where's the god-damned chiffon?

A girlfriend of mine turned Doctor today; she passed her viva voce with flying colours, and then we went out on the piss. For a moment, I felt a degree of envy in that she is, now, where I wish I was already, but all in good time I suppose. Besides, I imagine that the work and stress of the interim will be utterly thrilling, and that isn't something I want to pass up on.

I made an early exit from the off-facedness to attend a guest lecture at the Union where artist, Grayson Perry, was to speak about his work; it turned into more of an easy question-answer discussion than lecture, which is unsurprising, in hindsight, given his intensely sociable nature, apparent from the outset. He insisted we not hold back with our questions, and for a while, no one really paid heed, which seemed a little insensitive. So I asked him if he had been abused as a child and whether it had affected the nature of the pieces he creates. He smiled before answering. People got more brazen thereafter.

Talk ranged from paedophilia, classism in society, and the behaviour of the latter in the face of polemicism, to S&M (which Grayson enjoys), forms of abuse, and the meritocratic nature of the art world. It was free flowing, oftentimes amusing, and almost like talking to a friend; very pleasant in all respects. I just wish I had gone to the toilet beforehand as the porter ale went through me and my empty stomach something quick.

If he wasn't straight, married, not my type, and maybe a little too old for me, I'd certainly give his mind the time of day.

He didn't wear a dress because of the cold weather. Bleh.