Climbing hills, Art and Gazebos Flying South for the Winter....

Today saw the arrival of one of Britain’s truly classic events, something that has happened as regular as clockwork (we all love a bit of clockwork stuff) since the beginning of time, or at least the beginning of Britain. Yes today saw the arrival of a cold dull damp windy Sunday, just like the old days when grown men were small and small children were told to climb the chimney because it needed a bit of a clean.  Here in the rural areas of Britain this old method was very quickly superseded by using a chicken that would be lowered down the chimney by a rope tied to its legs. It was very effective because the poor old chicken would flap about madly dislodging all the soot, it was then often eaten for Sunday dinner, but although we still eat the chicken for Sunday dinner, it is bad form these days to clean your chimney with them first. I think it is still OK to send children up a chimney but it is seriously bad form to eat them afterwards and you will not be popular.

At one point this morning our gazebo attempted to escape by flying; now gazebos are quite good at takeoff, but lack any ability to manoeuvre with any sense of dignity, and quite frankly landing it beyond them.  I can understand that a lonely gazebo having watched all the swallows fly south for the winter would be keen to join them, but they do not have a natural ability at migration and are better hibernating in a shed or the like, much like a hedgehog. Anyway the gazebo now has a sore leg and will limp from now on, dad plans to fix it like new which might mean it will turn into an albatross shaped gazebo in order to give it a fighting chance of reaching a hotter climate next year.

We also went up a steep hill this afternoon to listen to the marches choir sing madrigals and other people playing flutes and a violin. Now some of you will note, this is not really the sort of music I would normally go to, but and it’s a big but round here they do great cakes and food so I was enticed by the thought of afternoon tea with loads of local homemade cakes . . . . .  I was not disappointed they were good.

As you can tell I have returned from the top of the hill where it was rather windy at times and now plan to do traditional Sunday Evening stuff in the best tradition of British life. Which is eat more food and lie about in a dishevelled manner on a sofa pondering Life the Universe and Everything. I will forgo the usual Sunday evening television however as it is probably rubbish and instead ponder the possibilities of Cardboard sculpture and its place in British art today. As Arty folk have to be thinking arty things all the time, it is entwined in the DNA of artists.   

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