I am not an artistic person.

Give me a pen and a ruler and I’ll draw straight lines all day but ask me to put in a few curves and I’m completely lost.

If you start talking colours, I break out in a cold sweat.

My wife’s the artistic one in the family and will happily paint and draw pretty pictures all day.

She’ll even paint over some of her existing paintings – not because they weren’t any good but because it’s all about the fun of doing it, rather than the result.

I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s emerged with a brightly painted canvas (or block of wood, piece of furniture, small animal) in her hands and I will be genuinely impressed by it.

Then she’ll disappear for a couple of hours and emerge with another offering.

“Where’s that peacock/bowl of fruit/abstract interpretation of hell you showed me earlier?” I’ll ask.

“Oh, this is still it,” she’ll say, brandishing something that looks more like Aboriginal cave art.

“I thought it needed a bit more work.”

There are paintings at home which have 12 or 13 coats of paint because there are seven or eight images on the one canvas.

Throw in a few cups full of some plastic beads, old earrings, feathers and who knows what else and you can understand why we’ve got some pieces she needs a wheelbarrow to move around.

But I love her; she loves her art and everyone’s happy.

She once handed me a paintbrush, a tray of water colours and a piece of paper, and told me to paint what I saw.

It was a beautiful day and we were sitting beside water.

A gentle breeze ruffled the surface and small sailing boats bobbed at their moorings.

Across the water, small chalets nestled on lush hills of green.

“There,” I said proudly when I thought I’d captured the moment.

“Uh … lovely,” she said.

“I think I’ve got a real talent,” I blustered. “Would you like me to do another one?”

“Not right now dear,” she said, patting me on the head. “I might just put the paints away now.”

I bought a cheap frame for it when we got home and had it out on display until small children began to be scared by it.

“That’s very nice,” one friend remarked. “It’s a ... bowl of fruit, isn’t it?”

So, I’m not much good … apparently. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in doing my bit for the art world.

I recently went with my wife to the Andy Warhol exhibition.

Even I’ve heard of good old Andy so I was expecting something pretty special (for $20 a ticket, I was actually expecting free drinks!) but I have to admit that I come away a bit disappointed.

I’m sorry to upset the art lovers out there but I tried – I really, really tried.

I tilted me head to the left.

I tilted it to the right.

I held my chin between by thumb and forefinger, squinted one eye and stood on one leg.

I even did them all at the same time while scratching my bum and whistling the theme to Gilligan’s Island.

The people standing around me thought it was funny but it did nothing to improve my insight into the Warhol genius.

The good news is, I don’t think it would have worried Andy Warhol one bit to know that I wasn’t impressed by his multi-coloured photocopies of Marilyn Monroe or his five-hour film of a man sleeping (seriously, five hours of a bloke with his eyes closed).

I think my wife was a bit disillusioned too.

After all, a lot of it looked like pieces she’s done.

“Don’t worry, they’ll appreciate your genius after you’re dead,” I told her, which went down like a lead balloon.

Bloody temperamental artists.

But she’ll get her revenge.

We’ve decided to buy a cheap Kombie so we can “do it up”.

Curtains, pillows, a comfy bed, bookshelves … the whole bit.

It might even have an engine.

And it will have art … lots and lots of rainbows and flowers and all sorts of pretty things over the outside.

There’ll be straight lines too.

Not many, mind you.

But I’d like to make some contribution.