People put scribbles of paint up on a wall and idiots like my Mum spend good money on wandering round pointing at these 'works'. Er...excuse me...I hate to tell you this, but THAT'S A BIT OF SCRIBBLE. I produce neater stuff in my nappy.
Even the ones that are supposed to look like something don't really look like the thing they're supposed to be. If you want a nice picture of something, just take a photograph. I get photographs. They look exactly like the thing you are looking at. Very clever. And the ones on our stairs are a brilliant way of keeping Mum entertained as she repeats the names of every person in our family in them. Then she looks at me. I think that's because she's proud of herself. Either that or she wants me to copy her. If it is because she's proud, she needs to grow up - she's known all those people for almost thirty years. She should know their names by now.
Anyway, galleries. Not only are they are waste of time and money, they're also full of pretentious people who talk nonsense about the artistic merits of a urinal turned on its side or a half peeled banana. I reckon I could charge them good money to have a gander round the tray table of my high chair after dinner. For an extra 50p I've even let them give it a wipe an' all.
However, they have got one thing going for them. Only one, but it's a belter.
Galleries MAKE MY MUM QUIET.
I know. I didn't think it was possible either. She hardly spoke, which consequently meant that for once in my life, I could actually get a word in edgeways. And boy did I grab my precious window. Screams, shouts, squeals and shrieks echoed about the silent hall so raucously, so piercingly, so satisfyingly stridently that in the space of only one minute I managed to clear a significant proportion of the room, and returned Mum from pompous pontificater to the more familiar stressed, panicking, pleading, humbled husk of a woman at which we all point and laugh.
That'll teach her to go having ideas above her station.
A baby in a gallery...honestly. The lunatic.
BB xx
Even the ones that are supposed to look like something don't really look like the thing they're supposed to be. If you want a nice picture of something, just take a photograph. I get photographs. They look exactly like the thing you are looking at. Very clever. And the ones on our stairs are a brilliant way of keeping Mum entertained as she repeats the names of every person in our family in them. Then she looks at me. I think that's because she's proud of herself. Either that or she wants me to copy her. If it is because she's proud, she needs to grow up - she's known all those people for almost thirty years. She should know their names by now.
Anyway, galleries. Not only are they are waste of time and money, they're also full of pretentious people who talk nonsense about the artistic merits of a urinal turned on its side or a half peeled banana. I reckon I could charge them good money to have a gander round the tray table of my high chair after dinner. For an extra 50p I've even let them give it a wipe an' all.
However, they have got one thing going for them. Only one, but it's a belter.
Galleries MAKE MY MUM QUIET.
I know. I didn't think it was possible either. She hardly spoke, which consequently meant that for once in my life, I could actually get a word in edgeways. And boy did I grab my precious window. Screams, shouts, squeals and shrieks echoed about the silent hall so raucously, so piercingly, so satisfyingly stridently that in the space of only one minute I managed to clear a significant proportion of the room, and returned Mum from pompous pontificater to the more familiar stressed, panicking, pleading, humbled husk of a woman at which we all point and laugh.
That'll teach her to go having ideas above her station.
A baby in a gallery...honestly. The lunatic.
BB xx
No comments:
Post a Comment