Nov 132014
 


Picture by Tom Wood
Artist: Tom Wood

Dougal’s studio, snowy December morning

‘Humph. How fleshy is she?’

‘I can’t remember. She’d better not be like that one last year.’

‘The one that was like a ball on two sticks. I couldn’t draw her! I gave up!’

I am in pose. It seems Dougal and his pals (Bradfordian bohemians, pushing seventy) have even booked a model for between Christmas and New Year. That’s how fanatical they are. Good for her if she’s got fat on her in this freezing place.

But they only like stick-women. They are all scrawny sticks themselves. Especially Rowan the Buddhist who lives on a barge and eats seaweed and apparently not much else, who keeps (discreetly) inviting me to his boat. But I can’t be doing with spirituality. And seventy’s like, nearly a hundred.

 

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  2 responses to “Page 27”

  1. Seventy is the new twenty-one. I am within a month of eighty and have a queue of young women visiting my yacht.

    • I am pleased for you John. (-: Keep on yachting.
      If Rowan felt and acted 21, he might have a queue too, and I might join it.
      But sadly he’s – how to put it – elderly.

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