Regrettable Outbreak of Imperfection

I wake from a sleep of nightmares to find my room full of the smell of England. The rain will keep me from riding the horses this morning.

Yesterday, even a man who claims to be educated about art demonstrated that he did not understand what I meant when I called myself a printmaker. He brought me an old reproduction of a painting and wanted me to tell him it was hand-pulled - one of a kind. I find it hard to talk to these people, and feel oddly guilty when I have to say, "This is not a fine art print."

Then they say, "What's a fine art print."

Ha. Maybe someday I'll find an easy way to answer that question.