April 16: Art attack

Was planning to zoom up to London tomorrow with mum to catch the last weekend of the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy. I love Van Gogh. Always have. Love his drawings, his people, his charcoal figures, sketches of a humble life long past-by. Love him. And multi-coloured on-drugs Kandinsky too. If I had to have two dead artists to a dinner party, I think it might just be them. Ooooh, but what about Picasso.. ooohh, and.. Why did I start this again? I must confess though, I'm not terribly into the Masters (the artists or the golf, come to that). Don't know too much about them (unlike FTB who could ramble on for hours)... didn't go to private school or do a Kate Middleton pashmina-central History of Art degree. Clearly, I missed out.. I mean, look where she got with hers. I could have snagged a Royal. Still think I might have prefered the wild, wavy-mass-of-hair-under-a-turban look. The Royals are all baldies. You'd never get William in a turban.
Anyway, don't think we're going any more. My yoga teacher went on Thursday and queued for two hours. Mum's arthritis is chronic at the moment. You can hear it in each syllable as she speaks. The words come tumbling out, breathy, but with walking accompaniments of held-in pain. And I'm not a barrel of energy either. Don't think we could cope with two hours stood up. What if my nipples got cold?
So what to do instead? Perhaps a Saturday of mooching around Bristol's Park Street? Eating cake? Is this what happens when you hit seven-months pregnant, I wonder. All your grand plans and aspirations disappear like the winter snow. All you are left thinking about is cake.