“There is nothing that special to see when looking at me. I’m a painter who paints day in day out, from morning till evening – figure pictures and landscapes, more rarely portraits.”

Art is a line around your thoughts.

Even when I have to write a simple letter I’m scared stiff as if faced with looming seasickness.

There is no self-portrait of me.

After tea it’s back to painting – a large poplar at dusk with a gathering storm. From time to time instead of this evening painting session I go bowling in one of the neighbouring villages, but not very often.

True relaxation, which would do me the world of good, does not exist for me.

There is nothing that special to see when looking at me.

There is always hope, as long as the canvases are empty.

Although even when I am being idle I have plenty of food for thought both early and late – thoughts both about and not about art.

On my first days here I did not start work immediately but, as planned, I took it easy for a few days – flicked through books, studied Japanese art a little.

I can paint and draw. I believe this myself and a few other people say that they believe this too. But I’m not certain of whether it’s true.

Whoever wants to know something about me – as an artist which alone is significant – they should look attentively at my pictures and there seek to recognise what I am and what I want.

Sometimes I miss out the morning’s painting session and instead study my Japanese books in the open.

I have something to tell you non-smokers that I know for a fact that you don’t know, and I feel it’s my duty to pass on information at all times. Ready?. . . . Non-smokers die every day . . .

When evening quickens in the street, comes a pause in the day’s occupation that is known as the cocktail hour.

Ordnance Survey maps, tea and crumpets, summer showers and foggy winter evenings – every bit of it.

Enjoy your evening. See, I know that you entertain this eternal life fantasy because you’ve chosen not to smoke, but let me be the 1st to POP that bubble and bring you hurling back to reality . . . You’re dead too.

I love Some Enchanted Evening, and If I Loved You. And as I sing them more and more, I find new favorites.

The evening news is a concept whose time has come and gone.

I’ve yet to find the exact word to describe the enjoyment that an evening spent riffling through old pattern books can bring.

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in