Day fourteen, and one of my favourites. I should point out, I can’t paint.

I can paint a wall. I have been known to tackle a ceiling. I’ve even painted a gate. Like a boss.

But, in terms of painting something resembling art – no, I’ve got nothing, but I love the smell of paint.

It’s an abiding memory from my childhood collection – the scent of oil paint.


And it’s as if I’m challenged, because honestly, I only just remembered this.

Both my parents painted. Not professionally, but they were both pretty keen. My dad was very fond of still life work, bridges and seascapes, that sort of thing. My mother tried her hand at portraiture, with varying levels of success. Frankly, whether a portrait actually looked like the model rather depended on whether or not she liked them.


Now, here’s the thing: when I started work as an electrician, I had people ask me how the plumbing work was going. It’s not that they hadn’t been paying attention, or that they thought that plumbing and electricals were somehow interchangeable. It was just – people had their own stuff going on. This was my interpretation, and it remains the case. They were in the right general area, so I let it go.

It’s a funny thing, since friends of mine have discovered Sex, Death & Canapés, they’ve asked – not how my writing is going, but how my painting is. For those not in the know, my main character is an artist, but its a nice, little, hitherto-unrecognised nod to my parents.

I may not have any talent for it, but paint is in my blood. I’ve just traded oils and canvas for words and paper.

And so, to paraphrase Liz Taylor from American Horror Story: Hotel, really quite badly, “Cut me, and I bleed ink.”