Picasso is rolling around in his grave

I’VE often thought about ‘bettering myself’. And it stayed at that. A thought. I’ve always been too lazy to get off my ass, or off the couch, to do a night class. I have a gift of talking myself out of things in a very logical way. Logical to me anyway. Why would I learn Spanish when nearly everyone over there speaks English. Better my French? Who would I talk French to? Myself ? At home? Then the kids would be glancing at each other again in that way that they have.

I carry some guilt that I never managed to get my degree in dentistry. Wasted my parent’s money drinking and carousing and generally doing the eejit.

Lots of friends have gone back to night classes to ‘better themselves’ and learn new skills. Not me. Every time the autumn brochures for night classes came in the door, I perused it in detail, talked myself out of commitment and threw them in the bin.

Until this year. I had a notion when I was at school that I was quite good at art. I think in hindsight it was because the teacher actually liked me and was one of the few who didn’t endlessly berate me.

Over the years I have accumulated canvases, boxes of paints, packets of brushes and much more. My son bought me an easel and a wooden box full of stuff thinking that I was actually going to put my endless talk into practice some time. And I have. A 10-week course in oils and acrylics.

And after two weeks, I can categorically state that it is incredibly evident that I have absolutely no talent when it comes to painting.

I envisaged solo exhibitions and laudatory articles about my prowess. So far a five-year-old would be more accomplished. But I intend to persevere and who knows. Miracles happen.