To my knowledge, two of you bloggers have come to visit me in the flesh at the gallery and I hope I didn't disappoint.
One lady just marched up to me and said, "Are you Mr Stephenson?" Confronted by this forthrightness, what could I say but "Yes"?
She said that she follows me, Cro, Rachel and John, adding that she thought we were all very different from each other. That has to be the understatement of 2016.
The other was a man who pretended to look around the gallery for a while, then came up to me and asked, "Have I read about this exhibition on a blog somewhere?" Ok, if he was going to be cagey, so was I. I answered, "I think it has been mentioned on a couple of blogs..." and he shot off to try and find his wife in the middle of the Christmas Market.
On the other side of the street, there is a company selling things called, 'Self-Inflating Lazy Bags'.
Plenty of scope for Christmas Panto Mother-in-Law jokes there.
Yes, when I have the time I will tell you my LSD stories.
You will laugh, you will scream, John will shit himself as usual, but - after all these years and all that Lysurgic Acid down the gullet - it is only right that I share my experiences with you.
Today I was getting on well with setting up the exhibition - The Boy working away at my side until lunch - but then, a call we all dread, telling him that a loved relative had just died - his natural Grandfather.
Of course, he fell to bits as far as any useful work went at that point, so he went home, leaving me on my own to complete.
At about 6.15 pm, I completed. Then I went home. but didn't have enough time to even wash, but I donned a nice Armani suit and an Italian cashmere overcoat, then hobbled back to the exhibition to open it.
I had a text from Rachel, asking, "Bored shitless yet?" Well no I wasn't, Raych - I was so unbored that I didn't have time to reply.
I am now going to bed, but the opening night was very nice, with quite a few pictures sold.
I am spending the nest few days composing the LSD stories to relate to you.
Consider them in the spirit of Charles Dickens ghost stories if you must.
This time we have merchandise. Grandson has had these t-shirts printed up with Granma's (that was the name of the boat that Castro invaded Cuba in) paintings on the back, and her signature on the front. Three different images as a limted edition of 100, at £33 each.
Today I haul in all the paintings, wine, glasses, banners, tools, etc. etc. and H.I. will spend a couple of hours deciding on where they are going. We cannot get in until 7.00pm, so it is going to be a long night. I am going to miss The Archers. I am going to miss The Archers all week, as we close the show at 7.00 every evening. I am going to miss The Archers Omnibus as well, because I will be hauling all the unsold stuff back again on Sunday. Let's hope there is nothing left to haul back.
I will not be going to the pub for a whole week, and I am wondering if I will survive. I will probably have no time to do any blogging after today, so I wonder if you are going to survive.
For a week or two now, I have been building up the courage to wash and cut my hair, ready for the big night. H.I. always tells me not to cut it too short, because I look like Caligula when it is too short, and that does not sell paintings. I used to look like one of the more humane Roman Emperors, but then my true personality could hide behind a youthful visage no longer.
A combination of a bad cold and a series of hangovers in trying to medicate it has made me reluctant to have my head upside-down over the bath for ten mimutes, so I have been putting it off.
Then I walked into the pub yesterday and a young barmaid looked at me for a while and said, "Hmm. Long hair. It looks good."
On my way there, a drunk/mad woman shouted from about 100 yards distant, "What a lovely head of hair you've got!!!"
A couple of years previously, a similar woman stopped me in the street and said, "You're Brian May, aren't you?" She would not accept that I was not him and I didn't have a guitar to hand to prove it, so I went straight home and cut my hair.
I told H.I. what the barmaid had said, and she said, "There you are. Leave it as it is."
Oh well, it's her exhibition, but I cannot shake off the suspicion that everyone is bored right now and is having a laugh at my expense. We could all do with one.
So Fidel Castro has died. I am glad we made it to Cuba whilst he was still in control and before the Americans began to be let back in again. I need not have worried too much about it though, because Trump has declared that he will reverse the moves that Obama has recently made and replace the blockade which has kept Havana so quaint and picturesque for so many years.
It looks as though you will have at least another four years to go there and see all those 1950s American cars held together with tin cans, the crumbling facades of colonial palaces now used as community housing, and troops of immaculately uniformed children marching to school, looking as fit and healthy as children should, because the nearest MacDonalds is behind barbed wire at Guantanamo Bay.
Some Westerners have been reminding everyone about Castro's ruthlessness when dealing with opponents by locking them up without charges or for simply being being homosexual, but they seem to have forgotten Guantanamo Bay and Cuba no longer persecutes gays. I met several openly gay men in Havana, and that was years ago.
When Fidel went to university, it was quite common for arguments during college debates to be settled by one student pulling a gun on his opponent and shooting him dead. Castro did this at least once, which may give you a better idea of the social environment in which the revolution took place. This sort of thing used to happen all the time in 17th century European universities, remember, but it usually involved daggers and swords.
Ken Livingstone was on the radio this morning and said that - no matter what you thought of Castro - given the choice of which South American country you would like to raise your children in, Cuba came top every time.
The education and healthcare is second to none - their experise in treating cancer is so renowned that they send teams of specialists to places like Canada when called upon, but the U.S.A. refuses to let them in nomatter how good they are.
I wish we had spent more time in the little cafes and restaurants run by poor people from their kitchens rather than the swanky restaurants in the big hotels like the National or Sevilla - the food is so much better.
I watched one of his famous speeches live on TV one night, and it was unbelievably boring. I only managed about half an hour and amused myself by looking at all the old people falling asleep in the heat, whilst all the young at the back giggled and chatted to each other.