My first faltering steps at doing 'art'

Cybil shares this blogsite with her good friends, Doris and Esther.

I don't want to go out. I want to stay in. Get things done.

Easter weekend is a funny old time I think. It's just the same as Christmas in length, but without all the fuss and gluttony. I always end up with armfuls of free time which is rather special. Why people try to stuff it full of DIY and chocolate eggs I'll never know. What's wrong with just staying in and giving yourself some time to relax and unwind? Absolutely nothing. Except I seem to have developed a cold, which is a nuisance.

Even long walks with the dog are off the menu as she is laid low with something or other. A stroll around the local park is about all she can manage for the time being.

I've been going through some files of pictures I collect to inspire my writing, and I thought I'd put a few of them up here instead of words, for each one speaks a thousand, as the saying goes.

Lee Miller loved a bit of solarisation, so she did.

How many hands is it please?

I know, I know. I am deeply flawed. I have strayed like a lost sheep. How can I expect you to forgive me? But it's tough man. You know, there I was having the time of my life when suddenly - wham - I'm back behind a desk dealing with the terminally dull. You try it - it sucks like a big sucker with extra sucky bits all around the edge. It drains the soul. It dulls the spirit. It fucks you in the head then vomits on your feet, and it doesn't even wash up the breakfast things.

Anyway, I want to tell you about two things. First of all, I seem to have lost my capacity for drinking Guinness, for after half-a-dozen odd pints on Sunday afternoon I felt rough for two and half days. No - three things - sorry. Second thing, er, the Lee Miller exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery is sensationally good. There's a picture - up there - just above this - and thats pure class in my book. I went with an expert and gained knowledge of the inner working of the photographer's psyche, and it's not pretty. Lots of goo and soggy hankies.

Third thing - I have a new local. Well, it's new to me - but it wasn't that new to Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton who were known to perform karaoke there on Saturday evenings between bouts of snogging, belching and boozing. Now it's gone all posh and serves luverly grub all done up like a dog's dinner. Meet me there - just say when and I will appear like a vision with sparkly knobs on. It's called The Gun and I like very much.

I am addicted to Rufus Wainwright. I am excited that Laurie Anderson is playing at the Barbican in May. Nitin Sawney is playing at Shepherds Bush Empire. These are a few of my favourite things and that makes London scoubidoulicious.

I will devote more time to you over Easter, I promise.

Thanks for all your messages - some of them very funny, and some of them very sad. Now here's one of my favourite hymns, and I know it's one of yours too Mrs Smithers in Bolton: Be Thou My Vision. [The last paragraph is best read in a Thira Hird stylee, and if you have trouble with that, just ask me. A bit of background organ music wouldn't go amiss either, if you could arrange it Mr Rosen.]

Foot in hand

Hello it's me. I've leapt like a squirrel onto a brand new blogsite. The branches are a little bit wobbly, but I am defying the laws of gravity. Look at my swishy tail. Oh, hello - have you got nuts?

So yeah, look at that big fish about to bite a man's head off. What does that say to you? Oh, right, OK - no don't worry - that's fine. I welcome all comments, comets and comedians (but I draw the line at Corinthians and caricatures - sorry, but I am a seething mass of prejudice and I just can't hide it).

So, what's this all about? Well, truth be known, I don't have a fucking clue - oh yeah - that's another thing - I'm allowed to swear here because...because I really love your tiger feet. And that's neat. When I sliced Neppytune with a breadknife some people said, 'Jolly good show!' whilst others raised one hell of a hullabaloo by saying, 'S'tut'. One person said, 'Can I be frank with you?' and I said, 'You can call me Betty,' and he hung up. I called back and said, 'Go on then, say what you mean,' and he said, 'Nobody gives a fiddler's fart what you do everyday - it's duller than dullsville on a dull Sunday afternoon - so write other stuff.' I said, 'Mmmm - let me think about it.' So I did. I thought. And now this. Hang on a sec - my foot is on fire.

Trouble is, I'm in such a habit of recounting the mundane detail of what I've been up to, I don't really know where to start. I will, I think, talk about the things I do that you might find interesting - but I won't, for example, tell you what I had for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Are you comfortable with that? We'll see how it goes shall we.

Yesterday I took up the bagpipes and put out the rubbish. It all happened so fast.