G is for garbage

The first 2 days of convalescence whizz by as I sleep for most of them, alternating between bed and sofa. In true invalid style I am building up my strength by eating a nutritious and varied diet - of ice cream. Despite the tiredness, the initial 24 hours are Dolores free. I am so used to her company, even if she is only whispering, that her absence is a little disconcerting. I feel a tiny butterfly of excitement at the thought of a summer without her, but quickly stamp on the thought as I don't want to get ahead of myself. On day 2, I recreate a scene from a retirement home by parking myself in a recliner in the window, complete with rug over knees. Soaking up the sunshine I am enjoying being able to read the Sunday Times undisturbed from cover to cover when she interrupts. I have to quiet her with pills but I still feel positive that the hospital procedure was the right choice.

Little brother calls on day 3 and helps ease my cabin fever by taking me out to lunch at The Baltic. We walk quickly from the car; the wind is funnelling down the Quayside and blowing swirling snow in our faces. A thousand cold knives through my little bones. We warm up with hot cups of coffee and soup. Afterward we take at look at the exhibitions. Much of contemporary art leaves me cold and since returning from Italy I think I have become even more intolerant. It strikes me that it is not altogether unreasonable that if you are going to define yourself as belonging to a certain profession, then you should be able to display certain characteristics associated with it. However, being able to draw seems to be a lost art to many contemporary artists. The previous Baltic exhibition provided examples of some of the exceptions, but today the Elvis drawn in chocolate and a room full of pans on a conveyor belt leave me impatient to leave. I note that the artist also uses cow dung, presumably a metaphor for the quality of his work.

Katy

(Grumpy or happy?)