Not so cold today, so I can wear my new cap again rather than the wooly thing. I'm getting ready to go out at the studio and someone asks me if I like sailing. I frown slightly, unimpressed. So there you have it, the definitive description of the look: shortarse Clint Eastwood in Where Eagles Dare, with beard and glasses and carrying an easel and paints and stuff and old scruffy clothes ... in a jaunty sailor kind of way.

I meant to try and fix the easel during the week, but I didn't get around to looking for the wood glue. It's one of the arms that support the painting that's snapped rather than one of the legs so it doesn't need to be that strong. I try a bit of masking tape just to keep it together and hope for the best.

The wind trundles me into town, catching the painting in gusts and dragging me forward. It carries me past a man hoovering the pavement (is it still 'hoovering'? Not yet 'dysoning'?). Why he's hoovering the pavement isn't totally apparent - he obviously doesn't like leaves - a quick glance into his open doorway reveals a spotless and uncluttered hall, so maybe he just likes his hoover and has run out of things to suck.

I leave him behind and set off for George Street. It's a blustery day, but there's no sign of rain so I'm looking to finish the grey day painting I started last week. Ten minutes later I arrive slightly out of breath and well warmed up - it must be getting milder because I take off my gloves (shame I can't do the same with the long johns). As I begin to set up, the sky gets darker - where did those clouds come from? I've not brought any wet weather gear, but I'm here now so let's just suck it and see - I guess we'll be getting wet again (me and my painting that is). The brushes get wet, the palette gets wet and the painting gets wet, but before everything becomes totally unworkable I manage to slap enough paint on to, I think, bring the painting home. By the time I whip out my pencil (new darker 4B pencil - pushing the boundaries) the board is so wet that it hardly takes.

And then ... the sun comes out. I can't do any more because:
a) the painting is too wet,
b) the scene has totally changed,
c) the reflection of the sun in the window on the top of that building is blinding me, and
d) it's finished, dammit.

Year's almost up - only one week left. Surely as I approach the climax to a years painting on the streets of Bath I should be building up to a big show stopping blog? A blog with wit, insight, tragedy. A blog that probes ... something. A blog that leaves the crowd, nay, the world, shouting, "More, Ben, more!"

Hmmm .... that'll be next week then.