mostly david ephgrave

I attended Katie Coxall's funeral online today and was glad to be a part of it. She died suddenly of cancer on 7th May at just fifty and had such vibrant energy it's hard to process she's gone. Just the loss of her on Twitter is akin to that of a Trump-like silence, only shit. And that's as far as the two can be compared in the same sentence. Katie's tweets had an intelligent bluntness the Great Orange One could only dream of (if a brain that compromised can even dream in the first place). Katie's talent was as vast and keen-eyed as her dark sense of humour. She was a creature of many hats (if creatures wear hats): an inspired illustrator with an instantly recognisable and brilliantly unique style, who was also a fantastic comic poet. Her sets at Mostly Comedy as mushybees back in the day were tear-streamingly funny. An audience member would hold a large pad aloft and turn the pages at her instruction to reveal a macabre illustration of a celebrity to which Kati...

Today, I assisted Glyn with the filming of the charity event Afternoon Tea Delights , in aid of Garden House Hospice . I’m not sure how much assistance I gave; I was there more for moral support. It came about through the fact that one of the organisers is my meditation teacher, who mentioned he was looking for someone to document their annual fundraiser, to which I suggested Mr Doggett. It was only fair that I pitched in as a result, though I could hardly refuse such an exceptional cause. There were a few cakes thrown into the bargain, which literally sweetened the deal. It took place at the beautiful Priory Barn in Little Wymondley. I’d never been there before, which is ridiculous, as it’s only a stone’s throw from my house (if I were a professional shot-putter). The weather was perfect, which helped smooth things along. They had live entertainment from - amongst other things - a harpist and an opera singer, both of whom were marvellous. They also held an art auction, wh...

Yesterday, I saw the world’s most confident statue on sale in Garden House Hospice. Look at him standing proud amongst the bric-a-brac. It’s like he owns the shelf. He wears the expression of an ornament that thinks he won’t be without a home for long. He is the master of all he surveys; the dead men’s shoes, the non-prescription glasses, the VHS; everything . He is the King of Objet D’art. You could buy him, but you’d never, ever own him. The staff probably didn’t even put him on display; he scaled that cabinet by himself. Despite his obvious bravado, I’m suspicious. Surely he can't be that self-confident. He wound up in a charity shop. He may once have had pride of place on somebody’s mantelpiece, but he doesn’t anymore. Perhaps he made a personal bid for freedom. He probably felt infinitely superior to everything in the household.   Arrogant little tit.