As an art-farty student, it has become a tradition of mine to purchase a plain black pencil case at the start of every year and decorate it with paint. Perhaps this is to act as a warning to my fellow scholars in suggesting that I’m a little weird and therefore not to bet on ever enduring a ‘normal’ conversation with me.
Although, I think having started a conversation about noses in one of my first lessons last year pretty much set that one clear.
But, of course, the real reason I seem to have this compulsion to tamper with and draw all over my belongings is simply because I enjoy doing it. And, on the rare occasion it turns out looking okay, then I suppose it’s something interesting to look at.
Proving that I’m not simply being modest when I say it is ‘rare’ that what I design turns out well, I thought I would share this year’s complete failure at imitating Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ on my pencil case.
If anyone asks, I think I’ll have to take sanction in a non-existent younger sibling who was all too confident with a few fabric paints.
(P.s. Thank you to my title-advisor Aiden for this witty wonder!)
Whilst many people enjoy a spot of gardening now and again; for some it is even a relaxing pastime, I see it as a purely harrowing nightmare which I instinctually attempt to avoid.
Today, however, was unfortunately one of those few days in the year when it becomes impossible to ignore the sheer height of my garden’s shrubbery and so the bullet was bitten.
Armed with secateurs and a dustbin, the events of the afternoon would prove to only strengthen my distaste for gardening and its accompanying horrors.
Unfortunately for anyone who may cross my path, I am quite prone to vocally-unusual outbursts from fright as well as unhesitating profanity. A particular patron today, for example, had clearly never experienced a spider falling on to him as he picked up on a certain f-bomb which accidentally fell from my exasperation. But I suppose that is what comes from living in a town that contains almost more churches than residents.
My luck with patrons didn’t even end there.
One man across the street apparently found great amusement in a girl with secateurs who clearly had no idea what she was doing as he laughed at every branch and scream that I couldn’t control.
But as the dirt started to make its way across my face and my hair became a mesh of leaves, I was passed by a most unfortunate person.
My exboyfriend’s mother.
She is certainly a lovely person, and even stopped for a short chat with me.
That is, the ‘me’ who could have been mistaken for an armed hooligan who hadn’t fancied a wash for a few months.
So, whilst many people may have spent their Sunday in sanctity and collectivity, I once again prove that I am an unlucky specimen of the human condition who shouldn’t be let to roam the streets, never mind let loose in a garden. If only for my own morality.