My Own Waiting Game

Well, the artist continues with her diligent and focused mission to find a new gallery and have with her enough art for an exhibition, while I continue to urge her along like a quietly gesticulating and gum-chewing fan in the bleachers. However I am more than aware of my own projects as I monitor the horizon for facts. Reticently I wonder how much longer I can wait on the organisations dangling in front of me the prospect of work. It's frustrating, but I am keeping my cool. I feel sometimes like a deep-sea fisherman refusing to return to port until the net is full. These are projects I have been told are robust probabilities and not just polite possibilities. So why do I feel like I should be doing a great deal more to speed them along? Is this some kind of inadequate male thing? A frustrated hunter's instinct? A tangled work ethic? I have already done enough meetings to stop an entire conflict. There is one role in particular I want. Of course, too much enthusiasm can be mistaken for impatience, and impatience with arrogance, and arrogance ... well, you've no chance with that. Some of my prospects are by-products of the pretty unusual desire these days which is to make some kind of valid contribution to the world by the way. Unfortunately this does not make any of them materialise any faster. I remain on standby. A sentry to luck. I know some of them will deem a blog impossible. Anyway, the artist still has her appointment in the new year to see the woman gallerist she liked so much. This has settled her spirit and should enable a smooth passage through the festive period. The artist's ex-boyfriend meanwhile continues to feature in the newspapers. I wonder if he'll come out of the experience any the wiser. He has already confused one or two of the major issues of the day with his own work, I have also noticed. At least the children have it right. They were taken by their school to a pantomime today. When I asked them what they thought of it, our daughter said she didn't like it much and our son said that he did. 'It wasn't like mummy's work,' said our daughter. 'I liked the scary bits,' said our son. I smiled. 'It's good to be scared,' he added, looking me in the eye.