Having a moment – an hour or two – ALONE. What to do with that time..? Walk briskly through a cold, blizzardy snow on the pebbles of the beach close to the water edge? Thrilling and a sanity restorer. Raid your own CD collection, with speed and not too much thought, dig out a few privately perfect tunes and play them as loud as is possible. Change them mid track, turn ’em up, turn ’em down, play one tune over and over – who cares. It’s up to you!

This is what I played. First off Jewel; Who Will Save your Soul followed by Pieces of You. Next, Disc 1 The Chill Out; Gorillaz Clint Eastwood, I listened to half of it. Coldplay, Trouble – for old times sake. A big breaking up album and I sort of love the morose feelings it allows me to indulge myself in for all of 3 minutes. Turn it up! Jump on to Moloko, Sing it Back (original album version). S’nice! Tried to play Soul Rabbi Session, Enlace Funk Collection (burnt by cousin JohnJoe) but it wouldn’t read. O well. The Best of Van volume 2 and my very favourite track which always brings a genuine tear to my eye; Coney Island. I love Van, but he is a grumpy git. I know that because I once saw him in concert on my birthday in Brighton. He came on stage, he said nothing, he didn’t smile. He just played his set and left. I was appalled. How lame. I went off him instantly after a life times commitment. So shallow.

K’Naan, The Dusty Foot Philosopher. Now this is an album that only means something to me and I have tried to get others into it without much luck. Maybe it’s a ‘you had to be there’ type a thing. And I was… there. Right down the front at the Radio 3 stage at Womad when this young Somalian jumped on stage and sang his heart out for a magical couple of hours. As with all moments in life that transport you – I will remember it for ever. My whole being was gob smacked. I got the album off Amazon and joined his fan club as soon as I could. My lovely darling Mike however was none to keen and the disk coincidentally disappeared never to be found again leaving an empty case knocking about for ever after – but luckily not before I had got it onto the i-pod. Phew! I listened to the whole album with maximum volume, and this took up most of the rest of my couple of hours.

If I had more time to listen to the rest, they would have played thus… Joan Armatrading; Dry Land and Travel so Far. Have always loved Joan and played her to death growing up. Even though, ever since I found out she’s a Tory it just doesn’t feel right – I still have to give her a listen now and again. Pete Seeger’s Abiyoyo. I hunted far and wide to get a copy of this album. Another one to grown up to. I reckon if I played this track to my brothers it would have us all welling up? Maybe not. The Smiths; What Difference Does it Make and of course Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now. Actually, the whole of Hatful of Hollow – it’s the soundtrack to my coming of age.

Elvis Presley cos he would have been 75 yesterday and cos I remember the day he died like it was yesterday. Me and Warrell Andrews sitting in St. Agatha’s Primary School. Miss Woodward’s class. Her favourite class. Warrell and I often had competitions to see who could draw Elvis the best – in particular his quiff and I have to say it was a close call. The day he died we both cried, Warrell at his desk behind mine. I don’t think anyone else in the class even knew who he was. August 16th 1977 and we weren’t yet nine years old! That’s all Right, I don’t Care if the Sun Don’t Shine and I’m Left, You’re Right, She’s Gone for good measure.

Then, for pudding I got Fiona Apple; When the Pawn, track 5 Paper Bag – a very angry young women – and good for a vent. Dear Science, TV on the Radio probably a quick flick through because I don’t know this album very well. I caught them on Jools Holland one night and fell in love with the lead singer immediately, and so I bought the album! Why not? And just before the finale and for that comfortably full feeling one Dr Hook, When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Women. And for the last call, cos I’d definitely be well over my 2 hours of alone time – I’d throw on old Elgar’s Enigma Variations to calm… everything… right… back… down and prepare to re-engage with reality.

Last Saturday I went up to London with my bike on the train to see my dad and go to Victoria park’s firework spectacle. Arriving into London I spied my dad hiding from me just outside the barriers at the end of platform 18. We pushed our bikes through the station and came out onto Wilton Road and cycled up towards the river. After a swift half facing into the autumnal sun outside the Morpeth Arms – one of my dad’s favourite pubs – we walked up to the Tate, locked our bikes out front and joined the throng of people shuffling through the J.M.W Turner exhibition.

I didn’t realise Turner was such a huge ego. It seems he made his name by imitating the great masters and trying to show he could do what they did – only better. It was amazing to see Turner alongside Titian, Rubens, Rembrandt and Constable. On one occasion, at the Royal Academy exhibition in 1832, Turner returned to the gallery a day ahead of the opening on ‘varnishing day’ to spy Constable’s painting entitled The Opening of Waterloo Bridge. On seeing his contribution, Turner took a brush and added a dash of red paint to his own painting. In comparison Constable’s painting now looked over the top and gaudy and he was none too pleased. What a sneek he was – that Turner! He really knew how to get and keep the public’s attention.

Next, we swung through the Turner prize and I was most drawn to the work of Lucy Skaer. Her blurb says she makes drawings, sculptures and films which often take found photographic sources as their starting point. One piece called Black Alphabet – which consists of 26 dust coal sculptures I found stunning; stark, bold and very striking.

That evening crushed tightly against other revellers inside Victoria Park, with my brother and some of his friends – we watched some fantastic fireworks. It wasn’t quite cold enough to capture my heart but I definately had one or two sparkly moments. However, no sooner had it started it was over and I was queuing to get out. Ordinarily in this situation – crammed into a vast crowd inching painfully slowly towards a narrow opening I start hyper-ventilating and imagining worse case scenarios. Too many people pushing forward, no where for those in front to go – with fearful mayhem ensuing. I kept focussing on the fact that it was still early and the crowds were full of mums, dads and children. Sensible, safe people. Nothing untoward was going to happen right now. I escaped the throng and took refuge outside an Italian café and considered ordering pizza and wine for a treat for me and my brother whom I had lost somehow in my failed attempt at beating a hasty retreat ahead of the rest.

Soon after wolfing down pizza my bro and I were unlocking our bikes in the rain. He was going to cycle me back to Bethnal Green before going on to a party. We had to get off and push our bikes when we hit the crowds on Broadway Market – it was nearly 10p.m. The streets were busy and full of trendy types hanging out despite the fact it had been raining on and off and was starting to feel really cold. At one point as the crowd thickened we had to be really careful not to run our bikes into the ankles of the people in front. Those coming towards us had to swerve to avoid our handlebars. It was at this moment that we heard a loud bang and turned to see a guy standing still, pointing a gun down a side street we had just passed – smoke was coming out of its end. Nothing happened. No one reacted. There was no noise. It was weird. A moment frozen in time. Two men ran round the corner and disappeared into the night – the guy with the gun and and another. The one with the gun had, moments earlier pushed past us in the crowd.

Me and my brother stood in the kerb looking back and wondering what the hell just happened. Had we witnessed a murder? or a failed attempt? I was in shock and thinking about how we nearly got in his way and how we might have paid for making him late for his target. My brother was quite rightly more worried about whether or not there was someone lying injured or worse – dead. Still, nothing much was happening. We wondered if it was even a real gun? Maybe it was a stunt?

I felt bad. There couldn’t have been a body – the shooter must have missed – cos still no-one was reacting. In the meantime some git in a car went ape shit at us for getting in his way and beeped his horn at us angrily, swearing and shaking his fists out of the window. This side show really unnerved us. His aggression was directed right at us in close proximity. He was horrible. Nothing was happening and so we got back on our bikes and now pretty shaken from this road rage we carried on up to Hackney Road.

What just happened? Why didn’t anyone react? I didn’t get it. My bro took me back to my dad’s front door which was the right thing to do considering. It must have been gone 10p.m. by now and a few minutes later I got a text from my brother. On his way back past the scene, he saw that the area had been cordoned off with two police vans. He reckoned there was no body. The police had been called at least – thank goodness for someone having the right reaction.

I googled ‘shooting on Broadway Market’ when I got back to Brighton and for several days thereafter and I found nothing. Is that because shootings are so common on the streets of London that they just aren’t reported or is it that no body means no story? Should I have gone to the police even tho there were hundred’s of other witnesses – plenty closer to the scene than us? And even though the guy with the gun practically had to push us out of his way to get to where he was headed, my brother and I couldn’t even agree on what he was wearing. I still don’t know what to make of this. At once such a familiar scene from films and TV but certainly close up it just felt wierd and maybe that’s why no-one reacted – we didn’t know what we were looking at nor how to react to it?

We arrived at Snape Maltings for the the Buddhist chanting proms earlyish – given that we were already in Aldeburgh and there seemed little point driving back home cos mum would have to come pretty much straight out again. Our main problem was that mum felt she couldn’t possibly go out looking the way she did after a day hanging about on the beach. I had another cardigan I could lend her although it was a bit screwed up, and she already had another pair of shoes kicking about the van left from the day we went to Norwich to see probably the worst ever exhibition at the Art School. The top was a problem tho’ – earlier in the day one of the straps had pinged off and with no needle or safety pins mum had just tied it to her bra strap which had done the job of keeping the top up. There was also the cleavage – this was a problem for mum due to her perception of it in conjunction with her age. It was one thing wearing a scanty top at home but quite something else to be showing the Buddhists her cleavage at the proms. All was made right quite simply by placing my purple scarf over the cleavage and the wayward beach hair was tamed by using a fork from the salad we’d made on the beach earlier as a makeshift comb. All happy, we went off to find Ute and her two sisters down by the Henry Moore sculpture in the reeds.

With conviction it’s easy to make up your mind. To have the courage of your convictions you need confidence to do or say what you think is right even when other people disagree with pretty much your whole premise and anything that you mutter – on principle, especially if you give any indication whatsoever of hovering over your viewpoint. It has been easy to catch me out this way lately. I forgot to remember that whilst asking other people’s opinion or even involving them intimately in a whole decision making process might make then feel all warm inside and important– it can also lead to all sorts of confusion as they jump to the conclusion that you can’t make up your own mind, you really need their input right now and that actually come to think of it… your convictions are a bit lame, and your courage has taken a leave of absence. If this is the case – then you might be in big trouble.

It has only just occurred to me that if I stop asking for everyone’s opinion and I consult only myself – my decision-making will become fast, efficient and bold. I remember now a Goethe quote that I came across pinned to a friend’s kitchen wall in East London and it said something like…until you decide to commit to a creative endeavor (or anything for that matter), you will be hesitant and ineffective and your lack of commitment will kill your ideas and splendid plans. As soon as you make the decision to commit all sorts of positive unforeseen things happen to support you…“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now”.

This had a powerful impact on me at the time and I jolly well wish I hadn’t forgotten those words so darn quickly. I could do with having them tattooed onto the palm of my hand. Well an abbreviated version obviously as all of that wouldn’t fit on one hand.

So, forced to seek out and rely on other people’s suggestions, ideas and judgments – due to my own lack of perspective, focus and energy etc. etc. – has evaporated my conviction and left me somewhat confused and flakey. What does this all mean? I am looking for something – not finding it – trying to start – and not starting. I am sitting here writing this stuff instead of painting or drawing and not actually telling anyone incase they read it (which they won’t)…while at the same time excitedly checking every morning in the hope that someone might have read it and left me some comments.

I have only one follower currently – my brother – and I am pretty sure he doesn’t actually read this either.

Yesterday I phoned up about a possible studio space just around the corner. Talk about wishful thinking. But nothing ventured – nothing gained. Maybe…I thought to myself… it’s time to up the anti. The thing is – it’s a safe thing to do – phoning up – and asking about the space, because firstly it is unlikely to be available, and even if it is, I am unlikely to be able to afford to pay for it and anyway it will be cold, damp and no less than a death trap for small children under the age of one. What’s more, if it were available and there was any chance in hell that I could take it – I would need to find at least 3 others who would want to and would be able to fork out the squids each week on the rent and rates and pursue any creative leanings they might have in a space specifically dedicated to that purpose – with babies in tow. Then there is the issue of what I myself would do once in this space. I could of course transport all my paints and stuff to the studio cos it’s so near and line it all up – really neatly. I could prepare canvases and lean them in an orderly fashion against the wall starting with largest closest to the (damp) wall and smallest nearest the (drafty) interior. I could also try to enlist the help of able bodied males or females to help with replacing the tarpaulins on the roof that are no longer effective at catching rain drops.

There would be so much to do. How exciting.

…The intensity of life events right now does not lend itself to careful, methodical working and reflection but forces me to grab time and squeeze every drop out of it. One moment I am writing furiously in a small black notebook and ripping out pages to paste into my sketchbook, the next I am making delicate structures out of wire. In another, pummeling clay in the garden to make a bed to cast from, then working away with paint in a demolished space that was a kitchen and will one day be a bedroom for a baby. One weekend in Suffolk, I decided to work on an old canvas from my brother’s art foundation over fourteen years ago which has lived most of its life in a barn in my mum’s garden. I liked the surface of the canvas – it was cracked from age and covered in cobwebs. These I had to rub off before I could then paint the canvas white – wetting the back in the hope that the two large dents right at its centre might sort themselves out. This felt exciting and also scary. With only a week to go before submission day – I was about to try something very different.

When I arrived with my monster canvas for the hanging – struggling to get up the stairs with a pram, a 2 month old baby and several bags of sketchbooks and equipment – I felt nervous and expectant – this turned so quickly to sickness and mortification on catching the tutors expression (it wasn’t intended for me, I guess, since I had my back to them) – a grimace, a look of disgust. This was a shock. It was shocking – it was like being slapped round the face. It floored me…

That was then. There has been a deep sense of change and anticipation surrounding becoming a mum for the first time and trying to carry on with the art work over the last six months with a constant competition for time and energy. In many subtle ways my art projects have helped me manage my transition into motherhood. They have been a constant over time and I have appreciated the value this has had in keeping me grounded, as well as driving me up the wall. I haven’t managed to do very much to develop my work over the last – well nearly 3 months. I had some paid work which took up most of any spare time I could find over the summer and since August I have been trying to take things easy. But enough is enough. All the thinking about it and talking about it – all the looking back over old work trying to judge whether or not there’s actually any point in pursuing it, all the potential shown in some of the paintings and drawings – these activities do not constitute making a start. They could be described as preparations – but I know as well as you – there will come a point sometime fairly soon (surely to goodness!) where I really am just going to have to get going and start doing two things at once again.