When protruding mattress springs feel like spools of barbed wire

I don't believe in you or your infinite spirit, but I do believe in sleep. Insomnia has forced this, my first prayer aimed at the bedroom ceiling. Whether it's cold sweating madness or a feverish epiphany, I am willing to worship the cuttings from your ample stereotypical beard, if only for a few decent hours of sleep. If you could see to it that the foxes refrain from screwing on my front lawn then I will give a charitable donation to the beachcomber, the one who spends his weekends looking for dogmatic symbols in the sand. He loves you very much and can't stop regaling me with the tale of how he discovered your son's face last summer in a rock pool. Seaweed hair and oil separated in the water to delineate his eyes and lips. I'll do anything for sleep, almost anything.

The beachcomber is a new design that I will soon put onto canvas. I will post some photos when it's completed.

Let's hope the Mayan calander's wrong

Happy 2012 to whoever can be bothered to read this section of finger vomiting. It's January and you can be excused for feeling a little worse for wear. Here are two new ideas that I am transferring to canvas very soon, titled 'Pick it' and 'I'm on a plane'. My silhouetted asexual beings are slumped and ready with their usual poor posture.

If there's anyone out there who has received a nasty knitted jumper, disgusting novelty tie or vulgar pair of socks, don't let these insensitive gifts sully the dark corner of your wardrobe. Try embracing the silver lining by constructing a makeshift scarecrow to deter any fashionistas from nesting in your guttering. Keep in mind that they particularly despise most blended fabrics.

In closing, if you haven't yet attended that first guilt-ridden Zumba class, let me save you the time, money and embarrassment of sweating profusely in front of strangers. You'll probably come to the cold realisation of no rhythm and even less willpower.