Ailz has just informed me she has an aspidistra to pick up some time today from a free-cycler. She'll probably take her mother with her this afternoon- taking a detour from their planned trip to Lidl. We get through a lot of aspidistras. Ailz loves them and says they thrive on neglect- only they don't. She neglects them on principle and I neglect them because they're so boring I don't notice them and the consequence is they die.
Ailz drew attention to something moving across my armchair. I whisked a pillow away and behold a mouse!- a very tiny brown mouse- all pointy bits and clittering claws- that leaped to the floor and ran like fuck. "I'm a little worried about that" she said later. "Afraid it's going to eat your aspidistra?" I asked.
Critters seem to be the running theme this morning. Ralph Steadman has just produced a book of paintings of extinct "Boids"- many of them imaginary- and there's an interview with him in this morning's Indy. The interviewer- admittedly a mate of his- says Steadman is a better artist than any of the people who get patronized by Saatchi and shown at Tate Modern- and I wouldn't be surprised if that didn't turn out to be true. He's as savage as the likes of Hurst and Emin and even- though I hesitate a moment here- those wicked Chapman brothers- but also wittier and funnier and much more of a craftsman. Art withers and droops behind gallery walls. It needs to be in newspapers and websites and sellotaped to the fridge. A caricature of Alain de Botton is mentioned "so graphically disgusting I can't think of any mainstream magazine that would print it." Sounds wonderful.
Alain de Botton is an arse.
Ailz continues to be worried about the mouse. She's had me down on the floor with a lamp strapped to my head investigating the bottom of the armchair in search of a nest. I didn't find one. I'm glad because what would I have done with it if I had? I like mouses. Always have done.