For those of you who knew Ray's garage - even only in photographs - this is surely a startling sight. No, I didn't clear every last old miscellaneous piece of wood, every rusting screw, and every might-possibly-be-useful-one-day dismantled electric plug myself: mig ht I recommend a firm called Clearabee, who were efficient and cheerful and helpful; took the remaining power tools off to new homes; took away, too, one elderly bed and mattress (revealing dessicated cat turds, etc, on the carpet below), and another no longer functional mattress ... so this was all a huge relief. But that space! Now, just to find how to get rid of paint cans that still have liquid in them; flammable fuels, etc, which (and I knew this) they couldn't take.
For my part, as well as more, yet more, and more again dealing with various forms of things that haven't departed to LA, I took a particularly loathsome painting that my father bought a while back to an auction house in West Norwood (so loathsome that Tom Edwards, at Abbott and Holder, where Ray bought it from the previous owner, couldn't stand it either - a fanciful harlequin guitar player in a generic idyllic landscape serenading three scantily clad young women - by Claude Harrison - it is even called "Autumn Dollies." The South London scenery from the train was rather good ...
Without any mattress to sleep on, I've now decamped to a nearby hotel, off Wimbledon Common;
So one last wake-up view, from this morning, showing the rewilded meadow;
and this is just to prove that I'm staying (mostly) cheerful!
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