Sometimes I just don’t want to do any drawing in my sketchbook. I spent a few hours in the studio, working on a large piece with oilbars and wiping most of it off with bits of rag and I really didn’t want to sketch. But I forced myself to, because it’s a completely different sort of drawing to the studio work and I think it’s good discipline for me. It doesn’t have to be a detailed, finely wrought piece of work, it’s just chilling out and having a scribble. So I did a quick sketch, just a few minutes, of mine and Husb’s booted-up feet lounging together on a footstool [there’s romantic]. He’s wearing his well-worn walking boots and I’m wearing my new Converse bumpers. I don’t know what they’re called these days. When I was a kid they were daps, then bumpers. My parents called them gyms. I bought them a couple of weeks ago when my 12 year-old great niece dragged me into a posh shoeshop and ordered me to buy some decent shoes because, apparently, my fashion sense is ‘awful’. That’s news to me. I didn’t know I had any fashion sense.
