Reaching that age as an aerosol writer where the community bus will pick me up and take me to the legal wall. Complimentary plate of triangular cut sandwiches with the crust cut off. Mumbling complaints about soggy tomato in the ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches. Needing a fold out chair and a blanket with a sip cup filled with cordial.

Just jokingly but deadly serious as well. Not sure if painting walls is really worth it. Yet I am still inspired by the obscurity of what I do. I sometimes joke that I have disappeared up my own arse. I have this delusion that what I am doing is worthwhile and actually interesting. Reality seems to evade me. It does interest me although I feel that the form will always disappear as that is what the work does.