Wheildon

somewhere along the line i think i remember mentioning that i was an artist.  now a common conception among the unlearned is that all artists are slightly mad and wear vrot clothing, bordering on the bohemian.  sometimes they are right, which proved quite helpful to me.

i used to play some frenetic tennis on friday afternoons, and then prepare for the evening ‘show’.

during the course of the day, i sometimes prepared a village scene on canvas or art paper.  Then, after early supper, i would don my ‘artist’ garb and wander along the main street to my office, which was a window away from a restaurant.

the outfit was usually some wildly outrageous multi-coloured blouse that belonged to ginny, topped with my magnificent wide-brimmed pink tennis hat.  my desk at the window was furnished with my painting materials.  kate's ghetto blaster was stationed prominently at hand, and my desk lamp focused on ‘the artist at work’.  the scene was set.

the idea was to attract the attention of the adjoining restaurant patrons, mostly weekenders, who had to pass my window on their way to and from dinner.

as the patrons arrived, i would paint a village scene, grooving to the sakkie-sakkie music and waving a paintbrush around for effect.

the trick was never to make eye contact, or let on that i knew i was being watched.  it never failed.  as soon as one couple stopped, the next wanted to see what was going on and often a near riot developed as they tried to catch a glimpse of the nutter in the window.

the best part of the evening's entertainment was mine.  the glass in the large sash window was half as thick as it should have been and it was therefore easy to listen to the comments outside.

“what a twit.  check the hat.”

“i hope he's not infectious.”

“where did they find him?!”

“bloody idiot!”

“it’s the air here.  they are all bloody mad, the whole lot of them.”

the more compassionate brought a lump to my throat with “shame, he looks harmless enough.”

once the restaurant was full, i would prop up the finished ‘village scene’ on the desk under the lamp and potter off home.  a quick change into regular gear, and off to some pals to catch up with ginny and the children.

saturday mornings were the best.  the office was transformed into normality and i was clad in conservative attire (without my pink hat).  sooner or later, a weekender would wander in and enquire about the painting now displayed on an easel outside the front door.  i would mutter about selling it on behalf of the nutter who painted it, which usually provoked all kinds of comments related to the odd bod they had seen through the window last evening.

this gave me an opening to embellish a little of the artist’s qualities and background.  purchasing the painting as a sound investment was a very good idea … and at the conclusion of the deal i would nip home to give ginny some cash to spend at the morning market.

making a living in a small village required a little extra effort.  a bonus was to overhear the odd enquiry in a coffee shop as to who saw the simpleton painting in the window the other night.

i would slip out my pink tennis hat from under the table and put it on.

awkward silence!