Yesterday evening, I decided to round off my day's labours with the domestic task of ironing a few shirts. While I was setting up the ironing board, one of its "feet" caught the handle of the frypan, which had been on top of the adjacent cooker. It (the frypan) did a couple of somersaults with one-and-a-half twists, spewing its contents of adulterated vegetable oil over the floor, before landing, upside down, on the lino.
I said nothing - had I made an utterance, it would have been short and to the discredit of my Christian upbringing. I stood, surveying the scene of devastation, for a few moments. This was now the worst evening chez moi since the day my ISP went bust and I spilled the beetroot-jar vinegar over my art worktop, thankfully now more than a year ago. And I had yet to replace my old minit mop which I had recently consigned to the dump. I found an old shirt which had been designated a new career as paint-rags, boiled some water, found some detergent, and carefully mopped up the mess therewith.
The floor is now cleaner than it was before (good cometh oft out of evil!), and I still got my shirts ironed. Sometimes there's a quality of grim determination which emerges from the primordial soup of my inner being.
Or something.
The Grumpy Old Artist
Exhibition Poster
Oil Painting by Jim Tait
Oil Painting by Jim Tait
Other Recent Works
Greeting Cards!
Sunday, 14 March 2010
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