The Bottle...

Who would have ever thought that I'd be sitting on my brand new chocolate brown suede lounge- directly beneath the antique pictures that my Grandmother gave to me?

I've had them in my cupboard for probably two years- I'd always planned to hang them up but the walls needed painting so badly I put it off. But since the fire happened lsat year we have had the house repainted inside; and the pictures look great against the cinnamon beige of the walls.

My George Cruickshank ORIGINALS. He was like the Gary Larson or Larry Pickering of his day; a social commentatorof sorts- if you like. They were drawn in 1858 and are a set of eight framed sketches called The Bottle. They're like the original 'cartoon cells' (for want of a better description) that were printed in the newspaper that Charles Dickens edited. My Hubby reckons they'd be worth more than our house. He's probably right. That's why I have no idea why my Grandmother gave them away to me; she doesn't even like me that much. (Who can understand rich, eccentric octogenarians? She's building a yurt at the moment on what's left of my Grandfather's farm.) My Mother's side of the family would go wild if they knew she had given them to me.

Suck shit I say.

The last picture in the series is of a madman sitting next to a cage in a lunatic asylum- that's the one that sits directly above my head. I made it that way; so that I can sit beneath the crazy husband. It's where I'll probably end up, too.

I'm really enjoying the dramatic effect that they are creating; my eyes are drawn to them time and again.

The picture of the happy couple having their first drink from the Bottle.

The picture where the husband loses his job because of drunkeness.

The picture where they have to pawn their belongings so that they can keep buying the Bottle.

The picture where they are begging in the street to buy more of the Bottle.

The picture where they lose their youngest child through neglect.

The picture where the husband, fuelled by anger and the Bottle, is beating the wife.

The picture where the husband cracks her on the skull with the Bottle and kills her.

I hope it's not the life I get because of my own attraction to the bottle.

I'm listening to Harley and Rose (The Black Sorrows) play on the radio; thinking about the night when my Hubby and I fucked to it.

Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm....

More later.