‘Yes. How about you?’

‘More than five hours. It’s the most I’ve had for weeks.’

‘Me too.’

‘Do you think the bells are about to start ringing?’

‘Half past six? It might be a bit early. Apparently they always ring them on a Sunday though.’

‘It was funny when Fiona became a flesh-eating zombie last night wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you scared when she said she’d seen a ghost?’

‘Not really, no. I thought it was funny when you said “ Bella?” and she said “That’s not Bella”’

‘Are you frightened of living opposite the graveyard?’

‘No. Beautiful sculptural shapes and subtle colours.’

‘So are we painting this morning?’

‘If we don’t, the paintings won’t dry in time for the show.’

‘Tea?’

‘Coffee.’

We finally moved house this week. Matt has been unable to take part very much.  He has been caught in a vortex of anxious concentration, intensely absorbed by the edit of his forthcoming series. He heads off to London early in the morning, returning late at night. I taxi him carefully through the lanes at dawn, avoiding roe deer and muntjac  (car-destroying encounters with deer are commonplace round here) and attempting to avoid suicidal rabbits in the dark. We were halted near the station by a violent drunken brawl last night – the re-enactment of a eighteenth century engraving warning of the dangers of drink. Twenty people screamed and shoved their way into the high street A man ripped off his clothes in fury. Someone swung a belt around his head. The buckle was about to make contact. The women fought as viciously as the men.

‘Stop, stop, they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Go, go! Quick or they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Oh, God that was exciting!  I wish we had stayed longer to see what happened next’ he said.

During the day, the roads are choked with combine harvesters moving from field to field. I went to buy supplies for the new studio yesterday. As I left a huge combine rolled in to a nearby field of wheat, and by the time I came back the job was almost done. If only the studio could be made ready as quickly.

Dangerous revolution by Gillray in the 1990s , dangerous drink today.

‘Don’t worry’ he said racking his brain for precedents of behaviour of this kind in the art world. ‘Waldemar Januszczak does it too.’ At the time I found this reassuring.

Last night poor Matt came home late from a film trip to Berlin. I have been ill, and I slept through the phone calls, the thunderous beatings on the door and the plaintive appeals for entry. He was forced to make an early morning trip to the co-op where my son lives to retrieve a key.

This morning I woke with a start.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Matt.

‘I’ll be all right if I know what the time is’ I said. ‘I have an important appointment. Please don’t let me be late’ I begged fate, thinking of the trip I had to make to a park in West London.

‘Did you look at that Hieronymus Bosch for me?’ Matt said.

‘You didn’t, did you?’ he speculated. Unfortunately he was right.

‘You’ve got to do it before you go.’

‘It’s about fertility’ I said, ‘they’re hatching, breaking out of eggs, or fruits. It’s teeming, fertile life.’

‘Ah, eggs!’ he said. ‘That’s significant. Bosch was interested in wildlife, and birds play a sinister role in this painting — particularly the owls.  Look at this one in Hell.  It’s about to eat a man.’

‘But that’s not an owl, it’s a nightjar. You can tell by the whiskers.’ I said,  thrilled to find a use for my insider knowledge. ‘Listen to this.’ I said, clicking a link on the RSPB site. ‘You can hear them churring.’

‘You can hear them doing what?’ he asked.

‘Ladies and gentlemen’ the tube announcement boomed, as I went into the Underground, ‘there is disruption to service on the Circle and District Line.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ The announcers have become so formal lately.

When I emerged from the tube at 10.10 for my appointment with Ceri Levy, film-maker, musician, curator and all round Renaissance man, he was standing right there. I could tell he was about to look at his watch.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I said. ‘Did you get my message?’ We walked into the park.

‘This is the tree’ said Ceri.

Suddenly a man appeared. ‘Are zey zere?’ he asked. He was a tall sporty Eastern European gentleman in a skin-tight outfit. He was surrounded by dogs. I couldn’t tell if Ceri knew him or not.

‘We haven’t seen them yet’ Ceri answered.

A long haired woman with more dogs in her wake bore down upon us. ‘Deedn’t you ‘ear me shout?’ she shouted. ‘Zey are not een zis tree, zey are een zat one.’

She was right. On a surprisingly low branch on a tree in Kensington Gardens were four tawny owlets, sitting in a row. Assorted people appeared. ‘I see they’ve moved this morning’ some said, and others agreed. We had one thing in common. Welcome to my community, the world of birders.

For non-UK readers, Waldemar Januszczak is the Art Correspondent of the Sunday Times newspaper.

Photograph: Ceri Levy

This morning, as I prepared to leave the house for the gallery, a chat box popped up on the computer screen, alerting me with a squawk. It was my daughter.

‘Did you see my message?’ she demanded.

‘No.’ I replied.

‘Read it! Read it now!’

I clicked the inbox, but my laptop is slow, tired, and at the limit of its available memory. A message appeared, vanished, and the computer froze.

The chat box squawked again. ‘Have you read it yet?’

‘No.’ I tried to answer, but the message disappeared.

After multiple attempts, the message opened up. ‘Be prepared.’ It began ominously.

‘Best night of my life’ it ended. There were tales of success with writing, handsome men, fashion shows, intimate gigs with Axl Rose, and other excitements. ‘I’ve just got back here’, it read.

She’d been four feet away from Axl Rose. She was impressed.

As we installed the mosaic at the gallery a distinguished bearded gentleman came down the stairs. ‘A mosaic!’ he observed. ‘Are you going to grout it?’

We don’t plan to, I said. ‘It’s made from medieval fragments, and they have to go back into boxes in the Museum collection, where they came from.’

‘Ah!’ he said, tolerantly. ‘I made a mosaic once. Under the water it looked rather good! It was in a pool, you see.’

‘So you are an artist?’ I surmised.

‘Yes. Indeed. And so was my father.’ He opened up a carrier bag in a slightly conspiratorial way. Inside was an Edward Bawden catalogue. ‘I am his son Richard’.

Now I was impressed.

My father had a heather farm. His name is Richard too.

In the studio Matt and I worried about the impossibility of what we were doing. What urgency or relevance could this collection of antiquated media have for a contemporary audience? Oil paintings – the words themselves have a laughably old-fashioned ring. Hand made wallpaper and mosaic – what world were we living in? But when the show was almost complete, we looked at our work and the combination of impossibilities suddenly seemed electric.

The paintings take on an outmoded form — the visual language of modernism. A formal grid is laid out, and within it, using tone, colour and transparency of hue, we aim to create a restless unsettled image. Based rigorously on a simple mathematical principle, the end-product ought to be predictable – but it isn’t. The eye struggles to find a placid configuration – but as soon as it seems to have been achieved, the arrangement jumps out of synch again. Our big coloured painting is called ‘The Unseen’ – a reference both to its impossible aestheticism – a taboo of today — and to its unstable quality. The wallpaper too is temporary, fragile and unstable.

‘Opus circumnactum’ as you may know, is the name given to a mosaic field design – arched fans used as a background for figurative images. It is a form designed to animate an image, but to be overlooked. We have printed ‘opus circumnactum’ patterns onto lining paper – a material usually designed to be laid beneath a more robust decorative finish. This theme of the overlooked, hidden and temporary is continued in the mosaic – traditionally an unauthored form.

The mosaic ‘Clay End’ – a title which comes from the division of labour in a ceramic factory  — is made from medieval pottery sherds excavated from the grounds of a country house in Yorkshire. These sherds have languished unseen in boxes in an industrial estate on the outskirts of York since their discovery. Last year, in our exhibition ‘Five Sisters’ we showed a work, a temporary installation, made from these fragments. It has been given a short stay of execution allowing us to show some of it here.  Like all the elements in this show, it addresses issues of pattern and labour through the perspective of the unseen, hidden and overlooked.

Today, as Matt and I have been putting the finishing touches to the paintings, Claudia, Sandra and Monica have been working on the wallpaper. Accuracy and tidiness seem important to both processes and I can’t remember when either the studio or workshop looked so well organised.

The mosaic roundels are the same dimension as the smaller canvases, and the broken circles on paper (a printed version of the mosaic laying style ‘opus circumnactum’) are also based on these proportions. The attention to scale is a strategy aimed at unifying the diversity of elements .

We broke for lunch late yesterday and ate with my son, who was watching football on TV. My loyalties were divided, as Arsenal (our local team) was playing Stoke City. Arsenal is often thought of as rather middle-class and namby-pamby, in contrast with the down to earth, carthorse kickers of Stoke, Pete told us.  He illustrated his thesis by contrasting managerial behaviour in the dressing room.

At half time, Arsenal’s manager is reputed to leave the boys five minutes to calm down, then to allow them five minutes to analyse their play, before giving his measured thoughts on general strategy. This is not the style of other managers – who may approach matters more emotionally. In fact the last time Stoke (who won yesterday 3-1) played at Arsenal’s Emirates Stadium, the manager head-butted the captain. It is hard to stay calm when things get tense.

Being driven in chilly car by tiny Chinese guy softly whistling classical music through his teeth.

Lulled by his ginger rice and fish head curry Matt has fallen asleep in restaurant. Glam Chinese girls putting on make up at next table.

About to leave Singapore. Matt embarrassingly detecting bird flu everywhere.

Oh dear. Matt seems to have food poisoning. About to get on plane.

Conflicting with my belief he has food poisoning Matt now eating shepherds pie-flavoured dim sum.

Landed Aus. Out for supper. Shown to table by Maitre d: Peter Andre’s brother, just back from Jordan wedding. Born Liverpool Road. Arsenal supporter.

The M d let Matt hold the ring Peter gave all grooms. It said Peter & Katie & date. Katie is lovely in private he says.

In business class you have a big screen showing a pilot’s eye view of the runway when you take off and land.

Piqued when he confessed not having read his book Matt insulted man who paid for our biz class tickets by asking what conference (where he is keynote speaker tomorrow lunchtime) is about.

Matt guesses that the ‘mature audience’ our hotel film is aimed at is the over 80s

Been sleeping for past 3 days — at last feel bright & energetic. Unfortunately it is 12 at night.

All speakers at conference preface their talks with an acknowledgment of traditional owners of the land on which we stand. Like saying grace only more right on.

Having delivered speech in which he spotted gallerist sponsor asleep Matt now in heavy coma of depression.

Unfortunately missed talk by woman artist who weaves bird’s nests out of shredded dollars.

Matt having moaned incessantly has had 2 strawberry daiquiris & cheered up quite a bit.

Reading about bloody deeds of Tetrarchs — late Roman emperors. Not aiding sleep.

Looking out of window at 7 hip looking guys in jacuzzi. 2 more are in pool. 1 is in a dustbin of iced water. They have a slave — wearing sunglasses, dyed blonde. Looks a bit like Andy Gill.

Agonising ears. Try ancient healing method. Lie down. Insert large wax trumpet in ear. Set fire to it. Leave burning for 20 mins. Matt stood guard to ensure safety. Didn’t work.

Rode truck tracking kangaroos and wallabies. Dusk walk to Gothic homestead: rotting roof, bird infested, creeper clad. Matt in terror of souls of dead bush rangers he believes reached for him when piece of wire tore his Calvin Klein sock.

Watching kookaburra standing on post. Saw water snake, turtles & scarlet honey eaters feeding on grasses nr creek. Matt worrying about what consciousness is for.

Matt has booked us both massages, second this trip. Slightly fearful where this new enthusiasm might lead.

Watching noisy miners sucking nectar from flowering bushes — unfortunately to the accompaniment of hotel muzak – Coldplay’s Beautiful World.

Oh no, mosquito in room.

As soon as I approach sleep mozzie does Damon Hill change down of gear and high rev swoop past face.

Can’t help wondering why he doesn’t quietly feast on Matt who is lying naked on top of bed. Must be the same thing that attracted our friend Dustin to women in burkas.

Hipsters in pool — cricketer Brian Lara & entourage!

On plane home. Captain announced ‘Greetings from the flight deck. Our cabin crew tonight are Michelle from New Zealand and Laurence from Arabia’. Time to switch off.

No one could accuse me of not keeping abreast of technology, in spite of being a mosaicist, which is clearly to be some kind of Luddite. For a long time I kept a record of every text I sent or received. The computer on which these are stored is about to bite the dust, so I transferred them today. I thought I’d give you a taste of my life five years ago, as it has the flavour of a different era. I am more than usually conscious of this, as my youngest child has just turned twenty. She used to lie in a bouncy chair on the work bench, lulled to sleep by the sound of tile nippers.

[For non UK readers, Peter Andre was brought up in Australia, though born in London. He is a singing star who until recently was married to Jordan (real name Katie Price), a glamour model. Until their separation last year,  they were Britain's most notoriously foul-mouthed celebrity couple. Andy Gill is the legendary guitarist of UK rock band Gang of Four.  Dustin Ericksen is an artist (see post 'Four Year Anniversary'). Brian Lara is a former West Indian cricketer, regarded as one of the greatest batsmen of all time. Damon Hill is a UK racing driver.]

We have been painting all morning, but the light is going, and Matt has cycled to Islington to deliver a book — a present he is giving as an apology to a friend he invited to dinner, and then shouted at. He can’t drive, as the oil light comes on and an alarm goes off every time you start the car.

The car dilemma reminds me of Vic Menozzi (see ‘I love Friuli’). We were off to Bath about twelve years ago, measuring up for a job restoring a mosaic pavement from the 1930s. Vic, who is a tall, elegant man with beautiful suits and a very smart car, picked me up from outside the house. He would be happy to go to Bath in my car he said, but it had been raining and the driver’s seat was wet. A few months earlier, some one had stolen my car radio. They had broken in with a crowbar, and the door hadn’t closed properly since. We went in Vic’s jag. As we set off, my bottom became strangely hot. ‘It’s a heated seat’ Vic explained. ‘Oh Vic, I’d love to have a car like this!’ I said. ‘ You will, Emma,’ he said ‘you will’. I am still waiting.

Other kinds of hot seats

Pam (above left) lives in Stoke-on-Trent, ceramic capital of the world. She was a guerilla this week, in Burslem, the ‘Mother Town’. Burslem is one of the six towns that make up the city of Stoke. Stoke is still oddly and charmingly parochial. They say you can meet people in Burslem who have never been to Longton, which — for Londoners — is more or less like living in Holloway all your life and and never  having visited Islington. Burslem is the oldest of the towns, and it was here that Josiah Wedgwood established his first factory. Pam was a former student of the Burslem School of Art. At one time Stoke had more art schools than any other city in the UK. The ceramic industry had an unending need for trained painters and sculptors. Coincidentally The City and Guilds, where Matt and I have been teaching, is a London art school that also owes its existence to the ceramic industry.

Pam cares about the future of the Mother Town — so cruelly blighted by the decimation of the ceramic industry. This week she took part in a consciousness raising event. Volunteers assembled in the School of Art, were issued with powerful torches, and set out into the night. The street lights were extinguished, and a terrace of houses,  a potbank, and the Wedgwood Institute ( a former educational establishment and a fabulously beautiful building) were illuminated only by torch light.

The event was run by Guerilla Lighting. The pictures here are used with the kind permission of Paul Pickard.

I was at the SLBI to give a presentation to the members and trustees about my mosaic. I was nervous, but at the same time anxious to do justice to the thinking behind the process. When I’d left home a crew from the BBC was filming Matt painting. I was supposed to be there too, but I couldn’t stay for the interview because of my talk. I got up early and left notes all over the canvas, telling Matt what colour to paint and where to paint it.

When I arrived at the SLBI, Sue, who has overseen the project, took me on a tour of the house, and told me which members were in today. There was an expert on slime moulds, and an authority on Darwin. When my presentation was over one of the members was keen to show me the seaweed collection. Carefully preserved in locked cabinets were wonderful specimens, documented in elegant copper plate with notes like ‘Ex Herbario Musei Britannici, Polysiphonia macrocarpa Harv, Swanage, 15, June 1805.’  The seaweeds had been placed on wet leaves of paper. Apparently they do not need to be glued, as they adhere naturally. Once every month or so, every item in the herbarium has to have a spell in the freezer, to kill the mites.

Here are some images of seaweed, and before them, material prepared for the microscope. Surely they will appeal to every mosaicist of taste and discrimination?