What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding?

An itchy, important, frustrating day. Another period away from the artist and a meeting with someone different again: another person who knows his war-zones. It was tea this time, in a tall light room with ornate furnishings. It was like a film-set, a scene from a French period piece, with English undertones. There we were, in the middle of it all, two white cups, two white saucers, a tea-pot and tea-strainer, two uneaten biscuits, and two people talking about conflict, post-conflict, and the issues of aid. His own particular expertise was in picking up the pieces and, though I was frustrated, I felt emboldened by his company. I spoke to the artist before returning and when I got back she was hovering by the piece on the wall. To be frank, she looked intimidated by the amount of work she still has to do. It is not all ardour and loyalty in this household. There can be moments of domestic tension, especially when the subject of the artist's work is raised. (The same place where the artist gets her strength is the same place where she also gets her frustration.) Anyway, the issues she has are now being worked on as I write this blog. I can hear that familiar dabbing and stabbing. There is no rest in this house. We are always striving. It is not helped by the fact the children are still awake and we are all in one room. But, and I must try to remember this, diligence is not explained by success alone. We may not have our rewards, but we most certainly have our creative and functioning aspirations. As I peer over the brow of the day, I can see the next excitement, too. It comes in the shape of three family birthdays in the next six days, including the two children's birthdays. There are always birthdays. Even in the war-zones. But ours are ours.

Stinging criticism

On the artist's behalf I've sometimes likened the art world to a kind of wasps' nest; I'd no idea one of my first tasks in the foothills would be actually to destroy one. A busy nest, you see, established itself under the guttering close to the top of the Artist's Parents' house. It's a building in which a local mine used to keep its explosives - for primary and secondary blasting - so it's suitably robust. This robustness doesn't extend to warding off the wasps, though - yes, those velvet ants again - with their sharp tapered abdomens and black and yellow stripes. 'Conflict resolution,' I'm told, and I'm suddenly sitting there with some extremely flammable nest destroyer foam in my hand, reading about its killing power. (If it destroys karma, I hope not mine: I've had enough stings to last a lifetime.) Anyway, I stand up and shut the upstairs window. A ladder is out of the question. I open the dining room window, the only one with reasonable access. I lean out, look up at maybe 50 wasps. (I'm doing it for the children, I tell myself.) I try my first few yellow-belly squirts, beginning with a 5-second take-that-you-beautiful-strangers-I-don't-really-want-to-be-doing-this ejaculation. They hover and turn. I fire another. This one's a God-I-hate-doing-this-to-you-I-can't-believe-I-am shot, followed by a boy-now-I've-started-I-ain't-gonna-stop kind of shot. One of them has it in for me. (Look who's talking.) Just as they're about to surround me under buzzed instructions from the aforementioned zealot - a waspy kind of word - I dash back in and slam the window shut. Phew. I stare out, still panting. One of the wasps - yep, pretty sure it's him - lands splat on the window - right in front of me: head-height - and begins its slow and long slide down the other side of the glass, leaving a tiny trail of despair. I'm sure he's trying to tell me something. (Now I really do feel bad.) Oh, no. At least 100 are gathering now... A few hours later, I peer up like a colonial officer and check the state of play. All quiet on the western front. (I wasn't trying to make an exhibition of myself, really.) Ruddy art world.