In a recent post I mentioned rediscovering my interest in art. I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit in the last few days, in that way that you do when you aren‘t well and the same thoughts seem to rattle around and around in your head.

A decade ago when I moved to this house my mother turned up with a load of my junk from her loft. Amongst all this detritus. was a cardboard tube containing some of my O level art. It was mostly like anything else drawn by a fifteen year old. Awful. But there was one picture that is less awful than the others.

I actually recall drawing it, and thinking at the time that it was OK. I still think that it is OK. More than that it made me happy at the time, it makes me happy now.

And so I’ve been wondering whether I shouldn’t take up art in some way.