There's this old bungalow off Millers Road, the kind with the deep verandah and those green wooden shutters that still shut properly. It's coming down next week for another apartment block. I knew that before I sat down to sketch it, and I still spent two hours on it this morning, then came home and started a watercolour from the sketch because the sketch alone wasn't enough.

I keep telling myself it's just practice. Perspective, foliage, that particular way bougainvillea sits against a lime-washed wall. But it's not practice, is it. It's the same reason I took photos of my grandmother's house before they sold it and I've never looked at them a second time but I can't bring myself to delete them either.

The funny part is the occupant came out and watched me for a while. Old gentleman, probably lived there fifty years. He didn't say anything, just nodded at the end and went back inside. I don't know if he was pleased or annoyed or just tired. Maybe all three.

I'll finish the painting this week. It feels important that it exists before the house doesn't.