As a young man I used to stand and look at the LP covers in the window of Francis, a small independent record shop in Pound Tree Road, Southampton. In those days, with albums costing around 32/6, old money (about £1.50), look is all I could afford to do most of the time. I would cast a critical eye over the record sleeves on display and fantasize about one day, graduating from art college and designing them myself.

The standard of cover design back then wasn’t great. The best by far were the jazz and blues titles, notably for the Blue Note and CBS labels – both based in the USA. They were cool and being cool was what art students did. When folk became the new jazz, it spread rapidly amongst the cool generation, with Dylan and Baez as its King and Queen and the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan stood out like a beacon in Francis’ window in 1963.

In the cover photo, Dylan and his then-girlfriend Suze Rotolo huddle together against the cold as they walk along a snowy New York Street. To a student, ripe for impressionable, idealistic imagery, this romantic vision of the mysterious young troubadour and his true love struck home like a bullet, straight to the heart. And there it has remained, still able to bring back those times when we stood on the borders of the new frontier stretching far away into the future, waiting only for our boot heels to be wanderin’.

…now, eleven hours later, I wished I’d been paying more attention… or recorded it… or watched it with someone so that I could at least talk about it. But no: I sat there, sucked into a false sense of wellbeing, thinking that there were still a few minutes left, but didn’t calculate for the commercial break and then, it was too late. Gone. Forever.

Problem is - and it’s not new, I’ve always had it - is that when I watch things on screen, big or small, my concentration, well… wanders. I’m watching, but not watching if you get my drift. My attention does just that; it drifts to the peripheries, to the inconsequential corners of the plot. Never leave the room and expect me to fill you in on missed scenes. It won’t happen. If asked, I’m left stranded up some minor tributary of the screenplay, clutching at half remembered dialogue or action, while the main storyline flows swiftly on nearby.

And so it was last night. The family were assembling for dinner in the diner. Tony first, then joined by Carmella and AJ. They order onion rings as they wait for Meadow. She arrives in her car and struggles to park in the street outside. With only minutes of the series remaining, after all that’s gone before, all the treachery, violence and death, something will surely happen here. It must.

Back in the restaurant, a moment of snatched calm in a bloody sea of troubles, the family do what normal families do. They chat, share a joke, engage in banter, which only serves to raise the expectancy that something bad is about to take place. They have lowered their guard and so do I. I start to pay attention to the colours in the scene, all brown, beige and magnolia. Safe colours, warm, comforting, domestic. The guy that came in with AJ, now sitting at the counter, stands and goes to the washroom. I notice, but go back to colours - of the clothes, even skin tones.

Meadow finally parks and walks towards the lighted windows of the diner. Back inside the sound of the opening door causes Tony to look up, his eyes, always alert, raised under heavy brow. A hint of something in that look? Too fast. Then… black, the screen goes blank. I wait. Nothing. I wait some more. Still nothing, black the only colour. Then, at long last, the credits appear and…

I’ve just watched the last scene of the last episode of The Sopranos and…

To borrow from Lawrence Ferlinghetti, I am leading a quiet life at my place every day. My wife's not back from her trip to New England ‘till Tuesday, so I ‘m getting on with some work. Each day I take myself off to my studio, a thirty-five second ( I’m guessing) walk away at the bottom of the garden and paint. Between one and two I come into the house, make myself some lunch, then go back and paint some more. Then at six, I clean the brushes, tidy up a bit and come in and think about what I’ll have for dinner.

While painting I play music or listen to the radio. If it’s music, I often sing along. The studio’s double-glazed; the neighbours can’t hear me. Or maybe they can. How would I know? I don't mind if they do. So far, nobody’s complained. If it’s the radio, I talk back at it, just to make sure I still can. Talk, that is. Apart from my daily visit to the gym, I don’t do much talking. And there, it’s just a nod and a brief hello with maybe a comment on the weather. Even if crowded, gyms aren’t the place for prolonged conversation. Everybody’s too focussed on working out, their jaws clamped firmly shut in grim determination while they pump iron.

I did go to the shops on Wednesday, which involved a little chit-chat. But not what could be described as a dialogue. Just the usual P’s and Q’s and an observation on the age of a five- pound note given in change which the man on the till swapped for a newer model. Thoughtful of him, but in terms of initiating a stimulating a debate, a bit of a dead end. I did get an extra ‘thank you’ from the woman serving in the art shop when I gave her the right money, but what could I add other than a smile and a nod of acknowledgement?

I have had a few phone calls and made one or two. I’m not a great user of the telephone. I’ve got a mobile, but it’s rarely turned on. People complain, but it’s just not a big feature of my life, unlike the majority of the population who seem to have a mobile clamped permanently to their ear, seeming not to be able to do anything without telling all their friends and family all about it in every minute detail. Don’t get me wrong. I like a chat as much as the next person, but I don’t feel the need to inflict my personal trivia on all the people who happen to be within earshot. I wouldn’t mind if overheard mobile conversations were packed with juicy details or libellous scandal, but they rarely are: never, in my experience.

Yesterday evening I did get to talk, other than to myself. I went for a meal with my son and his partner. I talked for England. But today, it was back to silence, with only one phone call from a man trying to sell me medical insurance. I was in the middle of something and when I told him I was already covered, he asked if I could tell him who with. I said ‘no’ and hung up. Okay, a little rude, but I was cutting a picture mount which involves total concentration. Anyhow, I didn’t want to be sold something I already have. I didn’t ask him to call. If I want insurance, or double-glazing, or to switch my electricity supplier, I’ll make the call, they really don’t need to contact me.

This weekend, I’ve got people coming to stay so I’ll be guaranteed conversation, which is good. It does mean I won’t be able to get on, but I could do with a break. Oh, there goes the phone: an 0800 number. I don’t pick up. Not even to say, ‘no thanks’.

Having spent much of my time over the last thirty years or so producing commissioned illustrations, I can only marvel at how the internet has transformed the process. Once upon a time, not that long ago, if reference was needed it would mean hours, sometimes days, thumbing through books and magazines in search of the required items. Success was not guaranteed. If you struck lucky, it often meant buying an expensive book, sometimes for one image.

Google & co has changed all that. Just about anything that you'll ever want is a few clicks away using a search engine. Take today as an example. I've been asked to illustrate a company Christmas card featuring the three principals posing in front of a roaring yuletide fire, wearing 50’s style chunky sweaters. Once, this would have inevitably have meant searching the bookshelves of several stores for suitable reference, then shelling out for something that many never be used again. I have shelves groaning with books that haven’t been opened in years.

Now, I tap in ‘men’s 50’s sweaters’ and presto, up come the links. Within minutes I’m printing out pages of vintage knitwear. I do have a twinge of conscience watching the paper spew out in this age of conservation, but I can feed it back into the printer to use the reverse side when I’m done and then finally consign it to the recycling bin.

With the reference for the portraits and poses already snapped on a digital camera and sent to me via email, I have the main ingredients for the finished illustration in a fraction of the time with the minimum of fuss and bother. But I still prefer to fall back on old ways to create the final piece - paper, paint and brush. Then it’s back to technology to deliver the artwork with scanner and email. Marvellous.

Another frosty morning. It seems we’ve already had more icy starts this autumn than the whole winter period last year. But that may just be a faulty memory. The wires of mine crossed when I thought the word ‘frost’ and threw up a name: Robert Frost, the American poet.

At school, we touched on poetry but only rally skirted the edges. At my first art college, in liberal studies that took up one morning a week, we read a Robert Frost poem. As I recall it was titled ‘Wall’, although that may be another short circuit in the recollection department. Being a modern poet, - he may well have still been with us at the time - the words had a contemporary ring and opened up a new door for me.

Since then, I’ve collected a few volumes of poetry, mainly 20th century, one of my favourite writers being Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Another American, he was a contemporary of Ginsberg and one of the generation of ‘beat’ poets. I continue to dig out a volume of poems from time to time, but find that the best way to read them is out loud. They work better when accompanied by a voice. Not always possible, especially when reading on a train.

A favourite of Ferlinghetti’s is ‘Autobiography’, which he wrote to be accompanied by music. I stumbled across it on i-tunes a while back and downloaded it along with a few others. It’s a long poem, so I won’t attempt to reproduce it here, even if the copyright laws would allow. I’ll leave you with a short excerpt.

I have heard the sound of revelry
by night
I have wandered lonely
as a crowd
I am leading a quiet life
outside of Mike’s place every day
watching the world walk by
in its curious shoes
I once started out
to walk around the world
but ended up in Brooklyn.
That bridge was too much for me

My wife’s packed her bags and left me. Flown off to the USA. She went this morning. But it’s OK by me. In fact I gave her a lift: only as far as Heathrow, Terminal 4 though. From there she was on her own. Well, she wasn’t actually.

For a number of years now, during the autumn half-term holiday, my wife has done a trip with a friend of ours, Sue. They’ve been to Rome, Florence, Puglia, Venice, Madeira and this year, New England to catch the fall. The round trip will take in New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont and Massachusetts: all in 10 days. We did a similar thing a few years back, but in July in 7 days and we included Cape Cod, although I wouldn’t recommend it. Not the destination you understand, but the time we allowed. Not long enough for the distance covered.

Compared with the other road trips we’d done in the States, this one was very different. Driving down leafy, twisting lanes, passing two hundred year old houses fronted with close-cut lawns and mature shrubberies we’d remark, ‘We’re in Surrey, aren’t we? - for at times it was more like Shere, well, than Shere is. The top right hand corner of the ex-colony isn’t called New England for nothing. They even have roundabouts. But there they’re known as rotaries.

We also used to say that it would be good to return in the autumn to catch the trees turning. One of us has. Not that the decision to go without me was my wife’s. A feature of the October trip is that friend Sue chooses the destination. Besides, with the January exhibition looming ever larger, I really need to get on with my painting, or more accurately, paintings. Despite many hours already spent, brushes but a blur in my hand, progress is slow. Or it seems that way to me.

So, I shall content myself with the autumn colours that surround me here in Old England, which can give the leaf fall of the new world a run for its money and its right on the doorstep… quite literally. I must find time to sweep them up tomorrow at some point. And I’ve got the contents stored on the memory card of a new compact digital camera to look forward to seeing in 10 days time, with colours so accurate, so real, it’ll be like I was there myself, I’m sure.

I went to the dentist today, or, to be pedantic, the hygienist. Personally, I’d rather have a filling, even without anaesthetic, than spend half an hour with the young woman who performs this role at the practice I visit. It’s not only the discomfort, the main culprit being that nasty little piece of torture equipment that’s designed to lacerate the gums and make them bleed, but the lecture I get about my uselessness at cleaning the teeth. Although, this time, the admonishments were not as severe as those I received on my last visit.

This due to a handy little brush thingy that resembles a short pipe cleaner, called I believe, a tepee. Now I thought this was a circular tent like structure, made traditionally from bison hide, used by nomadic plains tribes that once roamed the prairies of North America and more recently adopted by new-age travellers seeking an alternative lifestyle, but there you are. It’s also a device for cleaning between your teeth, though probably with a different spelling.

Anyhow, since using this thingy on a daily basis, the hygienist was almost pleased with me this morning. She nearly smiled. Although naturally she was unable to award a gold star, as since I’ve been using the tee pee, the dental floss has been consigned to the bathroom cabinet. Or it would have been if I had one. To the bathroom shelf then. Big mistake. I should of course have continued to floss the teeth between which the pipe cleaner can’t be forced. Ah well. And I’m still not brushing correctly. I’ve got to take my toothbrush along in six months time for a demonstration. Can’t wait. It’s those right at the back that I can’t get at.

But for a while at least, I’ve got a smile as close to the flashing kind that I can manage at my age.

Hazardous drinking. Are those amber flashing lights I see before me with a sign that reads 'warning - slow down'?

‘I want to paint’, Kirk Douglas declared in the film ‘Lust For Life’, which had him playing the part of Vincent Van Gogh opposite Anthony Quinn’s Gauguin. The way Kirk spat out the lines between clenched teeth, his voice breaking in that way of his on the word ‘paint’, you’d better have believed him.

I also want to paint. And to prove it, I’ve started. Not with quite the same angst as Kirk, but I’m taking it seriously nonetheless, in fact, a little more seriously than I originally planned. My first thought was to build up a body of work over twelve months or so, choosing subjects that took my fancy, then show the paintings to a few gallery contacts and see what, if anything, came of it. A chance meeting with a painter acquaintance rapidly changed all that.

She happened to mention that a local gallery had a vacant two weeks at the beginning of January – the remainder of 2008 being fully booked – and would I be interested. Why yes, I said without a second thought, I would. Great, she said and gave me a name and a contact number. Without delay I made the call and the gallery was mine.

When the second thought did finally arrive, it came with the realisation that I had to fill the walls of a medium sized gallery. With what I wondered? My first thought was photographs. Then I thought, why not include some paintings? Problem was, I was less than three weeks into my first attempt. I had three months - taking Christmas as the deadline, which allows time for the paint to dry - to complete the three paintings that will make up the series I’d planned. A generous amount of time you may think, but each painting is made up of four 12” canvases comprising a sequence of portraits. With the current rate of progress, painting for an average of 5-6 hours most days, by my reckoning I should just about do it.

The rest of the space I shall fill with paintings borrowed back from various owners, some original artworks done for record sleeves and some photographs. With a push and a shove I’ll hopefully be able to do the space justice. And I have a title for the show based on the content: Stars (paintings and record covers), Cars (photographs) and Chutzpah (more photographs).

I’m looking forward to it. At least I think I am.

Having to be at the airport for an early flight recently, we decided to drive and park. Although we can get a direct train, they don’t start that early. A cab costs £50 one-way. So, checking the prices for parking the car, this is the option we chose. Leaving the house at 4.15 am the roads were relatively empty, although it’s surprising how early the daily commute begins for some.

The process couldn’t have been simpler. Completing the transaction on-line we arrived at the well-signed car park, retrieved our ticket from the automatic machine at the entrance and followed directions to the designated zone. We parked in a bay, took our bags from the boot, locked-up, checked that the lights were turned off and made our way to the nearest bus stop. The bus arrived after five minutes and we were in the terminal within ten. It couldn’t have been smoother.

On our return a week later we looked forward to a repeat performance, in reverse. It began well enough, although we did find ourselves on a bus that didn’t call at the appropriate zone. My fault. The driver did warn us with an announcement, but just as the bus was about to set off from the terminal. We’d been travelling since before dawn and reactions were a little sluggish by this time. Anyhow, it turned out not to be a great problem and we found our way from the adjacent zone in the mellow autumn sunshine. In the daylight it was apparent just how vast the car park was, with acres of tarmac as far as the eye could see.

The car was safe and sound where it had been left and I found the keys in my bag. Pointing the key fob at the vehicle, I depressed the button to open the doors. But instead of the familiar reassuring clunk and quick flash of the lights, there was not a peep, not a glimmer. Nothing. The car sat there, unmoved and lifeless. I tried it again. And again, nothing. Simply the sound of silence. The car was out for the count. Dead.

My first thought was the battery. But how? I was certain that I’d turned out the lights a week before. I remember looking back as we walked away for one last check. And anyway, they go off with the ignition. What then?

I opened the driver’s door with the key. This done it was possible to manoeuvre the bags into the back seat, as the remaining doors remained firmly shut, unable to be opened from the inside in the car’s comatose state. At least we could sit down as we waited for the AA to arrive. They said that help should arrive within the hour when I phoned.

An hour later I called again to check on progress. Another fifteen minutes the lady said. After ten minutes they called back to say sorry and that relief was a further fifty minutes away. In the time that we’d been sitting there, forlornly watching planes roar overhead at three-minute intervals, we could have driven home and back and halfway back again. Frustrated and mad at myself as the probable cause of our mystery predicament I went for a stroll.

Within minutes of leaving the car, a van appeared and made straight for me. The CCTV cameras had no doubt alerted security to a lone figure wandering aimlessly around the otherwise deserted lot, with no bags and making no attempt to make contact with a vehicle. Comforting to know that the vigilance was so sharp. A cheery man with a beard asked if all was OK. No, I replied and told my tale of woe. He diagnosed a flat battery and summoned immediate assistance. He asked if the locks and ignition were activated by a key with remote transmission. When I answered yes, he said, ah, that’ll be it then. It’s the planes. They can affect the signal. It happens all the time apparently.

Another van soon arrived complete with jump leads and in seconds, like Lazarus, my car was brought back to life. I phoned the AA and cancelled the call-out. When I mentioned the plane effect to the man who took the call he said that was a new one on him and he’d make a note of it. But the man in the van had no reason to make the explanation up, so I’m inclined to take his word for it. Thing is, will it happen next time I leave the car under the flight path?

Regular readers of my blog may have read the piece I did a while ago on Moe, owner of Albanese Meat and Poultry, a store on Elizabeth Street in New York City. I was surprised and delighted to get an email from his grand daughter last week confirming that it was indeed Moe who had appeared (the other being Robert De Niro) in a Martin Scorsese directed TV commercial a few years back.

What are the chances of that? Of all the blogs in all the world, Moe's grand daughter happened to be a reader of mine. I was thrilled.

Below is the picture of Moe I took on one of my visits two years ago.

It started calmly enough. The weather had turned two days ago. The first had seen high cloud spreading in around early afternoon. On the second day the rain came. A succession of showers, driven inshore by a swirling wind, raced across the island low and hard, falling in large drops at first then intensifying, sweeping down in sheets and sending up a fine mist as it hit the rocky ground.

The third day had started dry, with the cloud breaking but refusing to retreat beyond the horizon. We scanned the sky and decided to take a chance and ride the bikes into town. This would take about forty-five minutes, time enough we figured. We were right. If anything, the weather was showing signs of clearing, the cloud giving away, albeit with some reluctance, to a growing patch of blue. We indulged ourselves at our favourite café with a house speciality – two homemade plum sundaes. Loaded with calories, but the bike riding would go some way to burning them off. Besides, we were on holiday, time enough for tedious self-control once we were home.

The thought still in our minds, this being our last day for glorious excess – for the next day we’d be leaving - we decided to break the journey back to the apartment and stop off at a beach bar for a good lunch. We set off on the back roads, the thick pungent aromas from trees and wild herbs, refreshed by the recent rains, hanging heavy in the warm air. We passed fields, bordered with dry stone walls with olive trees growing, their extended branches held aloft with forked stakes, hobbled goats and sheep grazing beneath. The red volcanic earth glowed in a sun now clear of cloud.

Cycling past the direct route to the bar, we planned to leave the bikes on a beach closer to home and walk back along the shore. Despite the doom-laden forecast from the café owner in town, the day was improving, the heavy cloud now pushed back to the outer reaches of sky close to the horizon line.

Taking time, we ambled along the shoreline, eyes down looking for treasures blown in on the heavy surf of the last two days. By the time we reached the bar the sunshine had lured the first sunbathers back to the beach, recently denied their addiction to tanning and desperate to make-up lost time. A glance skyward showed a growing dark cloud forming over the distant headland, but moving steadily away, leaving us in the clear. Satisfied that all was well, we took our seats and ordered.

An hour passed and as is the way on small islands, things are often not what they seem where the weather is concerned. The thickening cloud suddenly began moving against the direction of the wind, quickly covering what had been an azure sky with menacing grey. The freshening, cool breeze drove the patrons seated outside to seek security under the roof covering the terrace.

Waiters gathered in a huddle and scanned the heavens. After a brief exchange they hurried away, soon returning with the handles needed to wind down the heavy-duty awnings that surrounded the terrace. This done, they then added ropes, lashed to the roof pillars to prevent the sail-like protective walls from whipping around in the blustery wind.

Despite the leaden, slate coloured skies, the rain held off. A family of four seated next to us paid their bill and set off along the beach, deciding to go before things got worse. Influenced by their move, we decided to follow. Jackets zipped, hats pulled firmly down, we struck determinedly for home, the wind at our backs, propelling us along. A glance over my shoulder confirmed the mistake of our foolish gamble.

Above us was a scene from ‘Close Encounters’. The inky firmament billowed and swirled, rising ever higher, about to engulf us like the cloak of some malevolent pagan god. Surely at any moment the blackness would part and some giant alien ship would appear. But no. All that came was the first few splatters of moisture. We were caught in the open, with no time to make it back to the bar. Ahead, the only shelter was a scattering of wooden huts built by local fishermen to house their boats. We started to run.

Hunkered down in the first shelter was the family who had left minutes before us. We exchanged a snatched wave and pressed on to the next hut. The rain was now driving horizontally along the beach. Lightening flashed all around as we reached shelter; the light had turned to an eerie unearthly orange. With the boat taking up the majority of the space we used its bulk as added protection, crouching down behind it, the storm outside now raging in its full fury.

The sea, a few metres away, was a churning cauldron, the turquoise waves topped with florescent bubbling surf. Thunder came crashing, the wind screamed, the rain lashed. Before long the rustic construction around us showed its weaknesses. Water began to pour in from all directions. Spray blew in from the open ends. Soon there was nowhere to hide. We began to get wet. With the wet came cold. It was easy to understand how people succumb to exposure before too long in such conditions. Outside there was no sign of an end to the deluge.

How long we were there I don’t know. It seemed long, but was probably no more than thirty minutes: Long enough. Then, as quickly as it began, the rain stopped. We emerged cautiously, like soldiers on the Western Front following an incoming barrage. The dusty beach of two days before was now a sodden scene of desolation. Small rivulets ran from the dunes, over the rocks and poured in waterfalls into the sea. We hopped through spreading puddles, then along the slippery boardwalk back to the bikes.

Safe home, a steaming hot shower soon restored us. Then we could sit back in the comfort of warm, dry clothes and recount the spectacle and power of the elements. Truly, a wonder to behold.