July 2011
I woke with a jolt after hitting my head on the window. It was 10 o'clock, but I could see that others had nodded off too, perhaps with the motion of the coach or, more likely, our early start. Looking around, I wondered what had possessed me to take part in a day out in Oxford with people I didn't know at all, although I knew a few vaguely from my Art class.
I heard a rustle of paper and noticed the reflection of the woman in front of me devouring her lunch early, like a child on a school trip. May and Wendy were across the aisle, mouths open, snoring gently. Sandra emerged from the depths of the toilet cubicle, only to be flung back in again as we turned a corner. She opened the door again and staggered up the steps, proclaiming that she felt as if she'd been tumble dried.
Our organiser, Pauline, got up and gave us instructions about our return journey times. I had been in the same class as her last year – icon painting. I think everyone was astonished at her choice of Hitler as a subject. It was either in very poor taste or she was a secret neo-Nazi posing as a suburban housewife. She was blue-eyed, slim and usually wore her blond hair swept up in a sort of 'French pleat' style. Even without the plaits, she reminded me of Helga from ' 'Allo, 'Allo!'
Everyone was squashing into the aisle in an undignified effort to be first to sign on for the practical classes. I decided to keep my limbs intact and was last alighting the coach. I bought an 'Art in Action' brochure in an effort to organise myself. I flicked idly through; it looked a bit complicated, so I stuffed it into my bag and wandered off.
'Bee-keeping' looked quite interesting, but I wasn't sure it was what I had come for. I hoped for inspiration with my sketching and . . . maybe some bargain price materials. Nothing was going on at the glass-blowing stand, so I nipped into the 'International Art' tent. There was a beautiful, delicate looking Japanese girl offering to write your name on a stone for fifteen pounds. Next to that were some impressive carvings of Indian deities and a half finished Ganesh, but no carving to watch, so I slipped out past the Moroccan sitting cross-legged on the floor. I'm not sure what he was actually doing . . . probably waiting for inspiration.
'A brilliant mix of visual delights and creative stimulation' promised the brochure. I didn't think I was quite there yet, so I strode off, determined to find it. 'Sculpture' sounded promising. I noticed some bronze naked ladies prancing about in a lively and amusing fashion. I definitely had to find the person who created these. I came upon a rather formidable-looking woman slapping clay on an armature. I decided to approach her. She was probably a barrel of laughs on the inside, I reasoned.
'Oh, hello, are these yours?' I gesticulated towards the fun-loving, frolicking maidens. She curled her lip and gave a slight nod.
'How do you make them?' I enquired, enthusiastically.
'From bronze.' she replied, glaring at me. I was still hopeful that I would find her inner fun.
'No, I mean, do you make them from clay, then make a mould and send them to the foundry or . . . ' I tapered off under her steely stare and backed away as it was dawning on me that she hadn't read the brochure where it said, ' . . . the warmest of welcomes to everyone.'
Oh, I just had to have a cup of tea, at least that wouldn't let me down. I sipped it gratefully and tried not to think about the £1.90 I was charged for the privilege. I tried to pull myself together, threw the miniscule paper cup into the bin and marched towards West Field Piazza, where the practical classes, and a cornucopia of treasures, awaited me.
I gazed at the board with all the exciting activities listed . . . and the 'sold out' signs next to them. I stumbled into the nearest tent, still determined to enjoy myself. 'Wibbly Wobbly Wood' greeted me. John, the artist, was stroking an amazingly lifelike wooden seal and John was actually smiling. I started off by wobbling the fish, then the octopus. This was the most fun I'd had all day. Then I gazed upwards and saw her - a mermaid with a marvellously wobbly tail.
'I'll have her; how much?'
'I'm afraid she's sold.' John said, putting on his most regretful face. The pebble glasses made him look rather seedy. No, he was just artistic . . . that was it.
'Haven't you got any more?' I demanded.
'I have to wait until inspiration hits me.'
To tell the truth, I felt like hitting him. I really wanted that mermaid. She spoke to me . . . something like: I know you've had an awful day, but I will make it alright. John leaned close to me, my heart raced; perhaps he had another mermaid under the counter.
'She's got rubber nipples, you know.' he whispered.
I had exited that tent faster then even I suspected I was capable of. I sat at the pick-up point, prepared for a long two hours wait.
Pauline shook me awake.
'We nearly went without you, we've been searching for ages. Thank God Vera notoiced you against the wall!'
I found my seat, trying to avoid all the accusing and angry pairs of eyes. As we rumbled off, an hour late, I contemplated that it was a fitting end to the day.