8.08. AM. The sky is the colour of dirty washing up water, grey. There is no sunlight to be seen the world outside of my bedroom window is colourless this morning. The light emanating from my bedside lamp playing on the white bed covers and catching the swirl of steam rising from my coffee mug illumines is the room. Edward has just farted, yawning and coughing into wakefulness. I intend to place our Christmas tree on the front room window sill this morning. Graham from next door referred to my feathered,dainty, lady-like table top sized effort as a moth-eaten pink tickling stick reminiscent of comedian Ken Dodd.
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| DRAWING ON THE MOVE, WHILE AT CAMBERWELL ART SCHOOL LONDON SE 12. |
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