I feel strangely lacking in direction all of a sudden. I have had to reconsider my plans to mount an exhibition at the Almeida theatre in October, in conjunction with David Lebor, a poet, because the venue presents all manner of impracticalities as far as public access is concerned. I began to think that to hire a gallery such as the loading bay off Brick Lane sometime in July or August next year would be a much better idea. It would give the two of us much more time to prepare for the show, to develop the collaborative aspect of our work more fully, and to raise sponsorship since it will be a non- selling show. I don't want my heartfelt efforts to end up in one wealthy person's bathroom. Paintings should be seen by everybody. They belong in public collections.


With the strain of organising this exhibition in the immediate future off my shoulders, I suddenly feel beguilingly free of obligations. One gets used to the idea of having to do something for someone else. It gives structure to one’s life. What could be more frightening than breaking ties, freeing oneself from all obligations and the securities they offer and setting off in an entirely new direction, unchartered territory? It would require, as Paul Theroux put it: "four o clock in the morning courage"


Suddenly I feel like I am floating. I have to finish off this little portrait on oak of John Madden’s son Ollie (which along with a portrait of his sister Emma will be presented to their Mother Penny as a birthday present), do one or two other chores and then I am free. That freedom terrifies me because for once I’m not sure of the way forward. I am clear about long term goals, but not the short ones. Do I want an exhibition at all? I find myself posing the question "what's it all for?" I guess that scientist's predictions on Equinox last night, that life as we know it would end in the next century have rather disturbed my sense of equilibrium.