I’m with Lou in her soon to be ex-workshop in Ditchling. The trust that lets these places out to makers and craftspeople has recently employed an estate agent and he’s turned everything to poison, as is their way.
I know his type very well. I looked him up online. Common name but I’m pretty sure the one I found in a flat cap and tweed smoking a cigar at Royal Ascot was the one I was looking for. Slappy cheeks and wet eyes. Just the right mix of inbreeding and money for him to be a toad and think he’s a prince. He’s been taught how to spell the word “perspective” and got no further. As he gets older he’ll spread and spread, he’ll never learn and he’ll make little versions of himself to drip the poison down through generations to come.
We are slowly taking everything out and bringing it in batches to a self storage until she can find an option in her area that is actually practical for a working person to have when it isn’t her only point of focus. To keep up with this one now, you either have to use it as your absolute primary, show up daily and slog to pay mister slappyface, or – as most of the people here – be from money, living a comfortable existence, occasionally bimbling around with a paintbrush to exhibit something at one of your clubs.
It’s a shame. It is a nice little room with a skylight. She dressed it up beautifully and the rent hoik took place just as her working life was angled towards her having the whole summer to use it. She had been looking forward to it. Ooh that little rich boy estate agent. I only googled him so I could have a picturetarget for my anger. I would have still hated him if he’d been playing with a cat. But all the external stuff in one image and that’s his social media profile, like he thinks that all that stuff means winning… Oooh he needs talking to that one. Needs coming down a peg or two he does.
Anyway, there’s work to be done. And cats to be groomed thereafter. And a storage locker to be filled cos of that prat.
AlBarclay 