Rent a Rabble

Much as I suspected I am not a computer whizz. I simply cannot make the scanner work despite shouting at it loudly. It behaves like a lazy teenager and stares back at me in a snotty way with a belligerent look on its face and a message I don't understand. So I will have to wait for someone on its wavelength to reappear and sort it out for me. They are all away ... but it is so heavenly without them I will forego complicated computing techniques until they reappear. The Apprentice son is in France and the Best Boy is filming in north London. Just to top this off Mr Smith is going away today to jouer a golf avec his mates in Normandy for four days. Oh jolly japes, just me and the dog and a hoover. I am also planning much painting. I have to finish some daubs. Rebecca's exhib was wonderful; her paintings are so good. The gallery owner wasn't very nice. He is an aggressive Rottweiler of a man who kept taking everyone's wines glasses away and moaning loudly how the whole thing looked like a wine bar. He confiscated my umbrella which I thought was rather rude as I had carefully placed it behind a table but coudn't find it at the end of the evening. I would like to buy one of Rebecca's paintings but I just wouldn't like to give my money to such an unpleasant gallery owner. Several Artbox mates turned up. Mr Batey Pants was going to be in a right strop before the evening was over; he was already rationing the wine before the influx of freeloading artists. We left to go to dinner at The Pig's Ear, a lovely gastro pub in Chelsea, before he exploded.