I had two artists dates this week.
Not because I’m being a goody two shoes. It is because neither one was planned.
Artists dates are meant to enable you to be on your own with your inner artist, and on both occaisions I had plans with others that went awry, so I kind of cheated if you will. So as penance 🙂 I will count each as one half of a date.
Both also had something in common; they came about from my inability to be on time.
My consistent tardiness is something that dogged my life for as long as I can remember, and is particularly prevalent when I don’t want to do something. That said, I am often late even when I am happy to go to out or am really looking forward to an event. What hasn’t helped in the latter years is my increasing diffuseness and scattiness. I am also easily distracted and the side effects of my meds do not help make me sharper or more focused, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about that.
I always start out with very good intentions and a lot of the time I leave on time, but am then scuppered by shitty London Transport and/or traffic problems.
What I don’t tend to do is allow for delays. I think a lot of it is to do with the fact that I have great difficulty leaving my home to do anything, and many times struggle to actually get out of the door at all, and once I am out there I am usually very keen to get back to my lair.
The first Artist’s Date was post an argument with a friend, who insisted on repeatedly berated me for being a mere 15 minutes late (whilst 90 minutes away, I was freezing my arse off at a bus stop and she was in a warm office, only yards away from the venue). Hardly the ideal precursor for a fun, convivial evening.
On coming out of the tube station, I received such a carping, whinging, bitching text, that I could no longer envisage spend the evening with her without a full blown row ensuing, so rather than allow things to kick off, or waste a hideous journey into town in foul weather, I cancelled the dinner, turned tail, walked in the other direction and found myself in Liberty of London with a taut neck, prickling temper and itching fingers.
Liberty is not the best place to find oneself when in such a dangerous mood, especially if you have your credit card with you. By the same token, it is a place of beauty, quality and serenity. It is rarely packed or unpleasant to shop in, every room has beautiful things to admire, and I found myself slowly calming down the minute I entered it’s hallowed halls.
Aware of what I am capable of when in a mood like this, and as I am no longer earning, with heroic effort, I managed to drag myself away from my beloved scarf hall (where is is very easy to splurge away £300 plus on a little wisp of silk) into an elevator and up to the 3rd floor to browse the wools and yarns in the knitting and craft section.
As I lost myself in the array of colours on shelf, touching the skeins, and marvelling at the different textures, my fingers wanted less to do harm and more to busily create and craft something lovely. A softly spoken, dark sweatered assistant approached, and as if sensing my turbulent mood, patiently helped me find the perfect yarn for my retro cabled roll neck sweater pattern. Eventually we decided on gorgeous Ivory aran weight cotton that would be cool in Spring and warm in Autumn.
By the time I had bought and paid for 18 balls, the store had worked it’s magic on me and I was much less ruffled and hopeful that I would be allowed to calm down and sort things out with C at a later date when we were both less rattled. Plus knitting is the perfect activity to keep the mind focussed and the fingers busy so hopefully I would not dwell too much on what had gone on before.
However my subconscious warned me that from painful experience, it was unconvinced that this evening’s battle was over, so I treated myself to a beautiful sewing basket, and two slabs of very expensive salted chocolate from the confectionery department. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
As I reluctantly exited the store and out into the sleet splattered night, my mobile bleeped.
Another message from C. Here we go again.
Had I known that by the end of the evening our friendship would be at an end, I may well have dropped by the scarf hall after all….and bought something substantial to sling around the bitches neck, yank at both ends and make her shut the fuck up once and for all…. 😉
15 minutes…one for every year we had known one another. Oh well….
Maybe it’s all for the best.