AS we move reluctantly towards autumn, with the smell of woodsmoke already in the air, it's fitting that we should celebrate the most spectacular British summer in all my 75 years.
Only the long hot summer of 1976 got close to it for consistency and duration, but I was working in London then, commuting to and fro between Euston and my Buckinghamshire home, so much of the seasonal brightness on offer passed me by.
Now contentedly retired in Cornwall for nine years, I've been able to make full use of the summer sun, acquiring a rich patina that would do credit to a fully matured horse chestnut. Walking three or four miles a day, sitting for hours gazing out across Falmouth Harbour or Falmouth Bay, or sipping a Merlot on my kitchen balcony, I've absorbed more UV this summer than I did during my entire 14-year working life in the Bahamas.
Anyway, to celebrate the twilight of a wonderful summer, I've produced one of my 'Joy' paintings, a riot of exuberance and goodwill to remind us that, despite everything, life is well worth living.
It's called Carnival 2018, but don't ask me why. It was supposed to be a montage of colourful costumes, but ended up as a simple explosion of jubilation. Art is like that.