Wretch a Sketch

If I could do anything, anything at all, I'd like to draw. I have all these ideas for paintings, for sketches, but when the brush hits the page they all fall apart. Nothing comes out the way I see it. I trace the light before me and it turns to mush. In school my art teacher said everyone can draw. After I'd finished with him he had to admit defeat. No-one spent more time, put in more effort, sweated and bled over crayon and charcoal for such poor results. For three years I drew and drew and drew. Nothing. It was like a pencil had died in my hand, the more I dragged its poor, rotting carcass across the page, the worse it looked. I left art class that summer, and on my last day I emptied my pencil case into the drawer and tossed my erasers in the bin. Some dreams die, some dreams live, whatever, Ainsley Harriot loves my magic.