The cottage that Harry and I will move into in just under 3 weeks is teeny. And very old. Teeny, higgledy piggledy house, with twisty weird steep stairs and peculiar cupboards in odd places, and hardly any kitchen at all. To get to it you either have to drive through the Longleat estate if the gates are open, or go down an impossibly narrow and winding road, or go 10 miles out of your way all the way round to the other side of the village and come in past the muddy farm.

Apparently the cottage used to belong to an old, old lady who had lived there all her life and who was either a bit mad or a Witch, depending on whom you ask in the village. (I am totally in the Witch camp myself, since you ask.)

And it's all totally fine, only I've got a picture trauma. A picture-which-you-hang-on-your-wall trauma. (Well, it's not so much a trauma as a small problem as I guess I can find somewhere to store them, but still...)

You see, the problem is that the whole of the new house is about as big as just one of the rooms in this one, so I have all these weird Victorian prints and photographs from my Dad, and random paintings by obscure artists and whatever that I really like and belong especially to me and which I really ought to take, but which are just not going to fit. In any shape or form.

And it galls me slightly, since I do tend to subscribe to the 'A house with Art in it is a better place to be' school of thinking.

But in thinking about that I have also noticed that when I don't seem to be feeling very artistic myself I tend to surround myself with other peoples creations, and maybe that's why I now have such a pile of it in the Bella's stuff corner of the sitting room.

So I think what I'll have to do is this: I'll just have to keep the 'Art in the cottage' by making sure that this time, this time I'm doing it myself.