there that have to waste their time behind the counter at the local Spa shop is criminal. If you can't afford to pay the artist then take your own photos.
Well, I didn't know I was going to rant about that today! I think must've had a good week this week. I'm sure I only rant when I'm in a good mood; it's just too much effort when I'm not.
I've been gripped by Hugh's Chicken Run over the last couple of nights, as have millions of tv viewers, apparently. Have you seen it? If you eat meat you should watch it. I don't normally get on my high horse about vegetarianism (or anything else, ever, obviously...ha, ha!), but honestly, after watching this if you don't turn to free-range chickens or become veggie over night you should be bloody ashamed of yourself. It's absolutely shocking that there are people out there that couldn't give a toss how their meat is reared, and, as Kim said, how would those people like it if they had to 'live' cheek by jowl, crapping on each other, unable to stand up... Erm, does sound a bit like inner city life doesn't it? Well, at least they've got telly; the chickens have nowt but ammonia sores and death to look forward to. So buy free-range or don't eat meat at all. There, I've said my piece, now I'll get down before I get started on battery eggs...you wouldn't would you? Please tell me you don't eat those?
Join the 'chicken out' campaign to get chickens free-range by following the 'sign up' link below:
It was the 2nd January and look what was on the shelves in Woolworths in Truro. Something is wrong with the world.
I was beginning to feel marginally festive yesterday, but it seems the feelings were fleeting and this afternoon I'm back to being my miserable self. What was it about yesterday that had me feeling a little bit of Christmas cheer and what is it about today that has dissipated it all again? Hmmm...
Yesterday I got up early (for me anyway) and managed to get to Tesco by 8.15 in the morning, thinking I'd be clever and beat the crowds. I got that one completely wrong: the car park was already full and when I got inside it took me an hour and a half of battling with old ladies' trollies to get round. It was interminable, just like it should be. Bloody idiots fighting over sprouts, babies screaming (wouldn't you?), people blocking the bloody isles talking - with smiles on their faces, stressed looking staff dressed as elves and fairies (why?!). By 9 o'clock the shelves were emptying fast. I bullied my way to the check out to be greeted by a sodding male voice choir, all bright and breezy and raring to go - at that time of the morning. Their keyboard accompanist started to play some irritatingly 'jolly' tunes, inducing a stream of-under-the-breath verbal abuse from me to them, as well as the damn self-service checkout which wasn't checking out as quickly as I'd like to enable me to escape the hideousness of it all. Finally, I entered the fray to exit the car park where there were more bloody idiots, driving round in circles looking for non existent spaces. By this time I think I'd begun to go grey.
After that I decided to hit the town centre and do some last minute shopping for the Christmas stockings. Oh God. I took one look at the sea of faces and headed straight for a cafe and a large dose of caffeine and brownies. I'd need it, I concluded. I sat there shell-shocked, pretending to read the Guardian, but all the while listening to the conversations going on around me, wishing my life was as interesting as the couple's sitting next to me, who were discussing a travel documentary they were going to make for ITV. Bugger off now I thought and let me wallow in my own boring life and all its failings. (For it has many, does it not?!) I drew it out as long as I could, but the time came when I had to brave the streets again or become a permanent fixture.
Before I could get into shopping mode though, I decided I needed to go to Boots to weigh myself, just to check whether the consumption of a whole tin of Roses in less than a week, had done the amount of damage it felt like it had. I was very pleasantly surprised to learn that the answer is no! Still 8 stone 12, great! However, I was mildly alarmed to be told my the stupid machine that I had shrunk two inches in height since I last used it. Apparently I am now only 5' 4". Bollocks am I. And no I wasn't wearing heals last time. And nor did I have my massive amounts of hair tied up on the top of my head. The machine was obviously just having a bad day too, but why it felt the need to take it out on me I don't know. So I flounced off, sort of. Then I did the rest of the stuff you usually do at the last minute, including wandering around aimlessly wondering why the hell you're there in the first place.
After I'd got home and stuffed the fridge, the really festive feelings began to emerge when I went over to Chantal's, who's home is brimming with decorations and good humour (I did recognise it when I saw it, honest). She's got her woodburning stove chucking out loads of heat, the tree lights twinkling lots of pretty colours, and a strange-looking angel that appears to be wearing sparkly star-shaped nipple-tassels, and not a lot else. Apparently she hadn't noticed its wanton attire. I know how the poor little angel feels. While Chantal was out doing something with a rake I got the low-down on her feelings about New Year from her daughter. From the looks of her fantastically bedecked cottage on the cliffs you'd never guess she was really a miserable old curmudgeon like myself. Apparently she won't be responding with joy when her daughter texts her 'happy new year' from a party somewhere, Chantal will simply text back: 'it's not new year'. She has yet to divulge when it actually is, in Chantaland. (Note: she's not from China!) After chat, coffee, gossip and planning for a project next year, Chantal used all her powers of persuasion to get me to go to a party in Falmouth - she didn't have to try very hard as you'll guess. It wasn't your usual festive party, but an artists/craftsman's bring and buy sale. 
Needless to say no-one was particularly interested in the drawings of dead birds I brought along for the occasion. Although, if the delectable Annie (pictured left) got a sniff of the real thing I'm sure I'd be well in the black by now! She's a seal-point Siamese (apparently), who's just had a hair cut - awwww! She was incredibly soft and very friendly, but I'm not sure Chantal trusted her funny little face one bit! Someone remarked that she looks like Bagpuss without the stripes; I think she looks like she's just run into a wall. Sitting on the floor in our hosts' living room was yet another very festive experience. The huge Christmas tree filling the bay window was dripping with tinselly stuff and underneath there were immaculately wrapped presents, the wine was flowing and so was the laughter. Then I realised, we still haven't got our tree up - I never bother until Christmas eve, for fear of getting fed up with it before Christmas and I still haven't wrapped up the presents. I have no doubt I'll be doing that after Kim's gone to bed on Christmas eve, probably about 3am. By the time I got home I was feeling a bit mellow and sad to say good bye to friends even just for a few days! The sadness lingered and I began to come down to earth again, where I've stayed all day - most of it in bed either sleeping or trying to sleep. I did go out for a run though, and decorated a gingerbread house with Kim, today's highlights. And tomorrow? I don't know, I'll probably stay in bed most of the day, get up to put the tree up, go back to bed, get up when Kim goes to bed, wrap presents and go back to bed again. Meh, as someone I know would so very aptly put it. Right, I'm off to pour a gin and tonic, maybe that'll help?
