The party was certainly beginning to warm up when the free champagne began to make its way round the guests. The seemingly eloquent and ever so slightly pretentious art lovers, whos hushed and civilised conversations about the tragic downfall of society as it blundered its way through history in a series of wars and bombs, gradually began to loosen up and laughter could actually be heard over the incessant din of drab discussion.

I decided to do what I usually did and kept to myself, steadily consuming a vast amount of alcohol, which I always failed to notice until someone talked to me and I realised I could no longer stand straight or focus on moving objects. Off in a distant part of the gallery I could hear the laughter of Lizzie echoing through the large expanse of open space. By the sounds of it she had also discovered the free booze. I laughed to myself, picturing some unfortunate art nerd she was probably trying to influence in her very unscrupulous way.

As I made my way around the gallery for about the third time I always found myself coming back to the same picture. It was a black and white photograph. In it an old and wrinkled hand covered a younger and smaller, child’s hand as it held a pencil innocently poised over a piece of paper. It was so simple yet grabbed my attention utterly. I continued to stand there and stare at this photo, my mind buzzing with thoughts as I analysed the contrasts in light, the way the subjects were represented through the medium of print and perspective. I knew if I had a bit more to drink that I would end up buying this picture. That was the problem with these art gatherings, they were full of rich people and they provided alcohol. So the artist was pretty confident in making a sale because the buyers would become so ***** faced that theyd probably buy a piece of toilet roll if it was stuck on the wall and called art. Or maybe that was just me.

Unfortunately I joined the other guests in having a bit too much to drink but failed to join them when it came to owning vast amounts of money, especially if I brought anything. Last time I decided on an impulse buy at an art exhibition, it had all but cleared my bank account and when I looked at the painting in the day light I couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be.