Last drinks.

So. Painting classes have finished and I am afraid for me it was with a whimper, not a bang. It wasn't my fault. There was a real live Mexican in my house enforcing frivolous behaviour and mezcal consumption so someone had to stay here and make sure the kids didn't go cactus crazy. Yes, I wagged the final painting class to hang out with my buddies and remain remarkably sober whilst they demolished the complete bottle of mezcal, three worms and numerous beers. Some of us had to go to work the next day. You will be happy to know there was no loss of life or limb but there was a fair amount of shabbiness the morning after. Thank goodness painting class has finished so my loyalties will not be torn and tested any further. Torture, honestly.

But what now? I guess I have to find the gumption to go it alone. Without Bob-the-Quilter and I-Just-Love-Landscapes-Cheryl. And most of all without Fiona the Painting Teacher with her sensible shoes and chock full of good advice brain. It actually feels kind of weird. Transferring an activity from something you do at a particular time, in a particular setting, with particular people into something that you just do. Whenever you feel like it. Cause you are a person who does that. I don't think I am really convinced that I am someone who paints. It all feels a bit like an uncomfortable hat that I am trying to squish on my head. But I guess you just have to keep squishing the crapola outta that hat until it fits. Or at least doesn't fall off every time you make a sudden movement.  Maybe it could be a bonnet. They come with handy strings. Then you can just tie it's arse down and be whoever the hell you like.