I've been painting all day, covered in it and I'm trying not to get the insidious stuff over everything when I go inside the house to get another cup of tea. I drink tea like a smoker has fags, like a smoker has fags to peruse work done, to stand back, consider, labour the process, deal with fear before the surface gets touched again; a dangerous time.
Anyway I get a call in the studio from my friend clint. He's out in the fens and he's spotted another fridge. Around here you get a small but reasonable price for a fridge so I agreed to meet him. Half an hour later we're standing shoulder to shoulder and pearing around a hedgerow through a pair of sports binoculars. The fridge is alone and leaning against an old and abandoned out building and it's drizzling, a typical situation. Fridges hate this weather and they'll seek shelter straight away, out buildings make perfect cover and so there we have it.
We move off slowly, Clint first and then I in the opposite direction keeping low to come around the other side to flank the fridge as Clint flushes him out. We've done this a thousand times and frankly without the income it brings me I could never carry on as an artist.
Anyway everything was going like clockwork when I hear Clint slip, startling the fridge, it comes out on it's little fridge wheels fast. After years in this landscape the fridge population has adapted itself remarkably well and has this incredible traction. I was caught offguard and darted after it, pounced, slipped and fell face down in the mud. Quickly I rose again to the chase with Clint hot on my heals, our adrenaline firing us forwards and making chase for a good five minutes or so before we saw the fridge go down, exhausted. Clint fell upon it and held fast as I pulled open the door to disable it whilst he, fast as lighting pulled out the CFC cable at the back, job done!
So I'm drinking tea again, typing this and turning to my right from time to time just to clarify whose shooting at who. I know nothing more.