Norfolk 2005

This week The New Yorker magazine published this drawing by yours truly. Giving bystanders, witnessess, spectators, early readers, critics and the like, the impression that this is the latest offering from Hughes. A cutting edge up to the minute ink oratorio and in the process, after last month's proclamation concerning Hughes's New Yorker life, making him look like a complete flea grooming, scarlet arsed monkey. Dear follower this awkward appearing caricature has been dusted down, buffed up, nose wiped, poked in the back, had it's ear twisted and tweaked and pushed from the wings onto the page without my prior knowledge. Not a how's your Father? Not a good morning, not a even a sweetie caked in fluff from a scrunched up little paper bag long forgotten from a flannel grey trouser pocket. It's from the museum of fractured nibs. The thing has risen from a grave deep in deepest, darkest, six digit Norfolk, East Anglia, England.  I rented a Thrashing Barn in 2005 - this is where this apparition squirted from. Long forgotten  by me, but not by them across the farmyard pond. No scrunched up little paper bag of gold coins. I should read the smallprint. I should scour the document. I should become a shelf stacker.

Thank you to  Kyle T. Webster, if not for his posted comment I would have remained in the state of ignorance. I would not have been inspired to add my shovel of dirt here. Meanwhile I continue to hunt down a part time position in the nation's supermarkets. Chipping Ongar?

Flogging The Dog not burying the dog.

Look - just to clear up any misunderstanding. A recent snap shot. The actual dog Dexter is very much still breathing,scrounging,
scratching, barking, growling, cocking his leg, tug of warring, chasing foxes, chasing shadows, chewing his feet, biting the postman's industrial footwear, fetching the daily newspaper, impersonating a goat, eating salad, concealing large chunks of crusty bread,just a bit less virile, a bit slower, a bit harder of hearing and if he could he might choose to wear some fine tortoiseshell spectacles, his eye sight ain't as sharp as in his prime, and his shit is normal and polished. His nose is shiny, moist and black. His breath might not be too fresh sometimes, but he's had a medical and his health otherwise is pretty robust. So thank you for your emails and notes of sympathy for the apparent passing of my pal but they are misplaced, but very touching and we appreciate your kind thoughts. 
I was speaking of the Dog as in Flogs The Dog not as in Dexter.

Gone to chop wood - back in 10 minutes.

Wheels come off. The dog needs to be put down. Put to sleep. Has had it's day. I've run out of cliches. I've lost the plot, if there ever was a plot. I've tried to stay with illustration. So dear followers I suspect you suspected the loss of appetite and have lost patience with the dog, but there you have it. The routine has had it's day. For now thank you for reading.