Scribbles and bits

Last night as sleep took the guise of Bin Laden I began to realize that I haven't drawn in years. As an artist that seems illogical as my work is spawned from the razor sharp tip of a micron, carefully scratched onto a porous surface. But that it seems, is but a means to an end. Idea's must take form and the pen seems the most direct route. But the simple bliss of sketching, the endless spirals of doodles cascading across the page has been forgotten by this dodgy old coot.

Well, no more I say. Today I picked up a number two pencil with one of those triangular erasers perched upon the tip. The kind that I use to convert into space ships as a lad, complete with crumbled paper flames and pew-pew laser sound effects. With trepidation I proceeded, fearing I had forgotten the ways of this wooden sword. But plunge forth I did and so begins a new phase of this sad little blog. So suckle upon the breast of my artist genius my little ones! This old cow has one or two shakes left in him.