By Mel Fawcett
When we were young you convinced me that one day you would be a great artist. That’s why I married you! At thirty, you were still telling me to be patient. At forty that was no longer possible. And by fifty, you had become a joke – except no one was laughing. But even when your mind began to wander and you couldn’t even remember your name, you continued to paint. Who would have thought that such deterioration would herald the long-awaited breakthrough? I’m sorry that I lost faith. And sorrier still that you don’t know how successful you are.
“I write because I can’t ride my motorbike all the time.” – the writer