Can I go any lower with the self-portrait, in various ways? Rembrandt, eat your heart out. Once autumn really kicks in, the stone floor in our kitchen gets too cold without some form of protection.
“O seer of signs…. How shall I know the coming of Midsummer’s Day as the years go by?”
“When Holy Homer sees the last light of the day, my son. And only then.”
OK, it’s a day early, but we’re basically there. The nights start drawing in after tomorrow.
Another day of intense inactivity. So uneventful was it, at least for me, that this is a photowhack — the one and only picture taken on the day. Plenty of work was done but in a physical sense I sat in my new study, listened to the rain on the roof, gritted my teeth at the iniquities of the British government. (If anyone thinks this farce is all going to lead to some fundamental change, think again — all we have is a number of corporate dictators still jockeying for position, until they can slip into place, without an election, someone like the bloke who runs the state in V for Vendetta.)
Yes, I have a new study — courtesy of a bit of moving and painting of what was, for at least 16 years, Joe’s room. But he doesn’t need it any more, at least, not most of the time. I kept Homer in there though, who is definitely looking at the camera.
Being 42 