"When I am abroad, I always make it a rule never to criticize or attack the government of my own country: I make up for lost time when I come home."*

We are back now from our successful long birthday weekend in the countryside. The children have just had their hair washed and are supposed to be in bed. But I can hear them whispering from their bunks, like softly mutinous bedfellows. The artist is in the kitchen making hot milk and wiping surfaces. I am at the round red table and have been going through numerous details relating to the fresh confirmation I have just received for my imminent trip to the war zone. It is strange being back in the city after the beautiful segue we undertook to the countryside. The traffic outside our little flat sounds louder than I remember and the footsteps from the flat above seem almost intrusive. But footsteps are the least of my issues. I have a lot of sorting out to do. Meanwhile the artist now puts on the kettle, having given the hot milk to the children. It is funny how something as seemingly inane as the particular sound of a kettle signifies more than anything that feeling of being home. (A few minutes later, I take a sip of hot peppermint tea.) I must go running tomorrow morning, I am thinking. The artist will no doubt return to her new piece in the morning with a kind of unharsh vengeance. She will be remembering again that she has a visit - we hope - from the elusive but important gallerist in a few days time. I must admit, the greatest rush I felt when we stumbled in after our journey was seeing the artist's work on the wall again. For example I was impressed by how much of the colour violet she has managed to incorporate into what is a dramatic piece. In fact, the pet name she has given this piece is the name of the country I am bound for.
*Winston Churchill (1874-1965)

Mobile: On

The car cut through the mobile phone masts, where once there was countryside, and the sun slapped on the fields with a kind of old pal heartiness. At one point by a junction we saw a jay in one of the trees and as the cars pulled away again I thought about the car crash the other night involving the police van, and the small article I read today in which it was stated that nine people had been injured that night, three of them seriously. Now I am in the office of the artist's brother, an amateur pilot, with whom we are now staying for a few days. In fact I am typing as quietly as possible as the artist and our daughter are trying to sleep in the next door bedroom. The artist is still unwell, but her spirit has not flagged entirely. Being away from her work does not help. But she is with her family and that must be important otherwise she would not have made it such a central theme these past eight years in her work. Mind you, sickness - the other present theme - has never featured in her work. Not if you exclude the three toy bears with their knotted and worn faces that she once did and which now belongs as a triptych to a collection across the ocean I believe. No, I had never seen so many mobile phone masts as I did this morning. Portals to so much dead language. Relay systems for neuroses or idlenesses. I can hear our own relay system of coughs in the other room. At least we are mobile.