I had an email from my friend Jordi on Saturday and though I replied that I didn’t really think I could go and play, I put it on one side and carried on thinking about it.
You see, she had just booked herself a place on a rather interesting class and knew that I’d love to get in on the act as well. I opened up the links, read closely and considered my commitments for late July. Strangely that week was empty.
When I saw that the class was to be held just a stone’s throw from where we usually stay, I muttered something loud enough for my Hero to hear.
He’s going to Sweden for a week in October when I am busy teaching, he reminded me, by way of encouragement (and balancing the perks)
On Sunday afternoon, I did my sums and finally hit the “reserve place” button.
About an hour ago, Jordi emailed to say she’d spoken to the registrar and all is well.
In the last sixty minutes, I have booked flights, hotel, sent three or four emails to Jordi and received a similar number in reply, including restaurant suggestions and ideas for exhibitions to visit. I gasped when I read Jordi’s message which said that the Alexander McQueen show will still be on whilst I’m there; anticipated supper at Calle Ocho and a visit to Kinokuniya to see my favourite Boro book which I hope will still be on the shelf; had a slight panic about my level of Photoshop skills and wondered whether I need to move to CS having used Elements for so long; ordered the book that is mentioned in the course notes from Amazon; whinged about my dislike of photoshopped images containing people with pointy hats, wings or both, cut outs of birds and faux spirituality; doubted my ability to do anything worthwhile from a standing start; questioned the artistic value of all my work; decided that I will be totally out of my depth but it won’t matter because I will have my Good Friend and Real Artist there and I can just claim I don’t understand because I’m British.
I totally forgot to put the chicken in the oven for supper.