Up at six, but at least I has slept up until that point. Sigh.
Moon Eye. The cockled, off-white paper is so lovely. It is highly textured and pretty weighty. Looks lovely outside. People have been running in the street; well, there's no sport tweeting for four perfect days. Listening to the caring about Brexit on the Beeb. What a hopeless species we are. Easier to communicate, harder to get along.
Will do the under-painting for the third canvas for Bacchus. When I think about things, I need to decide if the 'letters' should be centred, or low down, sitting on the edge of the frame. May seem a simple question, but I'll have to work up some maquettes in carboard. But will probably feel dog-tired by midday.
Yesterday was one of those domestic strains: kettle shorting and tripping fuse; water and soapy dirt flowing into the cupboard from the washing-machine waste-pipe. Tomato plants bedded in though, and enough cake in the house to replace bread until the Revolution.
So no sales this month. Could May be a tad more fruitful? The need to do that comes from the fact that I'm running out of storage space, and running out of patience vis-à-vis notoriety and fame (which are not the same thing). Better take a paracetamol to ward off the headache. Could finish the Peter Robinson I'm reading and maybe get a couple of pics finished. We'll have to see?