These little oil pastels (Fruit Pastels as the Painter calls them) were created on sunny afternoons in our old garden with Harry Potter, the boy who lived HPTBWL (as the two year old genius is now known) running round in the nude and me pottering with plants.
It seems fairly unreal if you look back at how chewed up about it all I was at the beginning of this blog; I know feel quite light about it all. A lot of this has to do with the fact that my plants, as many of them as we could manage anyway, are now at the allotment. I got to say some things and clear my chest a bit after stroke number two and that has been freeing.
The Painter is about to go back to work we think – well atleast give it ago; I think he might find the trogging back and forth on the bus slightly more draining than he thinks but he can only give it a try. Driving is not an option yet; it might be if we had an automatic but a gear stick is just beyond the pale. The car is, in any case, garaged about a mile away as the crow flies. It has no MOT, a valid SORN and has been broken by the arsehole downstairs (that was a battle I didn’t have the energy for) parking his tipper truck on the bonnet.