Freckles and Misery

I got an email from a friend yesterday:

I've just been looking at your website. It's rather like a public journal, isn't it?

Gosh, it is, isn't it? I hadn't intended to catalogue my feelings quite so much. The initial idea was to talk about arts and music and films. All that. So, here's an effort to right that wrong. I went to the Baltic today to see the new exhibition, British Art Show 6. We didn't 'do' all of it because, quite frankly, I was hideously hungover and became obsessed with seeking moisture halfway round. I wouldn't have done justice to the artists had I continued to look at their work while fantasising about slush puppies. I think that most people would probably find something that made them think or smile or yawn or something. The works I enjoyed today were probably influenced by my hangover rather than anything else (or rather, my enjoyment was influenced by my hangover, even from my helencentric viewpoint I can see that the artists probably didn't have my hangover in mind when they were making their art). I loved Saskia Olde Wolbers' short film, Placebo which featured a syrupy voiced man telling a story about an old picture house with pictures of sumptuous red velvet seats and gloopy images of nature. I was sinking into it. Later, I was a arrested by a resin cast of what I thought was a bottle of pop. 'It's teasing me!' I said. 'It's meant to be a bottle of piss', Ross pointed out. Still, I was very thirsty. Other highlights included telephoning Alison from the carpark to say 'look out of the window, ha ha I can see you waving', the girl in the shop asking if I required a student discount (I trust her thoughts did not involve the words 'mature student'), and taking pictures from the top of the stairs with me at the bottom.

With that in-depth analysis I think I have re-established myself as an arts correspondent. For those of you who prefer to read about my thoughts: today I hate myself.