Where being normal is abnormal

Here I am: Surrounded!
In the room next to me: an artist.
In the other room next to me: an artist.
In the room opposite: an artist.
In the room below: an artist.
And in the room above: Of course! Another bloody artist!

They sleep until lunch time and they never ever work during daylight. And they try very hard to dress in a unique way - which makes them all look alike. Every day when I come home and cross the canal and see weird stockings combined with weird skirts and weird hairdo under weird hats, I know: I'm on the artists' territory. I watch my pale, pierced flatmate watch telly and just can't help it: "S. - you study "fine arts", don't you? How come I've never seen you draw anything?" -- "No::no::, my drawing is private." I see. "I wouldn't even sho:: my tutor. When I have to hand in my sketch-book, I sellotape it so:: that he can't o::pen it!"

How clever! Dear Prof. A., here you are: my Master's Thesis. I've sellotaped it just in case you thought you could read it. Nono, sorry, but my thoughts about dear Isabel Archer are - well - private!

Before I sellotape this blog: some pictures of beautiful Co. Kerry where I spent 10 splendid days with my family.