Crests

I am having a whale of a time at the moment.  I think I've been out for lunch almost every day that I've been in London for the last fortnight, and was also wined and dined on Monday night in the heart of the West End. 

My lovely mate Tall Richard took me to the RAF Club for dinner.

Well.

It was marvellous. 

There are many beautiful paintings of aircraft, as you'd expect.  Also chandeliers and brass fittings everywhere. And flunkies, guarding the door, and minding your rucksack if you happen to have come straight from work.  Mine was much admired.  Apparently they don't see many pink flowery ones. 

I was particularly taken with the huge stained glass window.  As I had completely forgotten to pack my camera, I took a few fuzzy snaps on my phone:

Please note the professional almost-joining of the two halves.

You're welcome.

There is a long corridor lined with original artwork from the Royal College of Heralds, one for each Squadron (I think), all very lovely.

Here's one up close.

But my very favourite thing about the place was that everything - everything - at dinner was emblazoned with the club crest.  I bet if you conducted an intimate examination of the staff, they'd all have it tattooed on them somewhere.

The coffee cups.

The wine glasses.

The wine.  And very nice it was too, by the way.

Even the after-dinner chocolates.

Excellent.

Tall Richard and I ate a huge and marvellous meal, got a Death Race 2000 taxi back to his flat, then walked to the Prospect of Whitby pub for a cheeky late night drink.  And then back to the flat for port.  I think it was almost 2am when I got to bed.

Work the next day is something of a hazy blur.  Clearly I am too old to be out partying on a work night.

Tomorrow I am going out for lunch, and then our Gloucestershire mates are coming over in the evening (hopefully minus the garden-trashing spaniels) so I will have to knock off early to get home in time to see them.

And then, after that, it's my last day EVER on Monday next week.  Blimey.

Other news:  We've got a fucking mole in the garden. 

Not in the lawn.  Not in the flowerbeds. Not even in the bit behind the shed.   No.  He has made his little moley home in the middle of our flourishing vegetable bed. 

Bastard. 

He's been disrupting our radishes.

His days are numbered.

Paint it black

If I was his parents I think I'd have got him to come back from his trip to Brazil to clean this off. Probably why he went there in the first place.

Other news: Another glorious day! Hurrah! I have been stuck in my home office* but have looked out of the window at regular intervals.

Went to the village hall last night to watch Mr WithaY give his Talk On Sharks. It was very good, despite having heard him Talk About Sharks a lot in the last 2 years, I learned a lot.

The talk, sorry, The Talk, went on for about an hour and then we all had a ploughman's supper**. Mr WithaY celebrated by going to the pub for a pint, possibly to talk about sharks again for a bit to those people who had missed The Talk.

Also, had a guitar lesson last night after a hiatus of a few weeks, for one reason and another. Was excellent. Really good. I have not felt much like playing or singing for the last couple of months, and last night it all came together, and sounded really good. I even managed the riff in "Simple Kind of Man" whilst also playing rhythm guitar and singing. I slightly spoiled the overall "Cool Muso" effect by yelping with excitement afterwards, but I reckon I can control that if I practice enough.

Plans for this evening include ironing some smart-ish non-suit trousers, as I am up to London tomorrow for a team training event. What's the dress code? Is it casual? We're going out for a drink afterwards, so maybe. But there's a guest speaker coming along, so perhaps it needs to be formal?

Gah, fuck knows.

Normal work days I can dress for with no problem, this kind of thing does my head in.

Not looking forward to the journey home afterwards, I bet the trains will be packed like, well, trains.



*Teeny spare bedroom full of guitars and computers.

**Like a ploughman's lunch but you eat it at suppertime.

Two things

Well, maybe more than two, but I had two things I wanted to say in particular.

First thing: Found out this week that an artist I like died. His name was Mick Cawston, and he produced the most fantastic pictures of British wildlife.

He also did paintings of anthropomorphisised (sp?) animals, like foxes being poachers. They were not to my taste particularly, but they were beautifully done, and very popular.

I met him once, years ago in a pub in Devon. We were down there doing a re-enactment and were all piled into a pub. I was chatting to a mate and noticed this distinctly dodgy old hippy staring at me. I ignored it, until he came and joined me at the table.

He was very polite, made a bit of small talk, then asked me if I minded if he painted me. I realised that the small suitcase by his side was in fact a portable easel, and said yes, of course.

Well, you would, wouldn't you?

He sat there quietly, and in about 10 minutes produced a fabulous painting of me, then added a couple of others to the picture.

Not something that happens to me every day.

I asked if I could buy the painting because it was (a) of me and my mates, (b) bloody excellent and (c) something I had just watched him do. He said no, he wasn't able to sell it. I bought him a drink and refused to give up.

He finally agreed to give me the picture on the condition that I pimped for him for the rest of the weekend and rounded up more "interesting looking people" for him to paint. I agreed, and he spent the next two days on and off on the pub with us, drawing dozens of pictures.

As the evenings went on and more and more drinks were bought for him, the pictures became more sketchy, but you could still see he was technically brilliant.

I asked him if he'd sign the one of me, but he said "No, my agent doesn't like me signing stuff like this." I laughed, assuming he was kidding, and took my treasured picture home with me.

Months later, looking through Shooting Times, there he was, a photo in a small advert for his work. The self-same dodgy looking hippy, now named as Mick Cawston, and described as one of the finest wildlife artists of his generation.

And I have a painting he did of me. In a pub. In Devon. I am very sorry he's gone.

The other thing, much less culturally significant...

This blog was ONE last week. Happy birthday to it. And they said it wouldn't last.