A STRANGE thing has happened. I have discovered that for many years I have been fooling myself over the matter of artistic talent

In this I have something in common with one of history’s greatest delusionists, none other than Adolf Hitler. Although, I must point out, that this is the only thing I have in common with him.

Hitler believed himself to be a rather superb artist and, if it was not for the repeated rejections of the Academy of Fine Art in Vienna, he might have settled down to a quiet life in some painter’s garret instead of becoming the biggest blight on the Western World – quite possibly ever – as well as the top result for a Google search of ‘failed artists.’

The admissions tutors in Vienna have a lot to answer for.

My own failure in the field of artistic endeavour, however, will not have quite the same implications for history. But on a personal level I find it deeply disappointing.

Last week I signed up for an art class with my good friend Cathy, with whom I share an interest in all things creative. We are both about to be empty nesters so an art class seemed like a good idea. We had already proved our creativity by turning last year’s Christmas cards into collages, much to the amusement of Secondborn, who thought that two full-grown women should have something better to do than Pritt Stick a load of Christmas trees and snowmen together onto cardboard.

At last, we said to ourselves, we can go out after tea time without feeling that we’ve got to get back to ensure homework has been done, lunchboxes filled and school clothes laundered.

And so at the appointed time we presented ourselves for instruction in drawing and painting.

Our tutor had clearly entered into the spirit of the evening and was wearing, somewhat jauntily, a beret and smock.

I made a mental note to dig out my sequined beret, bought originally for Secondborn when she went to a fancy dress party as Marlene Dietrich.

Our first assignment, after being introduced to the merits of 4B pencils, was to produce a drawing of a teasel.

Cathy got straight down to it, capturing the fine hairs and interesting dried leaf whorls with a certain flair.

Because I have been criticised in the past for making my drawings too small I embarked on a giant teasel. An hour later the teasel had morphed into a giant toilet brush.

“Very nice,” said the tutor, in an encouraging way. “There’s some nice pencil strokes in there.”

Somehow I failed to believe him.

At the end of our session, after I’d also failed to capture the essence of a dried allium, we packed up to leave. I left my teasel on the easel, so to speak, while Cathy rolled hers up to take home to show her son, an A* art student.

Back home I explained that I had left my toilet brush drawing behind as an inspiration for other would-be artists.

“Are you going to bring something home next week?” said the Man-in-Charge.

“Only if it’s good,” I replied.

Now the thing is that I have always fancied myself as someone with artistic promise.

From time to time, when the urge grabs me, I invest in lots of equipment. We have cupboards full of drawing pads, pencils, watercolour pencils, pastels, paints, glitter gel, brushes, inks and pens. We also have an easel that somehow defeats me when I try to put it to together.

Buying the gear is half the pleasure I always think. There’s nothing quite like the promise of virgin paper before I have besmirched it with ink blots and toilet brushes.

I have grand plans for epic canvases and lie awake at night thinking of what I will do with all that paint. In my dreams I am a cross between David Hockney and one of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. But never a Tracey Emin.

At the art studio we had to fill out a form listing any relevant artistic experience. I confessed to having an A level in art, but explained that in my day, BC (before computers), the A level involved quite a lot of history of art and, in my case, a course in print making. There was minimal drawing and absolutely no painting at all.

Week two of our art course involved sketching sheep’s skulls with quill pens and ink. Once again our tutor was a model of encouragement, finding something in each of our works that he could praise. “Some lovely drawing there,” he said, observing my ink-splattered sheet.

And there was me thinking it was a horrible mess.

I returned home for the second time without anything to show for my two hours in the studio.

If this goes on I think the Man-in-Charge may become suspicious about where I’m spending my Tuesday evenings.

But at least I’m not planning world domination.