Art Is Definitely A Real Thing, OK?

I am waiting for the plumber.

He was meant to be here twenty-five minutes ago but has not showed up, and frankly I am beginning to feel rather rejected.

I wasn't sure whether or not he would need to turn off the water so, just in case, I have filled the kettle and two pints glasses full of water, imagining somehow that I might die of thirst between now and 11.30 when I have to leave for work, that Ben will come home to find me strewn across the floor like a bison, all ribs and woe.

(Some time later)

He is here now. Very, very clatterbangcrash-based activity going on upstairs. I am crouching over my computer trying to ignore the fact that almost as soon as he arrived and therefore I could no longer use (ahem) the facilities, I began to need a panic-wee. I am ludicrous.

He is big with big boots on, and has brought into the house a massive trolley with what can only be described as 'tools' on it. Loads, though, not just the ones I understand like screwdrivers and hairdryers. I am a bit in awe of him. He can just wander into someone's house with loads of bits of metal (welded specifically to be useful) and understand how a bath works and what to clatterbangcrash to make it into a shower.

I, on the very stark other hand, am nervously writing about him on the Internet. What forking paths we take. (Please note: 'forking' to mean diverging, rather than a pretend swear.)

I am relieved that I am teaching this afternoon, so at least I can feel like I am giving something to society.

Yesterday I had an excellent day of working on The Project: 2012, which is a show that I am, along with two excellent friends, taking to Edinburgh next year for the festival. We are working together in some respects but each of us is creating our own work. My show is going to be about £$^*&()*_)*%£ %^&((* %^£@£&*@ &%$%$^*()%$$^^.

(I am not able to say it yet, because I am too scared. I have been practising saying HELLO I AM AN ARTIST AND THIS IS WHAT MY WORK IS ABOUT without wanting to throw up. What always happens is that I mumble something about a cello and then quickly say that I also teach so we can talk about teaching rather than AAAAAAAHHHHHRRRT (vomit) because it's much, much, much easier and doesn't involve spontaneous panic-weeing.)

Yesterday was cool, though. I did, like, stuff and it was good. Part of it involves trawling the wide-eyed archives of this blog, which is pretty forking embarrassing, I can tell you. I quite like doing it, particularly because it's for my ahrt and so not as self-indulgent as it could be. Although it is still pretty self-indulgent. Sometimes that's OK, perhaps.

Oh God. Is it acceptable to ask the plumber to wait outside the bathroom so I can have a wee? I might just risk implosion and wait until I get to the station, which also will cost me 30p. Maybe I will ask for some wee-money for Christmas.

(Some more time later)

Oh my God he just left the flat, not saying when he was coming back, so I locked the door to the flat and dashed upstairs (I would have just locked the door to the bathroom, but it was propped open heavily. I am not so mental that I have to lock the front door every time I have a wee). I wonder whether he has just intuited that I needed a wee so discreetly left for a bit. That must be the sign of someone who is good at their job.

This is all too dramatic for me when I have work to do. I cannot concentrate at all. My concentration ability must be extremely flimsy.

I am going to go and do some ahhhrt before I do my teaching (LOOK I AM NOT A WASTER I HAVE A REAL JOB LOVE ME LOVE ME VALIDATE ME, etc etc).

Off you go, do something excellent.