So, here I am, one year later, standing at the bottom of Milsom Street painting a big mother of a picture and my stomach is barely registering on the nerves scale. Wow, we've come quite a way - you, me and my trusty easel. Oh and Darcey too - there she is again, obviously a regular now on the Bath busking scene. I nod an acknowledgement and she winks back - one of these days we'll have to have a conversation.

The painting seems to come together despite having to invent some sunshine and the inevitable vans blocking the view.

Some guy: "Why is it always raining in your paintings?"

I ignore the obvious fact that he's referring to Pete's paintings so incensed am I that he thinks it's raining in the picture: "IT'S NOT RAINING!". I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Some guy replies: "It looks good anyway."

Go on matey, just keep digging.

I've remembered my pencil today so I manage to do a bit of line work around the edges (somewhat self conciously as I'm pretty sure no-one has the faintest idea what I'm playing at).

And look there's that little guy with the blue hat from yesterday. He's still looking really angry and he strides right up to me. I know him - big blue hat with a bell on the end - it's Noddy. He come's in far too close, really invading my space, he leans in and whispers, "I thought I put a stop to you before?" What's he talking about? Thoughts spin through my mind and then it clicks - the funny hat, the beard - but hasn't he read the blog? Doesn't he know it's Clint - the look - Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare, etc etc - not Big Ears. I don't know what to say - my mouth works but the words come out wrong, "No, I'm not ... you've got it wro..." He doesn't register my mumblings and before I can stop him, he's grabbed one of the paint brushes, turned it round and he shoves the point hard and up into my stomach. I hardly feel it as it pierces my gut and on through something vital. Surprise registers across my face as warmth spreads from my stomach down, across my top, my jeans. "No, not Big Ears," I manage to rasp, before slumping to my knees, "Big Nose maybe. Heh." But I can't laugh there's something in my throat. I can't talk anymore. Can't breath. But the painting, I haven't finished the painting ...

A crowd starts to form. I see Noddy slip away between the closing figures, muttering, "merde, merde, merde ..."

"Hey did you see that?"

"Is he okay? Someone call an ambulance."

"Isn't that Pete the Street?"

"No, don't be daft, it's Ben the Pen."

"No, no, it's Ben the Ten ....t, I'm sure of it."

"No," another voice chips in, "You're both wrong. It's Ben the Crap Painter Who Doesn't Sell Nearly As Many Paintings For Nearly As Much As Other Painters With Good Rhymey Names." Ouch - the truth still hurts.

"Quick, someone do something ..." and then I hear no more.

Meanwhiiile

"Quick Robin, to the bat poles!"

"You mean ....?"

"Yes, Robin, it's Ben the Ten ...t."

"Holey Canneloni Batman, not ...?

"Yes ... Robin, stabbed to death with his own ... paint brush by none ... other than that fiendish kingpin of crime ..."

"You mean ..."

"Yes, Robin .... Noddy!"

bublelublelebleblelublelublelum

Layteeeerrrr at the Bath City Morgue our crime busting duo finish examining the body ...

"Come on Batman, let's go!"

"Just ... hold ... on ... a minute Robin. Now is ... not the time ... let's ... pause to remember this ... champion of ... landscape art ... a career cut ... tragically ... short ..."

"Jumping Jehosaphats, Batman, take a look at this."

"What ... is it ... Robin?"

"This paintbrush. It look's like one of Pete the Street's!"

"... by jiminy, Robin, you're right. Good ... work. The ... plot ... thickens."

"Now do we go?"

"Yes ... Robin ... we've got some street cleaning to do ..."

bublelublelebleblelublelublelum

I'm walking into town. The easel is heavy, the board, bigger than usual, adds to the weight and I have to constantly shift it from arm to arm. As I swing the easel around in front of me the board briefly squares up across the pavement and I hear a sudden curse from behind me. The cyclist swerves to avoid my manoeuvres and manages to stay upright - just. A close call. Too close - I've got a bad feeling about today. (When did it become okay to ride bikes on the pavement?)

I continue up along Queen Square. I'm not thinking straight - head's fuzzy - maybe I'm just trying to think of what I'm going to write in this blog, maybe. I pass a familiar face and for an embarassing period I can't place her - we're out of context. And then it clicks, a neighbour and I smile and say hello but struggle still to find words through the fog. She rescues me with a question about where I'm going and we're okay - brief exchange and then move on. Strike two - definitely going to be a bad day.

Milsom Street - here we go. Time to suck it big boy. I walk down to the wide paved area at the bottom of the hill planning to stand next to a handy solid wall that doesn't block any shop front. I'm out of luck as some market stall holder selling his multi-coloured wellies has set up before me. I could tuck myself into a doorway next to Russell and Bromley, but the angle isn't good. No, there's nothing else for it - I'm going to have to stand out in the open, in the middle of the pavement. The familiar nerves start churning in the pit of my stomach, but sod it - I've been warming up for this for too long.

I set up the easel - once again I've executed some rapid repairs and the problems of last week shouldn't reoccur. The masking tape is still holding. And look there's the bird shit that I still haven't got around to cleaning off. Ha - and one leg is still shorter than the other where the foot snapped off in London. We've been through a bit - my old easel and me. It was second hand when I got it and needed some repairs even then - five years ago or whenever. And, get this, (drum roll for the big reveal) it was Pete's easel. Swapped it for a now, well obsolete portable telly. Feeling confessional (and a bit embarassed by my miserly whinging last week about the price of brushes) not only is the easel one of Pete's cast off, but so are all my brushes.

So there you have it. I've got Pete's easel and Pete's brushes and I'm painting in Pete's spot. It's all too clear - deep down - I can't hide from it - I must want to be Pete the Street. Ah, but I can't claim the title of the original, a pale imitation, more apt maybe is Ben the Pete. Can it be? Was I really so blind all along? The questions whizz around my head as I set up and start to paint. I find myself surprisingly calm. Is this the power of the Pete? I don't know, maybe it's my new found confidence with the bigger paintings - even despite getting all the angles wrong.

Hey look - there's Darcey Bussell, busking over there. She looks a bit chilly in her tutu, but the leg warmers must be helping. She's doing improv ballet. I wave over at her and she smiles back - she can't wave because her arms are striking a pose. Sorry Darcey - didn't mean it about your singing. You're the best.

I have reassessed my singing standards. Having started learning to play the guitar (and naturally singing along) I find myself having to whisper the lyrics to avoid grimaces and wincing from anyone in the vicinity.

This funny little kid comes by with a strange blue hat. He sees me and scowls, hurrying along past me. He pauses in front of Darcey to toss a coin in her upturned hat before continuing on his way, but not without another glance and scowl in my direction.

The black van sitting in the middle of my composition refuses to move. It's colder than I thought it was going to be and my stamina quickly wains. As I start to pack up two things happen:

1. A tramp comes up and talks to me. He regales me with tales of his travels to St Ives (It's too overrun now - not like it used to be), his past (Lurid and keeps him warm at night), Europe (Not like it used to be - can't kip under an olive tree anymore), politics (back in the day he gave it to Tony Blair and Maggie Thatcher), and many other things besides. In between the tales he accosts a passing Big Issue seller - 'Don't conform - you're only playing their game' - no idea what he means by this. He obviously doesn't conform though, with his floppy hat held on, bonnet-like, by three colourful ties.
2. The black van moves.

It's a conspiracy - everything's against me. But. I quite like the painting. Maybe the day wasn't that bad after all.

Wind, rain and recycling days don't mix. There's rubbish all over pavement by the studio, soaked cardboard and screwed up empty plastic bottles, oh, yes, and a broken umbrella. The mess is replicated all down the road into town.

A woman walks out of her front door being dragged by a dalmation. A lot like the opening scene of 101 dalmations - probably my favourite disney movie, just cos of the backgrounds. Bring back proper animation, that's what I say - who cares if they can computer animate every single hair on the body of a donkey (okay, I know, shrek is good) but gimme south park, the simpsons, wallace and grommit or the nightmare before christmas any day.

Back to now, whenever now is. I'm short on some paint and some fine brushes so I head to the supplies shop. Jesus Christ quality brushes cost a fortune. I settle for one new small hog brush, splashing out a shocking almost £3, leaving the more expensive sable-like brushes I really want for another time. At the counter I pick up a PB postcard advertising his upcoming exhibitions - the photo is a view looking up Milsom Street - damn he's good.

I head for Queen Square, but the lack of protection from the elements puts me off and I turn back, ending up in Queen Street (I think that's what it's called). There's a couple of art galleries - one is closed and empty so I guess it doesn't really count and the other sells some stuff which I can't think of anything nice to say about (ooh - that's a bit harsh, maybe it's just not my cup of tea).

I'm not really out of the wind as it gusts up the street but it doesn't seem as bad as the square. The masking tape is still holding, but when I set up the easel, for some reason there's too much give in it. I little bit of investigation reveals the problem - the damage from last week is worse than I realised as the blow must have wrenched and bent one of the screws that holds in the arm, making it impossible to tighten. The result is that the painting has about 4-6 inches of give at the top and as the wind catches the board it whips back and forward causing the inevitable difficulties when trying to work. As ever, the lazy painter in me roars into life (in a lazy, languid, more like yawning kind of way) - I'm here now so I'll be buggered if I'm moving. Not only is the easel all over the place but I've forgotten my dipper ...

A beggar comes up and asks for a couple of quid for the night shelter. How can he be sleeping rough - his clothes are immaculate? It doesn't take me long to conclude that my need for and rights to the money in my pocket trumps his and he walks on to try his luck with someone walking up the other side of the road. I feel no guilt. Why should I? Or maybe I do - why else would I be rambling like this?

I manage to get white paint all down my coat, just as another artist I know comes over and says hello. Not clever.

The wind just keeps on blowing the easel and annoying me. It starts raining. I wouldn't mind - the painting will probably look better with slick pavements and some reflected shop lights but I'm too annoyed and hungry. Unbelievably, the easel held, surely it can't go on much longer? Or is that just me?

If yesterday you had to be an idiot to go out painting, then today you've got to be a total plonker, cos it's absolutely chucking it down and there's no sign of it letting up. Yes, you'd definitely have to be a loon to go out painting today or ... maybe ... a stalwart painter dedicated to the pursuit of capturing the elements and keeping it real. Yeah. Right.

Maybe the rain will ease up.

I make some compromises to the weather:
1. I take a small board - it will get some protection with my d.i.y. painting cover thing.
2. I put the undercolour on before I leave the studios
3. Likewise I get all the paints ready on the palette and wrap the brushes up in a plastic bag.

That's it - let's do this thing.

I'm soaked before I'm half way to town. The coat does a fairly good job of keeping most of me dry, but my hat isn't waterproof and neither are the jeans. Still - what did I expect?

I walk through town looking for somewhere to set up that is vaguely sheltered and has a view. I try Abbey (not so) Green because it's got that archway, but it doesn't do it for me and I head back up to that alleyway with all the shops behind the main drag - the one with Ben's Cookies and the Silver Gift Shop. I've thought about painting it many times and what the hell - why not. Maybe the rain will ease up in a bit.

I set up next to a doorway so at least I can leave my bag out of the rain. The rest of me is gonna get wet (wetter). I set the easel up only to realise that it's taking the big drips from a roof edge somewhere above. I have to move it further out into the open. As I start painting I realise that I've only succeeded in moving the big drops on to my palette and my very un-waterproof wooly glove. Rather than move again I just try and hurry along with the painting, the glove is already soaked and I've started now.

Woman: "Oh, are you the one who does ...", she says and then glances at the painting which I've hardly started. "Ah, no, you haven't done anything yet," and she's on her way. What was she trying to say? Was she talking about the painting? Or was it a telling indictment of my life? I must be the one who does not.

Ah bollocks, just getting wetter and wetter. The gloves are sodden and it now feels like I've got ice packs on my hands. The sleeves of the coat have given up pretending to be waterproof and the hat is sodden, but I guess it is, at least, keeping my glasses clear. I try and slap the paint on as quickly as I can. There're still Christmas decorations up all over town. Unlit and after the event they look awful - they're hanging all across the passage and I leave them out.

Maybe the rain will ease up soon.

I get some odd looks - no surprise there - but I just concentrating on bringing the painting to a vague conclusion. Like the bigger pictures of the last few weeks I leave the outside unfinished. With a few gobs of orange for the lights and reflections I think it's time to make a break for it.

Twat or Stalwart painter dedicated to the blah blah blah?

Whatever. Roll on summer.

Back at the studio I lay everything out to dry - easel half set up spread across the floor with trousers, shoes, coat, hat and gloves all vying for a position in front of the heater. I shuffle about between the obstacles in a pair of sandals and my long johns. I know the easel is there, I should know, I put it there and I can see it plain as day, but still, as I step over it, the lip of the sandal catches the top of the easel's box lid. I try and lift my foot higher but it's caught and the lid comes with it. My momentum is carrying me onward and in slow motion I topple forwards. I reach out but there's nothing to break my fall apart from some paintings and I'd rather take the bruises. I collapse across the easel, the palette and a pile of wet clothes. Surprisingly I don't land too awkwardly and I sustain no real damage. Ah, but the easel. One of it's slender wooden arms lies snapped in two, like the twig it is. Will it ever work again?

It's p***ing down and blowing a gale. What kind of idiot would go out painting on a day like today?

I head off into town with my easel and board, all hopes pinned on the weather forecast this morning being accurate. I've left my painting trip until after lunch on the basis that the rain is supposed to have blown over by about two o'clock.

Wonder of wonders! I arrive at George Street just as the rain is stopping. I find a corner out of the wind, even though that appears to be dying down as well, and set up the gear. The board's wet from the rain, but a quick wipe down and I'm good to go. As much as I'm relieved that its not still bucketing down, it's going to be another grey painting and maybe it's just me, but with this new unfinished border thing, all the paintings are starting to look too alike - I've only done a few and already I'm getting bored of them. I might have to try changing the background colour. Next time. Or maybe just a bit of sun would help.

I slosh the undercoat on again and I get some more dribbly bits which I decide to leave. The drips race each other to the bottom of the board and I bet on one of them winning.

Come on rightey ... come one, you can do it ... yes! Get in!

Rightey wins and it's almost too much excitement for one day.

Back to business - I try and squeeze as many of the buildings into the frame as I can, starting from the right and working round I have to take a few liberties, but I just about get the front of the buildings on the left in. I start laying in the colour.

Nothing much happens.

...

Maybe it's cos I've got my i-pod on.

...

Rubbishy George Michael track comes on - how did that get there - quick fast forward.

...

Lucky we had the drama of the drip race.

...

Yeah, lucky, that.

...

One conversation of note towards the end of the session:

Him: "Were you the guy I saw the other day near the Farmhouse, painting, looking down the hill?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Fantastic." (It takes a second but I realise he's talking about the painting from the other day rather than my efforts this afternoon.)
Him: (Walking away) "You're not as good as him."
Me: Thinking - is that what he said, surely not (I've still got my headphones on). Could have been. What do I care?
Him: (Revised) "You could have been him." (Yes, that was it, that's what he said. I'm sure of it.)

Definitely, almost too much excitement for one day.

Watched 'Die Hard with a Vengeance' last night. Bad move. Didn't finish till well after midnight and today I'm a zombie.

I'm not with it - haven't got my new cap of Clint Eastwood power or my i-pod so I'm at the mercy of any old tom, dick or conversationalist that walks past. Like this one for instance:

"Nice painting." so far so good
"Great how you artists get that perspective thing." Still okay
"I'm on my way to the police station to get thrown out." A little unexpected
"I've been to the police stations in ..." (he rattles off some names of towns roundabouts, Bradford, Trowbridge and the like) " ... and they're all closed." Okay, so ...
"Can't believe it, closed police stations, but open prisons." Uh huh
"And what about those gypsies." !
"The police don't do anything." Heh - not sure where this is going
"They sit there with piles of stolen stuff and the police don't do anything." Starting to get a bit worried now
"We need more armed police." A little more concerned (visions of John McClaine (that'll be Bruce Willis in Die Hard) piling in to a field of gypsies, machine guns blaring and caravans exploding, briefly pops into my head - yippeekiyay **@!!!?**s)
"Yeah well. I'll leave you to it." Phew
"Nice painting." Thanks

Here's another one:

"Colours are so vivid in the wet." Good intro
"It's the moisture in the air." That'll be the rain then
"I painted Italy in the rain once." Okay, still with him
"One of them upside down." No, he's lost me.

Talking of the rain - today's rain is great for painting. It's sort of mizzling so it's hardly rain at all, but it's pretty constant so the ground stays slick and reflective, there's little wind and it's gloomy enough so everyone's got their lights on. Yep - great day for a rainy painting. Only problem is that this picture is too far gone to turn it into a rainy day scene, so I just stick with finishing off the twiddly bits - like the traffic lights and such.

Now, if that car is there and that light is red, and that pedestrian crossing must be red because those people are standing still, then that light must be red and that filter could be green, but then that would mean that that light would be green and there would be cars coming from that direction. But if I paint that light red and that one green then why haven't I got a car coming across there and would that pedestrian crossing be green or would it be red? I confuse myself and end up with a realistic enough looking but probably impossible combination which uses hardly any of the massive tube of electric green paint I've bought along specially.

Still, that will do. Overall, not unhappy with the results although, once again I got bogged down a bit in the detail, but at least the unfinished border means it's only limited to the central section.

And there you go too - blog number 100. Not long till the years up - got to get back on track and finish what I started. I'm happy with the big paintings now - time to take them back to town. Yippeekiyay nice people.

P.S. to last bog - and short. Yes that's the look - shortarse Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare, with stubble (I've trimmed my beard since Friday) and glasses and carrying an easel and paints and stuff and old scruffy clothes.

So here we are, the last day of the year. I resolved when I started this blog to keep it going for a year and that will take me, more or less, to the end of January, but I think this is a good point to pause and reflect on how far we've come, the massive strides we've made and the wrongs we've righted.

...

Okay, enough navel gazing (it doesn't make for pretty viewing), on with today's efforts.

Back to London Road (because of course I have the other tyre that needs to be replaced and so at last I will have a spare again). As I walk to Bella Zia's (still deserted and sad) an ambulance blares it's siren, weaves it's way through the traffic lights and heads off down London Road. As I set up it's followed by two more. Ten minutes later, sirens still going, one of the ambulances speeds back past me towards the hospital.

I keep going with the painting. My brushes don't seem as bad as last time - maybe it was just the difficult wind conditions - and things seem to generally go okay. I get a bit annoyed with the no entry sign as it's a bit central and in the way, but it's there now - maybe I'll take it out next time. I'm resigned to the fact that there will be a next time as I've left my traffic light green in the studio and I know better than to try and fake it.

Lots of people walk by - must be busy in town. Most of them look at the painting and quite a few of those pause and make an attempt at communication (despite the i-pod and lack of eye contact). Most prevalent it seems is a loss for words when they look at the painting close up. A couple of compliments give me hope, but overall the response is under-whelming. That said, it isn't the most picturesque of views, and let's not forget it is a grey and dismal day. I do some pencil work around the edges and, just to see, a bit on the no-entry sign, which improves it no end although the jury remains out.

Right, that's it then - my tyre is once again calling. I'll have to finish it next year.

Happy New Year to all of you out there in blog reader land (deliberately phrased to imply loads of readers). As I post this it's coming up to 6.00 and time, me thinks, for the first of many toasts to the old and the new and everything in between.

New location and new painting. I'm standing looking down the London Road (because it's near the tyre place and they're replacing my flat). It's even more blowy than yesterday - the forecast also said about the chance of heavy showers but I ignored that bit and I haven't got any wet weather equipment with me. I do, however, have my new lenin/mao-esque cap that I got for Christmas, or, as I like to think of it, my Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare look. Yes, that's it, spot on - Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare ... with a beard. Yes, definitely, Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare, with a beard ... and some glasses ... carrying an easel and paints and stuff.

Looks aside it has the added bonus of staying on in the wind.

I set up as sheltered as I can be. I've ended up standing in front of the empty shell that used to be Bella Zia's Hair Salon ('S uden   cuts for £8' apparently). The name conjures up an image of an italian siren with olive skin and long raven hair, which is probably what she wanted and I'm guessing the reality didn't quite live up to the expectation ... or maybe she just wasn't very good at cutting hair ... or she didn't charge enough ... or she charged too little ... or, and I think I'll settle for this one, she was just unlucky.

I put on the underpainting. It dribbles a bit at the bottom and I like the look so I leave it. My brushes are all getting a bit crap and when I get to the sky the worn out bristles pick up a bit of unwanted red which then streaks through the clouds. Again, I leave it as I quite like the effect.

It start's to rain and I wonder that I'm not getting wetter. I look up to find that Bella Zia is looking out for me and the three foot overhang is keeping the worst of the weather off. Thanks Bella - I believed in you.

I've finally sussed how to avoid most conversations. It's a combination of the ipod blearing out music (so I can't hear what anyone says to me), not making eye contact with anyone (most important) and the cap (of course). It works a treat apart from the guy who wants directions to the Francis Hotel, but I let him off and send him in the right direction.

That's it - tyre should be ready and the wind is making the crap brush do a crap job with painting the window frames.

I've forgotten my pencil so I have to leave any scribbling till I get home and then it's only a few doodles - a summary of the above I guess, so I won't bore you with it. I've concluded that I don't want to write too much on the painting if it's still a work in progress - the thought of people reading it while I'm painting is not appealing.