Painting is a lot like sex; ninety percent perspiration and ten percent inspiration. Unlike sex it is best performed whilst standing up, unless you are Michaelangelo and have to do it on your back forty feet in the air. Still, I suppose he said to himself, it's a job. I could never be a sculptor - all that effort spent hacking away at a block of stone - if of course that is still how they do it. And for the moment, most of my painting is done standing in a field in Perthshire, or in a shed in a field in Perthshire. Very quiet apart from the birds, the tractors and the low-flying jets practising their dark arts on the local villages. House prices may be tumbling like politicians promises and oil prices rising astronomically, but, fellow members of the Trenchcoat League, we will paint onwards and upwards and outwards and sideways until something immortal, invisible and probably insanitary gives away with a resounding twang.
Until that day comes send for more bunting and crank up the production of acrylics until the pips squeak in the paint factory and pray like all artists do everywhere, may the next canvas be bought by a blind billionaire with a bottomless cheque book. Come to think of it, should we be taking cheques any more?