I Think My Spinal Cord Is On Fire

Once upon a time, illness and I came to an agreement, that we don't agree. Since then I've always carefully maintained that I'm not ill, I'm just PMSing, or it's allergies, or I've got food poisoning, or It's merely a mild depression manifesting itself or lastly, it's elves tickling my feet.

Joke is on me. I know it's not PMS, nor am I mildly depressed, I've kinda forgotten to eat a lot lately so when I remember it's normally something fast and not controversial, like toast or pasta...therefore this isn't food poisoning.

I've maintained for over a week now that it's just allergies, you know the odd hive and some congestion. I'll allergic to toothpaste for chrissakes, I'm allowed to write off most everything as allergies, and when I can't, I can always blame the elves.

Elves tickling your feet is a handy brush-off category for non-illness, I recommend adopting it.

As none of my normal categories for maintaining near-perfect health were viable, I have been forced to finally register with a doctor here in the UK.

The first thing I did after the successful completion of this mission was to call my dad, the conversation went something like this, 'Hey Dad! Guess what I did today?!'

'What? Are you okay? You don't sound so good.'

'I'm not so good actually, which why I went and registered with the NHS today. Yep, Dad, I tried out socialism today and it's not so bad!'

*groan*

'I just have to wait one day and I get to see a doctor for free!'

'That's terrible.'

My dad is a believer in many things, however, socialised medicine is not one of those many things...

Anyway, as I have a day to nap and take painkillers before seeing someone to prescribe something stronger, I've had some time to ponder my luck, and really, I'm very happy to announce that I have arrived as a Real Adult.

Sorta. I have to get out of school and get a job to REALLY arrive, but I'll get there. I have an internship so, back off, it's a start, of sorts.

Anyway, my criteria today has been such:

A real adult lives far enough away from their family that they can't just go home and do laundry there on the weekends. And a real adult has an urban family willing to make sure they don't die alone in the studio flat with no one to mourn them. (Significant others count as a half...they have a vested interest, if you die they have to find a new person to sleep with them.) Urban families do not view your funeral as an opportunity to look hot in a little black dress and therefore will brave potential disease to come and check on you.

In my case, I have Afghan Hound and Cocker Spaniel en route with chicken soup and DVDs. I fully expect them to force feed me painkillers, fever reducers and the like.

I'm sure without them, my landlord would come into my flat in a few days to collect rent only to find me, dehydrated and writhing on the floor moaning, 'MY KNEECAPS HURT!!!!'

Luckily it's not coming to that.

I have however, thought of an exception to the Real Adult rules: Disney villains.

They tend to live away from a family lifestyle and have sidekicks that appear to have their best interests at heart. But APPEAR is the operative word. How many villain sidekicks have you seen wave bye-bye to their bad guy buddy as they plummet off a cliff/fall off a waterfall/get hit with a magic spell/stabbed with a sword?

Yea, think about it.

A lot.

Therefore, they fail as Real Adults. They have no urban family. So today I have laid a worry to rest, I am not a villainess. And yes, it was a vague concern as I suit black clingy clothing. However thanks to presence of an urban family I can safely say that it's just a colouring/figure thing, not a personality issue.

Phew.

Though, maybe, just to be safe I'll start wearing more pastel flowery things. You know, just to drive the point home.

I draw the line at randomly bursting into song.

Just.

What Just Happened?

Belgium may not have been my best idea to date...nothing to do with my host, I understand prior commitments and that having a grown up stay with you means that they have to be a grown up and look after themselves. (ie I had to spend a lot of time alone...)

I get it. Sorta.

No wait. Hang on. Do I get it? No. Yes. Did I do something wrong? No. Maybe? Too.much.thinking.

About 30 minutes later, after convincing myself to leave the flat for awhile, I decided to just partake and enjoy what beauty my fragile way of living had to offer me. I revelled in the glory that is travel and staying with friends and glimpses into the way other people live. I took a philosophical point of view and tried to think positively about my lot in life.

Then I figured out that my lovely trip to clear my head was going to have too much time in my head and too little clearing.

bollocks.

I spent 90% Tuesday - Thursday stuck inside my head. My head is like a bomb site at the moment. Not the best place to be. There's the corner over there labelled 'self-worth' and it's like a bear and hippo had a fight and tore everything in its wake to shreds. Then there's the corner called, 'what-are-you-going-to-do-now?' and it's a well-worn track worn into the ground so deep that if it were real and a person could walk it, it's up to hip level by now. There are other corners too, mostly concerned with social etiquette and interaction, there are bits that deal with Scotland, immigration, and of course what does every person with a pulse think about?

Chocolate.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

But in Brussels it was mostly the first two corners that occupied my mind. It was mental figure 8s. By the end of the second day I'd concluded: 'Good god, Elliott Smith is starting to make too much sense.'

In an unfortunate turn of events my body decided to create a physical distraction for me. Being a female is infinitely fun, it's all rainbows and sunshine and ponies with kittens and bows until the bill arrives. This happened somewhere between pondering 'Well, what the hell do I do now?' and 'What is so wrong with me?'

I've heard that sometimes your body mirrors your emotions. Didn't realise that beating myself up was going to come about so literally.

Well, being caught unawares in a foreign country is always a jolly good time. Especially when there's the itsy bitsy problem of a language barrier...

Ha.

Off I went to discover a pharmacy, thinking it would have what I needed.

After looking through several streets and finally finding one in a train station, I started to comb the aisles for what I so desperately needed. I remembered that in Spain they were behind the counter. I looked back there and nothing save a very big, intimidating middle aged man. I inched away trying to not attract attention. Having anyone else know what I'm looking for is always a little embarrassing, dunno why, just is. Like buying toilet paper. Everyone knows these things do happen, we just don't proudly go around advertising, 'I need and use toilet paper regularly because I am a hygienic person!'

Well, that's how I feel about shopping for tampons, even if it is in a foreign city. Now, given this admission, why am I blogging about it?

Because what happened was funny.

After inching away from the intimidating pharmacist I found the family planning aisle. There were condoms cheerfully saying, 'Go have fun kids!' Next to the condoms were pregnancy tests saying, 'Had a little too much fun, huh?' And then nothing. It's like the shelves were silent.

Deciding I had to try and ask the scary man for tampons I went back to the counter. And cautiously said in French with a quiet voice, 'I would like tampons please.' Granted I don't know the word for tampon, but I knew all the other words. This resulted in a loud, 'HUH?! Condom?!' and a pointing gesture.

'Err, non.' (God how I wished I needed condoms.)

Then he grabbed a pregnancy test from behind the counter and handed it to me.

'Non non, non. J'ai sangre de femme. Sangre de femme?' I think this translated to: 'No no no, I have woman blood. Woman blood?'

I said this quietly and with a very red face. The response was a loud, 'HUH?! Repeat!'

I refused. I have my dignity to attempt to uphold. I'll retell the story with a laugh but I'm not going to humble myself further by shouting in a pharmacy in the middle of busy train station, 'I HAVE FEMALE BLOOD!' Maybe if I'd added 'time' and a few hand gestures he'd have caught it. Finally he handed me a pen and I wrote, 'tampons'. And, in true comedic perfection he said (in English I might add), 'Oh, we do not sell those. They are in the shop at the bottom of the hall on the left.'

It's beneath the Belgian pharmacist to sell tampons. Of course. Naturally. Condoms, lube and pregnancy tests, fine. Tampons? No....

Luckily, they did sell them at the grocery store at the bottom of the hall on the left. They also didn't give me a bag so it was either carry around 32 tampons in my hand or empty the box into my tiny travel purse.

Oh it was so much fun to open my purse the rest of the day...

Needless to say, when I got on Eurostar I couldn't wait to get back to London and life where I had somewhere to be other than my head. Oh, and where they sell feminine hygiene products at Boots and Superdrug, you know, pharmacies, like the rest of Europe...tzzz Belgium. I'm gonna need you to do better.

I think I could have hugged London today if that were possible. It even rewarded my return. How? Why, with an interview!

In a rush last week I applied for an internship with a PR company specialising in art and interior design firms. Obviously out of respect for the company I won't name it.

While I was in Brussels I arranged an interview for when I returned. The interview was earlier today. Oh thank god I've got something on the ball.

I start in August. If, at the end of my dissertation with Christeby's I happen to still be with them, and if I happen to be good at writing press releases, I might just have a job starting with the end of my degree.

Looks like I may be in London a bit longer yet. Thank god. If I move to Belgium I'll have to start speaking French and buying tampons in grocery stores along with my milk and bread, and that's just a little weird.

*May I just offer a sincere thanks to my friend who let me stay. I don't know if you read this from time to time, but I really appreciate that you let me stay, and when we actually spent time together I enjoyed myself a great deal. How about next time you come here though? It's a lot easier for me to entertain myself in London. Oh, and I won't end up ordering raw beef salad on accident. lol xx*

This Book is as Big as My Torso!

This is what I was thinking while I clutched at a book on Sir Henry Raeburn that is older than my grandparents and literally spans the width of my shoulders and the length of my body from my collarbone to my hips.

Correction: It is not a book. It is a book that means business. It's the mother of all books. It would beat up the Gutenburg Bible in a street war/gang fight amongst books...with Gandalf there as the referee.

a-hem. Yes...well, how did I get such a book? Why was I wandering around The Square Mile with such a tome?

Simple. Scottish Hart.

Today I had tea with the elusive Scottish Hart. It was a good chat with art conversation that swirled around my head like stars in a cartoon. Yes, it was a little bit like getting hit upside the head with a shovel as far as the amount of information I had to ingest. The ridiculous House Sale project turned me into an ostrich with its head in the sand. The new auctions are already up at Christeby's and there are a few interesting paintings here and there. Not to mention the plentiful art fairs that are coming up or already going on...This 'Art World' that I'm trying to crack is relentless, like a posh party planner who has been hopped up on red bull and cocaine.

But there is no danger of an Art World heart attack. Art World is not a single person.

Shame, I bet you'd earn big brownie points if you visited the Art World in hospital with nice, non-cheap flowers...

Luckily, Scottish Hart was patient and allowed me moments to elucidate on what I had been working on and to an extent gave some guidance. We had a nice football chat...

I really need to learn something about that sport.

And tennis.

Between the World Cup and Wimbledon and the art world AND coursework...There is only so much room for things in my life. Sport isn't really up there.

When our conversation was drawing to a close, mostly because I didn't know what to say about Andy Murray (who?), I volunteered to look into a Ramsay painting up for sale and asked if there was anything I could do for him while I'm researching this summer.

He told me no and not to put myself out, but that if I wanted I could borrow one of his books on Raeburn that was just across the way at his office.

Done and done!

After collecting the book that could eat toddlers for breakfast, I gave my sincerest thanks to Scottish Hart and teetered off, smiling because I knew I'd have to give the book back, meaning I'd have another opportunity to network and maybe get an introduction from someone who is best-ies with the Art World, even if it is in the contemporary sense. An 'in' from a well-connected collector is pretty damn good. I'll take it if I can get it.

Now The Raeburn Bible is safely at home. It's here, it's safe, it's sound, it wasn't harmed on public transport.

With that done, I'm off to try out some travel. Brussels tomorrow, and that's just the start. Time for a change of pace and a chance to clear my head.

The Party

It should be noted that I have a lot of fear and admiration for my tutor. It's the ultimate intellectual crush.

I quake in fear of her. I start to shake and sweat a little and I just want her to love me. I imagine myself to be a newly house-trained puppy on speed around her. You know, the big eyes, that willingness to please, and the shaking from fighting the urge to jump up and down and shout things like, 'Look at me! I love you! Will you love me?! Look! Squirrel!!'

Maybe not the 'Look! Squirrel!!' part.

Maybe.

This being said, at the end of semester party when she turned up I had to down about 3 glasses of bubbly before feeling cavalier enough to walk up and join the throng of my laughing classmates surrounding her.

We are all but moths to her flame.

(See?! I DO live in awe of her!)

Halfway through a very engrossing story about Tutor's personal life, one of my classmates pointed at a group students from another program sat on the ground with at least 7 wine bottles and 7 champagne bottles amongst them, so, 2 per person. Tutor was quick off the mark with, 'Ah yes, poor dears, drinking away their inheritance. No future for the lot of them.'

I started to laugh, maniacally, crying a little even...(yes, I am embarrassed for myself), and pushed out this:

'Omigodthatwassoamazingyoujustvalidatedmyentireexperiencehere.'

I'd like to say that either no one heard and was still laughing at the comment Tutor had made or that they thought what I said was funny in and of itself...but that's unlikely. People probably were laughing at me. Tutor was laughing. It may have been the first time she's ever experienced my hero worship untempered by good manners and sobriety.

I'm working with her on my dissertation all summer.

That's shaping up to be an interesting dynamic.

A little later Cocker Spaniel, Golden Retriever and I made our way to Dirty Martini in Covent Garden for the post-party party. I'll be honest, I picked my drinks based on what the bartenders stuck on them as garnish. First I went for pretty: a pansy in my martini. Then I went for fruity: sliced apples in my martini...

Luckily Cocker Spaniel saw the downward spiral of too much drink starting and mouthed 'Time to go?'

And it's a good thing she did. Who knows what I would have done to get martini garnishes? I think in favour of saving time, effort and money I would have gone for distract and grab. I would have found someone with a chocolate swizzle in their martini and said, 'Look! Mick Jagger and Cap'n Crunch are having a duel in the corner!' Then off I would have scurried with their chocolate swizzle in search of some salty olives in someone else's drink to counteract the sweets. God knows how many other rock stars I can pit against cereal box characters to get my hands on garnishes.

Tony the Tiger could so fuck up Lady Gaga's shit.

Cocker Spaniel didn't have to try too hard to get me out of the bar after I grabbed my phone saying, 'I just need to make one call. Wow, where'd all this blood come from? Who is bleeding on my phone?! It's on my dress too? Who is doing this?'

Turns out it was me. And I'd somehow managed to cut the top of my thumb.

It's still not better.

But Cocker Spaniel came back to mine to make sure that the downward spiral didn't go any further than the two of us eating half a chocolate mousse tart and drinking lots of tea.

As The Beatles (who would definitely take out Toucan Sam in a fight) once said, 'I get by with a little help from my friends.'

Oh Thank God That is Over

It felt like the Dictator/Director I worked under was a bit useless in the face of 'psycho personal stuff'...which turned out to be the gulf oil spill...

Forgive me for sounding callous and non-eco-friendly. But WTF? The gulf spill is your personal issue that makes you unable to lead a group effectively? God knows what would happen if something actually bad happened to her personally, like say a break-up?

Let it be noted I recycle, turn the tap off when brushing my teeth, and use public transport.

That's right, I don't even own a car. I am eco-friendly.

Suck on deez nuts.

I have to say I went old school on this project and pulled an all-nighter to pull it out of my ass.

God knows what kind of a grade that will earn me...

merde.

Around 9AM I was waiting for Afghan Hound to turn up so I could last minute proof her paper before turning everything in at 11. At 9:30 she called, 'Hi, I am at your door but forgot my wallet and I need to pay the taxi driver, do you have cash?'

'Err, no. But I'll come out and we can go to the cash point.'

I ran out my door, washed, nearly make-uped, and fully clothed. Pretty damn good for 9:30 and no sleep.

I directed the cab driver to the nearest cash point through Afghan Hound's sincerest apologies. To be honest, it was funny. But it got even more funny as I ran out to get cash.

While getting a cheering/teasing/you idiot phone call from a friend I realised my wallet which I'd grabbed in a rush out the door...didn't have a bank card in it.

Damn those 23:45 food runs before Sainsbury's closes. Cookies, chocolate, and milk seem so necessary when staring down an all-nighter. And when you know you're being provided lunch the next day, you don't worry too much about the finer points of putting your bankcard back into your wallet from the comfy jeans you were wearing on your last-minute dash for junk food.

My friend on the phone got the mouth full of anger that was coursing through my head at myself.

Sorry 'bout that. My bad. (No really.)

Back into the cab I hopped and the cabbie could only laugh. Afghan Hound continued to apologise and another cab circuit from cash point to my house to cash point to my house later we were in the door correcting papers.

Yes, we did laugh about it later.

After listening to presentations, where Dictator/Director not only failed to mention her minions but failed to utter a sentence that wasn't littered with likes, uhs, and general uselessness, we went for our Institute provided lunch.

I was too tired to stand up straight, worst of all, our tutors were plying us with champagne and asking us 'What's next?' and things like, 'Any internships lined up?'

Is this an acceptable answer? 'Ow! My brain hurts. May I be excused now? I need a nap.'

Later on in the day I was walking to the tube with Golden Retriever after escaping the horrors of confinement to a small room with loud increasingly drunk people asking pointed questions about the future and she said the most amazing thing.

'I'm so glad to get away from The Voice. I'm sick of her fakey weakling act.'

Golden Retriever! You do have a mean bone in your body?!

RESULT!

She treated me to some frozen yoghurt and an old-fashioned bitch session.

That was fun. I'm so glad that I haven't been imagining things.

Though sleep-deprivation does make everything look like sparkly unicorns after awhile. And makes emails from petty people hate mail from velociraptors.

True story.

But now that it's almost a week after the fact, I've been sleeping more to counteract the loss.

And the velociraptors have stopped sending me hate mail.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

London has been friendly today. It’s been charming, quirky, and welcoming.

And this is on the day that America plays England in the World Cup.

Maybe they were hoping for a ritual sacrifice for post-game? (Either way, I kept my mouth firmly shut and observed.)

I saw people giving up their seats on the tube for the elderly. Compassionate London.

I saw people with enough metal in their face to set off airport security rocking out the best vintage pin-up hair-dos. Diverse London.

I saw a group of lads whooping for joy as they met up on the escalators. Hooligan London.

Then I saw a woman turn around, snap a quick digital photo of them and promptly check them out in play mode. 1984 London.

A stranger made eye contact with me for a full second, and just being noticed floored me. Human London.

On my walk back to my flat, I saw a grey urban fox run across my path and join its furry red friend across the street. Wildlife London.

Each of these little things brought a little smile to my face and a little glow that’s been absent recently.

Yesterday I apologised to my supervising tutor for missing the expert visit. I explained the situation and made a bigger deal of apologising than laying blame; though when she found out whose fault it really was, there was a micro-second of ‘Ah-ha! Skulduggery!’ followed by the professional, ‘I’m very sorry you missed that opportunity.’

What happens now is out of my hands, but my name is cleared. Everything else is fait accompli.

Today, it was to the National Art Library I went. As usual I sat down and collected my books. Then Cocker Spaniel came up and gave me a hug and a smile. I looked at who was sat down from me, Afghan Hound. She smiled and then sent me a message. ‘You’re my favourite person to sit next to in the whole library.’ All that was missing was Golden Retriever, and low, there she was in her little seat. I came up behind her and hugged her. She smiled and said, ‘Hello friend! I miss you and can’t wait to see you after this is all over!’

The fact that all my friends were sat with me in the same room with happy smiles for me really made the library into a little cocoon of safety and joy, despite it being the scene of a few debacles. Some more recent than others.

Afghan Hound and I took a break for dinner and to get away from the project. As I left her flat instead of feeling sad about being alone with my thoughts, I chuckled.

On one of my recent nights over, she told me to stay and to take her flatmate’s room and sleep there as everyone was away. Up we climbed to the top floor of the Kensington house she lives in. It was 3AM and we’d been talking, drinking, cooking and watching 30 Rock.

As you do.

The room was chilly and the window was open. So I asked Afghan Hound if she would mind if it was shut.

‘No! No! Of course not. Here, I’ll close it for you.’

‘Oh no, really I can close it.’

In our efforts to be polite we managed to knock the bottle of lotion that was propping the window open – out.

And right onto the pavement below. And both the cars parked beside the pavement.

The looks on our faces must have been priceless as we each burst into laughter after looking at each other. We decided to go out and wipe down the cars, after all, the chemicals in lotion could have damaged the paint jobs and no one wants someone who lives in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea upset with them.

So, out we crept and armed with kitchen towels we wiped up all traces of lotion.

‘Maybe someone will think we are trying to steal the cars? What if there is an alarm? What if we wake all my neighbours with the alarm and the they we are thieves?’

‘No no Afghan Hound, that’s when we tell them we’re secret super stealth car washers. Like the elves in that fairy tale.’

‘I was about to say that. We are like the car washing elves!’

As I walked out her door tonight after a wonderful day at the library into a lovely London, I felt that seeing the end of this project and the pressure involved due to it among other things was going to be a wonderful feeling.

When It Rains, It Pours

Unless you're in Europe, then it's like the rain just spits on you...but for the sake of the entry, I'll continue on the premise of the title.

So, it's been a rather shockingly bad two weeks. I'll be honest, it's been a hell of a lot better. I've worked with people I like better, I've been in happier places emotionally, and I've felt more secure in who I am and what I've achieved.

You know - less self-doubt and more self-belief. That sorta thing gets you places.

The quagmire I'm in has me swamped. And spinning my wheels. Not a happy place for someone like me, I like to move forward.

Added bonus! I've officially had my first back-stabbing! Joy, oh joy! The bitches have come out to play.

A week ago my group had its first expert visit. As I told you before, it went well for me (barely). Well, I asked my group director when the next one was, the reply, the following Friday - which should have been tomorrow.

In the library today I saw a member of my group and asked her what time the expert was coming and when to arrive. She replied with a rather disturbingly pleasant smile, "Oh, we tried to call you but it kept going through to voicemail. He was here earlier this week. We thought you knew."

"No. Actually, I didn't."

"Oh, well, Director was trying so hard to reach you. She just kept getting voicemail."

"I never saw a missed call or got a message."

"I'm sure she called."

"Okay, um, was anyone going to tell me?"

"Well, you'd missed it, so..."

"Right, okay thanks."

Bitch.

Not a full two minutes later I was on the good ol' gmail with a message to Director. She took full responsibility for it and apologised citing "psycho personal stuff".

Bitch, please. If it was worse than what's happened to me in the past two weeks you'd be on a flight to the States for the funeral.

And you aren't.

I've had friends either staying the night at my flat or having me 'round to theirs about every other night now for two weeks. A testament to how shit I'm doing as well as a testament to how brilliant my friends are.

Maybe people think I'm a lot more lackadaisical than I actually am. I'm not taking this one lying down. Tomorrow I'm off to at least inform our supervising tutor of what happened. Not in some revenge-fuelled quest to get Director back, but more to clear my name. Incompetence is death. Right now I'm coming across as lazy and unable to cope. Better clear that shit up now before it takes root.

Best to just make the tutor aware of what really happened. Get an apology over to Cheeky Charmer, who was the visiting expert in question, and finally make it clear who fucked up. From there, let the chips fall where they may.

I've been told to just wait for karma on all counts.

Note to karma: I'm gonna need you to do better.

2 + 2 = 5 ...Oh the Art World

Apparently the goal of the art world is to take 2 + 2 and make it equal 5. How do they do this? Well I'll tell you my dear reader.

By creating a secure buying environment. Now, most everyone knows that art is only as valuable as what someone is willing to pay for it. If you can make the painting secure by getting an artist, the name of the painting and a solid provenance, you can make 2 +2 = 5.

Christeby's is hyper-aware of this. So, when the expert who was 'helping' us with our house sale project came in to chat with those of us in the British paintings department he not only picked out paintings we were struggling with but quite clearly showed an interest in who had potential and who didn't.

What were they looking for? Brains mostly so you can find the 2 + 2, though connections, a nice accent and solidly personable demeanour were probably also of importance.

Being a yank I fail miserably on the accent account. People like to buy art from someone with a posh English accent.

Coincidentally, all that time spent on perfecting my Keira Knightley impression has really paid off.

Generally if I've been drinking or if I'm talking to someone I know I need to impress in the art world, my American accent becomes very soft and a version of Keira slips in. It's relatively pleasing.

Well, enough that people listen long enough to let me smile and crack a joke.

While I went ahead and let myself look stupid as concerned a couple of my pieces that have me stumped, I did manage to redeem myself and maybe get a nod.

'Uh, excuse me, but before you go, could I ask you about these two pieces. I think they're George Morland and the other is John Berney Ladbrooke. What do you think?'

'Why do you think this is a Morland?'

'Well, I looked at the style of the building and the horses, as well as way the people were painted and it's very similar to his groom and horse portraits that were sold in the Kensington showrooms. So I compared and felt they were similar.'

'Good, very good. I'd say that if it isn't a Morland copy, it is by him. Double check using artnet and artprice but you're on the right track. Now, why do you think that is a Ladbrooke, what led you there?'

'I looked through old auction catalogues and decided he looked the most similar.'

'Why?'

'I looked at the leaves and the way the artist painted light dappling on the buildings. I figured it was the same hand.'

The expert smiled a little to himself, 'Very good. I'd say you were right and if it's not him, it's Stark.'

'Stark, great thanks.'

It was on that note things ended. I'd started out with my dead end paintings that have been nightmarish only to end on a high. And this is a good thing as the experts do ask about us to our tutors. The backdoor dealings are very key to this world.

But so is networking. As such Cocker Spaniel and I went to LIFAF yesterday in order to hone our networking skills and make new contacts.

We chatted and laughed with many different dealers. Cocker Spaniel introduced me to the people she had vetted with just last week and we had a lovely chat about a French ebony cabinet. It was really lovely, and the dealer told us to upstairs to see his object that was up for Antique Object of the Year. A cabinet that took 17 years to make.

Wow. And I thought women had it bad with a baby taking 9 months to make.

I digress.

We visited Glass Guy and said our hellos, apparently if we'd come the day previous we could have met Mick Jagger who is one of his clients.

Maybe glass is looking more glamourous.

nah.

Mick Jagger probably buys paintings too.

We headed upstairs and started to walk around the stalls there. I told Cocker Spaniel I was flagging and about to give out. I needed tea and was tired. She pushed me onward saying, 'I'm tired too but just a few more stalls, look that's all modern we can skip those.'

As we rounded a corner, a stall specialising in Victorian art was relatively empty, as such we trawled through it. They had some nice furniture too.

We started to chat with the man running the stall.

I have a new contact who may potentially offer me a position at his American branch for English art based in Vail, Colorado.

random.

Can't hurt to pass through my CV.

Sophie and I saw the cabinet that was 17 years in the making and were in awe. It really was a thing of beauty and a labour of love. It seems that when you're that passionate about something time and effort have no meaning.

Or the guy who made that was entirely neurotic.

Probably the latter.

Today has been spent avoiding Christeby's Institute of Art and making sure that I network. While the project is important, the network is equally if not more so. My tutor will not hand me a job if she likes me, she'll open doors to opportunities whereupon if they like me they'll hire me.

In a way, networking cuts out the middle man.

Not that I'm going to piss off the middle man, in fact I need to go start pleasing said middle man in order to springboard my way ahead.

No one else is going to do it for me.

Learn Something New Everyday

Well, I have to say, my day didn't start off so well.

As a matter of fact, I really felt like saying, "Great, June is starting out to be a wash just like May."

It was vetting day at London International Fine Art Fair, and I was a vetting assistant, wandering after very intelligent people writing out rejection slips for pieces of art that didn't meet the high standards of the fair.

Why would someone volunteer to do this for free?

To pad a CV so as to get further in the art world at large.

Ideally, one wants to vet with a committee pertaining to their subject of choice. In my case, Old Master paintings. What straw did I pull?

Glass.

I was vetting glass today. So I stood there, watching people leaning over and looking at fragile objects while they decided if the stoppers were genuine or not. I was paralyzed with the fear that they may be completely snobby, secure in the fact that they are glass geniuses.

Or they could be lovely.

Lucky for me, they were lovely. I now know much more about glass than I did earlier in the day.

I mean, did you know that yellow glass is made from uranium? And that gold makes red glass? Yea, betcha didn't already know that one. Well, maybe you did, but unlikely.

I mean, who other than glass experts and chemists knock around with that kind of knowledge in their heads?

Weirdos, that's who.

So, with these and several other nuggets of knowledge RE: Glass stored away for future reference I have decided that it wasn't a total wash. That and Glass Guy may have given me the art dealer - client relationship quote of the decade:

"Taxi drivers, prostitutes, and art dealers - we all have to take what comes through the door."

Amazing.

After the better part of a day bonding with my vetting committee, and a ceramics expert from Christeby's auction house, I was off for tea with Charity case, the lovely man who introduced me to Scottish Hart (of "I'll introduce you to the director of the National Gallery of Scotland." fame).

We had a long tea in the sun of Holland Park. Over the course of this tea I've been brought up to date on his life and the comings and goings of his charity, as well as encouraged to get back in touch with Scottish Hart.

So, at the end of the day it comes down to a profitable day. I have a new quote, three new business cards, an invite to the House of Commons to watch Charity Case debate for support of his charity, and an invite to football to pick up the thread with Scottish Hart again.

Here's to what comes through the door, eh?