Well that'll teach me. I have over worked and made myself very sick. I ended up on a drip watching a very dirty man weeing and swearing his way around the A and E ward at St Thomas's. By the time four security guards had him restrained, he had upset stressed doctors, busy nurses and bloody patients. I had to think quick, 'just a little cut' from a scalpel brandishing medic, that has just been mistreated, was not something I longed to experience. I watched the doctor from afar and as he approached, through lethargy and sheer terror I summoned my best smile and bashed my short eyelashes fast, I muttered, "Priorities first doctor, I have a party tomorrow lunch time and lots of work to do, I really can't stay here, got any drugs?". The lovely but manic doctor, jovially attached me to a drip of antibiotics and some saline, and as soon as I was full, and it was empty, I got my infected self out of there as fast as I could.
Why is it that life is spent either doing nothing but drinking champagne and sitting under trees or dying of exhaustion? Will the artist's life ever change? Last month I thought I would never work again, this month I am so over worked I can't put anything in the diary for the next year.
“The canary bird in the coal mine theory of the arts: artists should be treasured as alarm systems.”
My blog, a thought or two