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!"
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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 ..."
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