W is for Watercolour

Not as easy as it looks. As an intermittent artist, progress is slow. Not surprisingly, having a full time life which keeps getting things added to do, means it is not really possible to focus on any one thing. But that is nowhere near my biggest failure….


This partially stems from having a bit of a butterfly mentality, a constant sense of wonderment, and a nagging feeling that most of my file is behind me.

Despite this sense of not having enough time, I still manage to waste some. The phrase effective time management is overused and under done. It’s all about practice.


I tend towards smaller watercolours, time and resources better served that way. The end product is hampered by a lack of talent, and a lack of understanding of how watercolour really works. Book learning is fine up to a point, YouTube has a lot of free tutorial demonstrations, but one day I will have to invest in some human tuition. Or Not.


Some sources claim, or have made up a cool yet scary sounding number, that just ten thousand hours of practise separates the novice from the expert.

So I checked the average life expectancy for a male my age, and adjusted for a few lifestyle and employment factors. I then checked again, as the first time round suggested I died a couple of years ago. Following the maxim of, third time’s a charm, didn’t make it much better. The only sensible option was to declare that set of calculations a complete load of bollocks, and ignore it.


I am simply accountable to me, but would like to get better at this painting lark. Ten thousand hours better? No. Just better, possibly. Am I going to judge myself against anyone else?

Why would I?

Till next time folks…..


17012013. 58.


17012013. 58.

There was a full moon that night. The wind, that had blowing hard from the east, had stopped suddenly. It could have been the the sudden silence, or the unexpected power cut. Deprived of other senses, George became aware of unusual noises outside. He sat still for a moment. There was a strong urge to go to bed, to hide under the duvet, and let sleep tele-port him to the morning. There it was again, a thud, a shuffle, a rustle. Straining his ( lets pretend he has some ) ears, he sits in darkness, the silence oppressive. ( still pretending he has a heart, blood vessels, the whole cardiovascular thing ) The silence oppressive, his own heart beat, the rush of blood around the inner ear, the loudest thing. He stands up, adrenaline surging. Now aware of the complete absence of noise. the sound of someone, something, somethings trying to be very quiet.
George now knew there was something out there. he took a deep breath and stepped outside.
He looked directly into the malevolent eyes of Vampire bat dude, standing on his car port roof.
A long second passed.
” Oh clear off Bat dude, go play on someone else s roof”
Vampire dude snarled, then lowered his head
“sorry George”