Move over Charles Saatchi

Last night I ventured out to a swanky gallery for an exhibition opening night. You see, I have been complaining that my life lacked glamour and decadence, but then this Sex and the City invitation turned up. I hope you are all suitably impressed. Actually, to be honest, it was more Last of the Summer Wine than Sex and the City. The exhibition was of soft and pretty watercolour landscapes and was teeming with elderly ladies in brogues. I bought one (a watercolour, NOT an old lady). I chose a beautiful, folksy autumnal scene, with lurchers (of course). The colours in my picture are so soft and muted: plums, olives and golds. One of the things I adore about it is some of the autumnal leaves have been made with gold and copper leaf. They hint at the kind of pictures my class make with Quality Street wrappers. A charming, informal touch. So, an original work of art, how thrilling. Move over Charles Saatchi. At the moment my picture is still on display at the exhibition. I shall post a photo of it as soon as I can.

I had a most unexpected email from Rochester the other day. I replied and told the rogue about my folk art purchase.

'I know you wanky ‘trendy Bristol’ types will sneer at such folksy art. No doubt on your mantlepiece you’ve got a used crack pipe, adorned with crime scene tape sat atop an empty Findus Crispy Pancakes packet, communicating the random cruelty of life in a godless universe. Oh, and a couple of hard boiled eggs in formaldehyde framed above your waterbed – representing the emotional castration of men in these gender-confused times. But, you can’t beat a good watercolour, Rochester. I ilke the blurryness of them, like tears on a love-letter.'

I am not sure what possessed the Swami of Stubble to get in touch. He was discussing lezzaism. Lezzas

'can't relax around cock, for some reason.' he proclaimed knowingly.

Madam Noir - would you like to comment on that?

My correspondence with McFireman is going well. So far he has managed not to be offended by anything I say. He thinks I am charming and witty. I have just told him of my last trip to Glasgow, and my sighting of the vampiric pimp Nick Cave in a hairnet.

McF. loves Mad Men and lusts after sexpot Joan. That is a promising sign. He is obviously rather fond of large breasts and bottoms.

I asked McF. whether firemen still rescue kittens from trees. Regretfully, he says not (although they do get asked). I find that very sad. I long to live in a world where firemen still rescue kittens from trees, where policemen help old ladies across the road and where kindly, white-haired doctors battle through the snowy dales at midnight to deliver rosy-faced babies to farmers' wives.