I have become the most one-sided, limited, obsessed thinker, reminding me of the days when I was an aspirant painter. Then London, the place I came back to after youthful incarceration, was a series of galleries, museums, art shops and art bookshops. Nothing else mattered. Not pubs, nor discos, dancehalls or coffee bars.
Only places where I could see art, going north, south, east or west in pursuit of paintings and sculptures, drawings and watercolours to drink in. If you stopped me in the streets, a thin, underfed, rough-looking boy, you might think I might have escaped from an earlier Dickens time. Obsessive, repetitive, and probably boring to most.
How I managed to get through my day job as a bin emptying, path sweeping, fence mending, tree and bush trimming,…
