Dear Nessi

There is a scene in Being John Malkovich where the actor goes into his own brain and ends up in a restaurant full of exact replicas of himself. Mr Flea's birthday party was like that - full of men with grey hair who slurred their words, just like Mr Flea. The pub was the old sort that is disappearing from London, with stained glass windows, and some kind of brewery where all the tap and bottle labels looked like they were made in the1920s, even the colas.

Luckily Mrs Tigerlily was there, someone 'compos mentis' as she put it. She was tour-widowed again, as her boyfriend is off playing circus music in some Eastern European country. Meanwhile, the Lazy Violinist, sporting a new Cossack-like beard, had just picked up his new Russian love from the airport. They'd met on the Flea band's tour of Moscow. "Did she fly in EasyJet?" sniggered Mrs Tigerlily when the others were out of earshot. No, it was Aeroflot, of course. Power Pack and I watched them get on the 73 bus later, still pulling her little suitcase, and snogging before they'd even sat down. Ah, new love. I wonder if its real of if she just wants to get out of Russia.

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Thursday night we went to hell. No actually it was the OXO tower, and I just felt like hell the next day. The warehouse behind an old factory on the south shore of the river Thames is largely derelict and has chunks of mysterious grey stuff exposed from crumbling ceilings. Perfect spot for huge, monochrome Kafkaesque paintings. All of bald guys in the anonymous drone of life, being shuffled through endless corridors with impossibility high walls, or crawling beneath tortoise shells or hanging from trees. Painted in huge bold, layered strokes. Four floors of rooms in different states of disrepair, all hung with monuments to drudgery. Depressing content but uplifting technique. (Henry Dimple, however, hates this guys work).

On the top floor they had a live one-man jazz band, and waiters in tuxedos refilling wine glasses every few seconds. That was a mistake - but how can you say no to that?

I had been through 3 days of a new period - no heavy pain killers, no lying in bed. Day 3, I was home free, right? Bye bye detox, hello wine and cigars. Must've smoked 4 of them in one night. Next stop - "Art not War", the show where Mr Head had some work up. Met an Estonian who seems to know of the fruit-packing racketeers who my distant cousin worked for. She had postcards of the Caucasus - my great grandfather was from there. And pictures of the US civil war which he fought in. The Estonian chick has an 'artists visa" to stay in the UK ; she makes art against war, and art that criticises the Euro. Not bad. What is it about foreign conceptual art that makes it good but Brit Art stinks? Lack of any real concept perhaps?

Finally the pub, and I was at the stage where you don't know you shouldn't drink any more. I know we got 2 buses home but I don't remember being on either of them.

Woke up with the worst hangover I've had in as long as I can remember. Had to go to the gallery, had to go to the West End to get my slides done first. Set off on my bike, past the football stadium, up the hill, across All Hallows Road. Then pain started, all of a sudden. Within 3 minutes I was doubled up in agony. But I was too far to go home and besides I had things to do. I took painkillers and crept long, every bump in the road sheer agony. I wanted to lie down in a park but it was too cold. A GP (doctor)? I didn't pass any. A Chemist (drugstore)? Then I was in town and thought of my Danish friend who works at home. I feel bad for her and her boyfriend, they were both waiting anxiously when I arrived, after my phone call "I' m on my bike…in pain…" Miss Hanson (?) had been on her bike at their house the day she died.

Danish friend and bf let me lie down for an hour. It must have been swelling from the booze, something like that. Next month, no leaving detox until period is totally finished. It was hell and I thought I had done so well until then.

I made it to the gallery an hour late. Laid on the sofa chatting to visitors. Went back on Saturday to do the painting I didn't do Friday.

And still did not feel great when I woke up yesterday…

Petra