I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. Not my words, but the words of Fyodor Dostoevsky. (Could it get any more Partridge? I’ll give it a go.) Lynn, idea for programme: ‘Coco Goes Loco’; professional miserabilist – and all-round heel – Colin Montgomery goes on a journey of self-discovery, only to recoil in horror at what he finds and heads for the hills. Or head for the pills, even. God, I’m not making this easy for you…

You get the gist. I’ve been far from a ray of sunshine of late. Partly the season; partly just, I can be a self-absorbed tit at times. So, let me start again, without more clouds of grey than any Russian play could guarantee (apologies to Chet Baker). On which note, I won’t be blowing my own trumpet at all in the next bunch of words, syllables and excessively styled prose. No, no, no… instead I’ll toot my flute for the miracle cure of life drawing.

More specifically, the wonderful weekly life drawing class hosted by artist Paul Muzni, up Meadowbank way. It’s called the Life Room. And it’s £20 a pop (drawing materials and paper included). He holds painting classes too. But I’m a bit of a tube with the contents of a tube. I much prefer the joys of a Conté crayon. Or a stout rectangle of chalk. Or a reedy stick of charcoal. Oh, and not forgetting the good old putty rubber.

These drawing tools are sort of like old friends to me. Or rather, they felt as such when my partner and I decided to take the plunge and see if all those years of art school had left some kind of mark on us. And hey, it’s all about the mark-making dahling! Well, it is for me. I’m a very fussy kind of drawer… all flicks, scuffs, lines and twiddly bits. Settle down at the back! It’s not what you think. No prurience here. We’re all well-versed.

By which I mean, it’s a muscle memory in more ways than one. You need to feel as comfortable as the model is, standing there with their kit off. It can seem odd at first if you’re not used to nudity in that context – I recall my first life drawing class at Edinburgh College of Art. Walking into a room to see a guy completely starkers but for his socks and a hockey stick. But these are proper life models. And the vibe is always respectful.

Once your eyes and brain adjust, there’s the matter of drawing the figure to contend with it. And that sheet of drawing paper in front of you. Mute, impenetrable, and a bit fucking terrifying to be honest! Before typing a word, Hemingway called his blank page, ‘The Great White Bull’ (he would, wouldn’t he?). And it does feel like facing down a beast I suppose. But you can’t show fear. You need to start. To commit. To begin the journey.

Yes, journey. Because the act of drawing does take you places. Away from all the toxic stew inside your head: the intrusive thoughts; the nagging doubts; the twisted anxieties that clamber over and through your mind, like the tendrils of some poisonous plant. For just shy of two hours – give or take, with a half-time break – it’s just you, the model, and that paper. A kind of mindfulness I suppose. So much so, the result doesn’t matter.

Except, as is the way with the creative ego, the result does kind of matter. Especially if you pull off something good – even just a glorious section here or there. A beautiful nonchalant hand, a kiss of light on a thigh, the shadow cast by a ribcage.

It’s almost restorative; a tonic for a weary soul. The act, the process, the result in unison – a course of medicine for the blues. I felt it working its magic from the off.

Not every week sees me return with a corker of a drawing. Sometimes you just feel the groove; sometimes you don’t. But that’s OK. And besides, the great thing about Paul’s class is that it’s completely non-judgemental; all talents, all levels, and all expressions on the page are valid. Sure, you’ll get some advice from a professional – but it’s not about ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. Or striving for perfection even. Because there’s no such thing.

That’s life. That’s life drawing. And you know what? It’s all the better for it.

theliferoom.co.uk