With an unusually leisurely amount of time to kill I sit in a cafe in Covent Garden on a cold afternoon. The coffee comes with a small glass pitcher of milk which I pour in. As I begin to scan the room for subject matter I realise that I have no water in my special bottle. I eye up the glass pitcher and decide to paint with milk. The texture of the paint drags a little but there are many likely candidates in this small establishment. After quite some time I notice that everybody else in here seems to have just as much time to kill as me. The waiter and the bar man do not leave the bar very much and several small groups of people come in and are led downstairs- this seems to be on some kind of unofficial business as the downstairs is not open to the public. I hope the milky paintings will not begin to smell.
