Shrove Tuesday

So are you ready to be shriven? The season of Lent is almost upon as and as you prepare to fast (or atleast give something up that means more than a hill of beans to you) you should be dusting off your frying pan and mixing up your batter ahead of tomorrow's festivities.

For the pancakes you will need:

Ingredients for the pancake mixture:
110g/4oz plain flour, sifted
pinch of salt
2 eggs
200ml/7fl oz milk mixed with 75ml/3fl oz water
50g/2oz butter
To serve:
caster sugar
lemon juice
lemon wedges

That's right; in the spirit of hair-shirtiness that goes with eating pancakes and being shriven, you must eschew the delights of syrup on your pancake(s) and go for the sweet and sour delight of lemon and sugar. They should also be, as the popular phrase states, as flat as a pancake, more like a crepe than an American breakfast pancake.

Now that you have that right, there's just one question left. What will you be giving up?

Forensicating

Unlike gubbins, forensicating has yet to make it into OED (source askoxford). It was most recently spotted in a press conference given by Assistant Chief Constable Adrian Leppard (left)earlier this week. Thinking it must be an Americanism, I searched Merriam Webster online but drew a blank there too.

I did find a reference to it on Hansard (15 Oct 2003 : Column 958; Lord Carlile of Berriew) so it must be real, mustn't it?

Gubbins

gubbins

• plural noun Brit. informal 1 treated as sing. or pl. miscellaneous items; paraphernalia. 2 treated as sing. a gadget.
— ORIGIN originally in the sense fragments: from obsolete gobbon piece, slice, gob, from Old French.

From askoxford

Friday Picture

These little oil pastels (Fruit Pastels as the Painter calls them) were created on sunny afternoons in our old garden with Harry Potter, the boy who lived HPTBWL (as the two year old genius is now known) running round in the nude and me pottering with plants.

It seems fairly unreal if you look back at how chewed up about it all I was at the beginning of this blog; I know feel quite light about it all. A lot of this has to do with the fact that my plants, as many of them as we could manage anyway, are now at the allotment. I got to say some things and clear my chest a bit after stroke number two and that has been freeing.

The Painter is about to go back to work we think - well atleast give it ago; I think he might find the trogging back and forth on the bus slightly more draining than he thinks but he can only give it a try. Driving is not an option yet; it might be if we had an automatic but a gear stick is just beyond the pale. The car is, in any case, garaged about a mile away as the crow flies. It has no MOT, a valid SORN and has been broken by the arsehole downstairs (that was a battle I didn't have the energy for) parking his tipper truck on the bonnet.

We never had any of this crap when we lived in the INNER CITY, the 'burbs suck.

There's snow business like ...

... my petty obsession with the weather. Over at the Metcheck forum they are having a discussion on local words for the process of snow covering the ground. I obviously have words I use myself but what do you use and where does it [they] come from. Perhaps we can create a snow vocab map of Great Britain and ultimately, well, who knows, the world.

So as we all slowly head back under the duvet to keep warm, have a think, won't you?

Some service disruption should be expected

The new template seems to have buggered everything up. In fairness it wasn't the new template (which I have now reverted to) but the addition of all my gubbins to the new template. Ally over at Ducking for Apples recommended a tool which went completely over my head .

So I have taken out all my gubbins and will be putting it back in a bit at a time.

Meet Catriona and her mate Adora ...

The small ones on the left are the white skinned, purple eyed variety "Catriona", the butch looking ones are a low carbohydrate potato (?!?) "Adora", recently arrived from Thompson and Morgan.

The junk at the back is remnants of our neighbours' decision to opt for a non-sustainable lifestyle. They seem to have replaced all the beds twice while we've been living here (just over a year) and have done in 4 or 5 vacuum cleaners.

As you can see, I have opted for the chitting option. Last year I put them in the ground unchitted and although Monty Don said on Gardener's World last year that it made no difference, ours fell pray to drought last year so I'm attempting to give them a better start. Of course it all involves me actually going to the allotment which given the fact I haven't been there since the Artist had stroke number two in Sepotember is bound to look remarkably like Borneo and not like suburban Plymouth at all. Infact it's quite likely that I'll uncover a missing pensioner in my quest to find bare earth.

It's not my birthday or anything ...

... I just felt like a new look. I've been toying around with different things for a while now (and had a sght more success with blogskins than with haircuts I have to tell you - the poodle look is now out in favour of the scalped look).

The thing that put me off was after my catastrophic loss of my entire blog last year and the time it took to get things as near back to normal (odd choice of word) as I could, I was very reluctant to change things again. Plus I was quite fond of the old skin - it felt like a well worn pair of jeans. This one feels a little too dark blue and rather stiff at the moment and I've got to sort out all the things for the side.

It should keep me out of harms way for an afternoon, anyway. Which, given the way my day is going, is a good thing.

BTW

I probably should have said, it's not just a random bottom. It's mine; all mine. Mwahahaha.

Number Quiz

1. 366 - DIALY - ANSWER: 366 Days in a leap year
2. 4 - ATBBIAP
3. 42 - TMOLTUAE
4. 3 - STH
5. 99 - RB
6. 76 - TITBP
7. 4 - HOTA
8. 3.141 - PTTDP
9. 50 - WTLYL
10. 2468 - NTL
11. 20 - FOIAP
12. 3 - BGG
13. 17 - TAHATM
14. 646 - SITHOC
15. 2468 - WDWA
16. 56 - PUS
17. 1947 - TPOI
18. 666 - TNOTB
19. 7 - SOR
20. 5 - GR

No prize, just a pleasant feeling of smug satisfaction.

Itinerary of my life

Aberdeen, Aberdeenshire; Lossiemouth, Morayshire; Mullion, Cornwall; Liverpool, Lancashire; Mullion, Cornwall; Falmouth, Cornwall; Torpoint, Cornwall; Southwick, Hampshire; Rosyth, Fife; Inverkeithing, Fife; Dunfermline, Fife; Ilchester, Somerset; Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria; Falmouth, Cornwall; Barrow-in Furness, Cumbria; Falmouth, Cornwall; Plymouth, Devon; London; Plymouth, Devon. (All the links are different)

If you don't know where any of the places are click this link to the map on the left.

Curried Parsnip Soup

You will need about:
2lbs of parsnips,
2 largish potatoes
1 large onion
1 clove of garlic
2 teaspoons of mild curry powder
3 pints of chicken stock
Olive oil (a light one is fine - not extra virgin)
1/4 pint of single cream (or to taste)
salt and pepper to taste

Finely chop your onion and garlic and sweat gently in a large pan with olive oil over a low heat until translucent. Peel and roughly chop your parsnip and potatoes. Add your parsnips to the onions and garlic and cook over a low heat until they begin to colour slightly. Add your potatoes and your stock, salt and pepper and bring to the boil. Once your soup is boiling simmer for 25-30 minutes until the potatoes and parsnips are cooked through.

Remove from the heat and blend until smooth. Return to the pan and add your cream. Serve with some nice crusty bread and garnish with slivers of caramelised fried onion and a large glass of chilled dry white wine.

Look through my window

I'm busy completing the Johari Window thingy, which I cadged from Ally, via Kitchen Witch and the Madster.

Having to restrict yourself to six litle words was very difficult because I wanted to use them all but I managed and came up with the best matches I could. What do you think?

Once you've done mine you can set up your own.

Now off to do the Baggage's; Kitchen Witch, I hardly know you, so perhaps I'll wait a bit until I do yours.

Who'd have thunk it?

You scored as English. You should be an English major! Your passion lies in writing and expressing yourself creatively, and you hate it when you are inhibited from doing so. Pursue that interest of yours! English 100% Linguistics 92% Journalism 92% Theater 83% Philosophy 75% Dance 67% Psychology 67% Engineering 58% Mathematics 58% Sociology 50% Art 50% Chemistry 42% Biology 42% Anthropology 33% What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3) created with QuizFarm.com Thanks to Loads of Rabbit from whom I stole this quiz.

Friday picture

Bottoms up! Or itchy bum surprise to come or other such sayings with reference to bottoms.

This and other bare naked ladies can be found over at the Artists Minigallery site.

Hydra

"Two of Britain's finest war poets - Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon - spent time at a hospital for officers with shell shock, in Edinburgh during 1917 and 1918. The episode inspired Pat Barker's novel "Regeneration", which has been made into a film. But now the hunt is on for some literary memorabilia produced at the time... the Craiglockhart War Hospital magazine.

It was called "The Hydra". Wilfred Owen edited it. It published new work by both authors, and many other patients at the hospital. But no-one seems to have a complete set of all the magazines that were produced. Now Napier University, who own the Craiglockhart building, want to bring the magazine home, to add to their war poets collection. " says BBC Scotland reporter Huw Williams.

I've been a huge fan (not a word usually associated with war poetry) all my adult life and The Hydra played an important part in the creation of some of the Twentieth Century's greatest poetry.

If you happen to have a copy loafing under your bed or wedging the leg of the wobbly table in the dining room can you please let Napier University know.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

UN ... concerned.

The UN seems to have its finger on the pulse again. Apparently the US detention centre at Guantanamo Bay should be closed without delay and all the prisoners tried or released.
The BBC article carries the full text of the report here (pdf).

The detention of people without trial makes a mockery of US (and indeed British) claims for the moral highground. To demand that other nations abide by the international rule of law we have to be exemplary in our own affairs and we are not. We are falling far short of the ideals we set for others. Our politicians use fear of attack to provide a smoke screen and the UN sits on its hands until it is forced to react in a gummy, half-hearted attack.

Here endeth the lesson.

Dead Meat ...

Well days of excitement have now culminated in this: a freezer full of dead animal. Well three dead animals, and some bits of other dead animals.

To be precise a lamb, two pheasants, some beef and some pork - there is a bag of frozen peas there too; wouldn't want Gillian McKeith to have a complete heart attack, would we?

We decided to go with Lobbs Farm next door to the Lost Gardens of Heligan in the end and we are really pleased. Excellent value and friendly fast and efficient service.

We had really delicious lamb chops last night and I think the Artist has a tagine planned. The only downside will be not eating it all at once. The vegetable box from Riverford Organics is arriving on Tuesday and once again I feel like a kid with a new toy. The funny thing is I don't even like vegetables.

Friday picture

You can find this picture
on the Artist's Minigallery website. In real life it's a little warmer looking than the photo and the mysterious girl? It's a mystery.

Masterchef

I have to confess to being ever-so-slightly obsessed by MasterChef Goes Large at the moment and I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what my MasterChef two-course meal would be and I'm still not sure.

What would you make? Or maybe you'd rather boil your head than spend time in the kitchen.

If you are food obsessed like me then leave me your plat du jour in the comments.

Thanks Rantz ...

... for a (rare just makes me sound pathetic) laugh.

Can't stand the little blighters (left) or the affect they produce on the Painter. I do, however, eat them knowing exactly how good they are for me and everyone else and I may even grow some in the garden this year.

For some reason this train of thought has made me think of the new low in reality type television just airing here on UKTV Style: The Spa of Embarrassing Illnesses. Yes, I know, I started watching out of nasty and prurient voyeurism after several large glasses of red wine. The episode I saw, the introduction of coffee enemas for all and the introduction of the concept of colonic plaques have got me and I will be tuning in again.

Make your own connection with brussel sprouts.

I will endeavour to be less british and more germanic about bottoms and the tunes they make in the future.

Word Cloud Factory

Thanks to the baggage that is mad and abides on England's bottom ( if she joined my frappr map you would know where I meant) for the link that provided my word cloud.

I think I may have inadvertently ordered a t-shirt but what the hell!

I'm so angry about T**** that I can't even blog about it. So this has provided a welcome little distraction and has inspired a poem of sorts.

Black Blog

City down:
Garden good.
Green happy home and
Life like little local love.
Lovely lovemaking loves
Objectionable old painter.

Picture Plymouth.
Read right.
Stroke stuff.
Think three times tommy
Of two united Weevils.

Somewhat like those fridge magnets you can play about with: you always have to butcher things about a bit, pull a leg off an X to make a Y or remove an S to fit your syntax.

Bloody brilliant

Scotland 20 France 16

Cheers Cheryl

Commander Sir Samuel Vimes


Discworld: Which Ankh-Morpork City Watch Character are YOU?
brought to you by Quizilla

Now I'm going to have to start reading him to find out if I like my character.

A long, slow, comfortable ...

... Stew. Or Beef Stew and dumplings.

Take 2lb (about a kilo) of a cheaper cut of beef - skirt or shin. Cut it into largish chunks and fry in very hot olive oil until browned. Unless you have a large pot you may well have to do this in two or three batches - if you overcrowd the pan the temperature will drop and the meat will boil instead of fry.

Remove the browned meat from the pan and add one or two large onions finely chopped and one clove of garlic also finely chopped. Reduce the heat and sweat these until the onion is translucent.

If you like an all-in method you can now add several large carrots roughly chopped. Add your meat back in and add about 3 pints of stock - you can use beef stock, a good robust red wine or a nice traditional beer or even water. You can even use a combination of beef stock and beer or beefstock and wine. Add three or four bayleaves, fresh thyme and some freshly ground or crushed black pepper to taste. Don't add salt at this stage: leave that until the stew is cooked and ready for the dumplings.

Bring the stew to the boil, cover and then reduce the heat and simmer for about 2 hours or until the pieces of beef break easily with a fork. Taste and salt to your own preference.

When you reach this stage make your dumpling mix - using about 1lb of self raising flour, half the weight of suet, i.e. 8oz a pich of salt and some ground pepper some chopped fresh or dry herbs and enough water to make a sticky dough. Drop egg sized pieces of the mixture into the stew and replace the lid. Leave the lid in place for at least 25 minutes to ensure the dumplings are fully cooked.

Serve with a hearty green winter vegetable such as sliced spring green or savoy cabbage.

If you are watching your cholesterol you can use vegetarian reduced fat suet and it works just as well.

Enjoy.

The Cloud Factory

Another sentimental journey inspired by the new BBC season Folk Britannia. I'm sitting listening to the Mike Harding show (the daft one with the beard) if you click through to "listen again" you can get his whole show from Wednesday 1 February. The track above by June Tabor is about thirty minutes into the programme.

You may think that my Mum is missing in action because she's not mentioned much on here. If she knows about it she has never mentioned it but I think she'd find it invasive and so apart from times when not to mention her would be strange for me, I leave her off.

Friday picture

This is a detail from a picture the Artist sold a little while ago via Minigallery but recently got some really nice feedback on it from the purchaser.

The Artist hasn't been able to add any new work to the site since September but he has been able to include some of his botanical illustrations because of his upgraded subscription (Silver Membership).

The site is undergoing some updating with new front end gallery pages for the artists and various other improvements promised over the next few weeks.

It really has been quite a find - who says hours of trawling the interweb aren't fruitful.

If you happen to be a struggling artist they are an excellent venue for your art and provide an online portfolio of your work - for our friends in other parts they have also added Minigallery America and Minigallery World.

Supermarket giant sends shopper green

In the wake of the incredibly poor service and lack of any proper resolution to this whole sorry episode, I have been investigating veg and meat box schemes. I'm still researching the meat box side of things but until our allotment produce kicks in I've plumped for Riverford Organics based here in South Devon.

Their website is very nicely designed, clean and well thought out and their ethos seems to be sympatico with our own thoughts on food. I had thought that living in the middle of urban sprawl would disbar us from this kind of thing but apparently not. So until I can get the allotment up and running again they will fill the niche nicely.

Ahh ... Bisto!!!

I suppose that searching for your dead dad on the internet is an exercise in narcissism, or perhaps a desperate attempt to conjur him in some sort of guise, any one will do.

He loved computers and the internet and though he was an intensely private person, I think it would have given him a certain smug satisfaction to find himself.

Imagine my surprise when I found a copy of this image in an online archive. We had the photo at home for as long as I can remember but we didn't know where or when the photo was taken.

Now we know. My dad in Roseburn (Edinburgh) Park on Coronation Day (1953 for those who don't know) aged 11. He's the boy Bisto Kid. The girl is Margaret Swan according to the archive.

From pillar to post ...

... or "Every little helps, Reprise" Reprise.

FYI I enclose the following:

a copy of an email from me to Tesco CEO Sir Terry Leahy;
a response from Tesco Customer Service.

Dear Mr Leahy

I am contacting you to explain about a problem I had with your organisation before Christmas. I am a longstanding customer and for our income, which is limited, we spend a lot with you.

In February last year my husband, aged 42, suffered his first stroke and was in hospital for about a month. I don't drive and we live in a second floor council flat with our three children (one of whom is a toddler): having Tesco deliver our shopping seemed like the ideal solution.

Some of the drivers were reluctant to bring stuff up the stairs and I contacted customer service in Dundee to make sure that I was right in assuming groceries should be delivered to my door. I was assured that they should. Over the next few weeks while XXXX was recovering we continued to use the service but some of the drivers were obviously so reluctant to bring shopping up the stairs that as soon as XXXX was able to help me, we stopped having the shopping delivered.

In September, after making an almost complete recovery, XXXX had an even more serious stroke and was in hospital until mid November. We'd had a flyer asking us to come back to Tesco.com and though I was reluctant to do this given the way I was made to feel, I felt like I had no option. On the first or second occasion (in November) the driver stated he wasn't bringing the shopping up the stairs - I said I'd clarified the matter with customer service and would he deliver it to the door please. He brought it up the stairs and though he was not rude, was obviously furious.

I had more shopping delivered without any problems until 13 December when a driver I believe to be the one just cited buzzed the security buzzer. I said I would let him in and he said not to bother as I would have to come and collect the shopping. I said I couldn't and he said I would have to as he was not bringing it up the stairs. I explained my husband's health problems (we are now due to be rehoused because of the severity of the stroke) and said that we needed our shopping delivered. He then stated that he was not coming in as a hypodermic syrringe had been reported in the building and that customer service knew all about it. He gave me the number of the local store to ring. He was rude, confrontational and very abrupt from the outset of the conversation.

I rang customer services at Real-Life-Tesco-Store and the first lady I dealt with said he should have delivered to the door and she knew nothing about the driver's complaint. I then phoned Plymouth City Council to try and ascertain if the complaint had been made to them. I spoke to various different departments none of whom knew anything about such a complaint at my address. The final department I spoke to was the Street Cleansing emergency response team who actually go out and clean syrringes up. The manager there stated that to his knowledge there had never been anything of that nature collected from the address.

While I was on the phone, XXXX (or perhaps XXXX - I'm sorry I can't
remember) XXXXXX phoned and asked me to ring her back which I duly did.
She explained that your terms and conditions meant that the driver only had to deliver to the external door of the property if there were health and safety contraindications. I explained my conversations with the council and she said that would not compel her driver to deliver to me. She said she was passing the matter on to head office who would contact me.

XXX XXXXX left a message on my answerphone to say an email was on its way and asking me to contact him. I tried to contact Miss XXXXXX to say I wanted the orders (I'd only that morning placed my order for Christmas) cancelled but only got through to a delivery driver - when I asked to speak to Miss XXXXXX about an outstanding complaint and said I was Mrs XXXXXX, he said "Oh, you're number 7" he said she wasn't there so I decided to deal with Mr XXXXX.

The email never turned up but he rang back and spoke to my husband the following day while I was at work with the information that we were now boycotted by all of your Real-Life-Tesco-Store drivers because of the smell of urine in the lobby.

I rang Mr XXXXX back the following day to clarify the situation. I said what I was most upset about was not the non-delivery but the way I had been treated and it was that I wanted addressed - I'm working with the local council to try and resolve the issues in our lobby which are caused by others. I couldn't blame people for not wanting to come in to the building - I don't most days.

Mr XXXXX said that if I lived more locally he would come and see me personally but as that could not happen he would pass the matter back to Real-Life-Tesco-Store for them to deal with. I asked him to ensure that the order was cancelled and that however the matter was resolved, I wouldn't want any of the drivers delivering to me as I felt completely humiliated by the whole experience.

I'm sorry to be so long-winded about this but I have received only one communication from Real-Life-Tesco-Store - a Tesco.com receipt (the type they bring with your delivery) at the top it merely states "we are sorry you are unhappy with the following items".

I had expected some kind of goodwill gesture for the upset and distress I have been made to feel in the course of spending money with your company, at the very least an apology.

We continue to shop with Tesco - I believe that the boycott, whilst able to be sustained by the poor environment in my lobby, was basically about one person's unwillingness to bring shopping up some stairs. I enjoy shopping with you, we like using our reward points to save for Christmas and want to go on shopping with you.

I would like a proper apology for the hurt and humiliation I now feel. My husband's health, our at times appalling environment and caring for my family and myself are enough to worry about without being made to feel like a pariah.

Yours sincerely

Sheweevil

After some time (original sent 7 January) I received this on Saturday evening.


Dear Mrs Sheweevil

Thank you for your email addressed to Sir Terry Leahy. As Sir Terry is away from the office at the moment I have been asked to respond on his behalf.

I was very concerned to learn of the problems you have axperienced with our Grocery Home Shopping service and that your delivery driver was unwilling to make a delivery to you. I was also concerned to hear that you have yet to receive a response from the Real-Life-Tesco-Store as promised.

I would like to advise that we expect all our staff to treat customers with respect and to approach any difficult situations with tact and discretion. When the condition of the communal access to your address became a cause for concern I would have expected the driver to discuss this in a polite and friendly manner with yourself and explain the concerns they have about making the deliveries.

We would then expect our driver to bring this to the attention of the Home Shopping Manager and discuss with them the justifications for their concerns that to continue making a delivery would pose a risk to their personal health and safety. The Home Shopping Manager should then arrange to assess the situation directly and act accordingly.

The Home Shopping Manager should contact the customer and advise them of the reasons that it will no longer be possible for them to receive a delivery at that address, if it is felt there is a risk to the health and safety of the driver or store staff.

While I am sure you can appreciate the reasons taken by the store to no longer deliver to your address, I am sincerely sorry this has been handled in such a poor and insensitive manner that has caused you so much inconvenience and upset.

I have contacted the store and asked that they write to you as promised and issue their own apologies fro the poor traetment you have received from their staff.

I do hope, that despite the inconvenience and distress already suffered, you will accept my sincere apologies and that you will give us the opportunity to restore your confidence in our services.

Thank you for taking the time and trouble to contact us.
If you have any further queries please do not hesitate to contact us at XXXXXXXXXXX@tesco.co.uk quoting TESXXXXXXXXX.
Kind Regards
XXXXX XXXXXX
Tesco Customer Service

Obviously I have changed names but what do you think? I will have to wait and see if there is anything from the store involved - but how long do I wait?

Tommy this and Tommy that ...

I have recently been doing some family history research. It turns out I found a great uncle that was lost after the Second World War. It's a small and hollow victory as he has no known grave and is commemorated on the Cassino Memorial.

This doesn't mean he died during the battle for Monte Cassino, just that he died during the Italian campaign. He was a regular soldier in the 1st Batallion Durham Light Infantry, having joined up before the war and he died on September 8 1943. He was from Liverpool where all the English side of my family is from. His name was Thomas Harvey.

If anyone in Blogland can help me tie up his date of death with a particular action in which 1st Bn DLI were involved. Names like Pergola Ridge and Salerno keep cropping up but I can't pin the 1st BN DLI down to them.

His two sisters, my grandmother and my great aunt, tried to find him after the war but had no luck - the advent of the computer makes records searches easy.

So if you have any connections to the DLI or can help in any way please contact me.

A certain nostalgia ...

The promised demise of the UK Theme has set me on a course of nostalgia and sentementality. Born at the end of the 60s, I was not old enough to understand the politics of the Vietnam War, the likelihood that man in fact never has stepped on the moon, or the machinations that lay behind the three day week.

But I do remember things. Nixon resigning, Jeremy Thorpe, Princess Anne's wedding (the first time round) and watching the fireworks from Windsor Castle all in glorious black and white.

It's not surprising, I suppose, that memories of these things tend to be in black and white and even that some faces, perhaps only remembered through the medium of a black and white photo are also black and white.

But whole memories of visiting places - a particular visit to my great aunts and uncles in flats at Upper Pitt Street in Liverpool (I think), with flocks of pigeons all flapping about in black and white against a grey (blue) sky. Searching for Upper Pitt Street, I found a reference to a park there now and then found another to Picton Playground, a place of wonderment and awe for me when I was three. In contrast to the park we had back home in the depths of Cornwall this place was a technicolour dream of equipment (most of which I was much too timid to use). I know it was colourful but I can only remember it in black and white.

And an old man picking up dogends on the top deck of a double decker bus and my mum telling me not to stare. He's in black and white too.

Is it only me? Am I going ever-so-slightly round the twist? Are there any scientific types out there who put my mind at ease and tell my I'm completely normal, in this regard at least.

And will my children remeber things in black and white or colour?

Fabulous Minigallery

About a year ago I found, quite by accident, Minigallery's website. After some umming and ahhing the Artist was persuaded that it might be a better idea than the struggle he was having to sell his art through ebay and the derisory prices he was getting.

He signed up last February, shortly before stroke number one, and through sales he has been able to upgrade his subscription level twice. It also led to his first exhibition at The Art Garden Cafe on the historic Barbican, Plymouth.

If you are an artist, budding or otherwise, get yourself over to Minigallery:

Create your very own virtual art gallery online now!

They offer a range of subscriptions to suit even the most struggling and garret stricken of artists. Alternatively, if you want something lovely to stick on your wall, original works, prints even greetings cards and free ecards.

The Artist is very much on the mend now and starting to think about going back to work. He's got stuff to finish from last Autumn and new ideas he's almost desperate to work on.

Life is steadily getting back to normal, whatever that is.

Mercedes Tiffany Rolls-Royce

I have just decided to make this my movie star name. What's yours?

Every little helps ... reprise

I had lots of helpful advice on this topic, none of which I took. I waited for a reasonable period of time (around two or three weeks) and had nothing but a receipt confirming our card had been refunded.

So I emailed Sir Terry Leahy, CEO of Tesco. On 20 January having had no response or acknowledgement I sent it again. This time I received an email from a PA or assistant saying my email is receiving attention.

Watch this space.

UK Theme - demise of - discuss

Perhaps many of you are not aware of this catchy little number. Or perhaps, like me, you catch it from time to time in the greyish gloom of a new day.

For the Artist it's an irritation: a remembrance of a time when he had to get up very early in the morning to deliver veterinary supplies.

For me it particularly reminds me of a pin-money cleaning job and a halcyion last few months in our old home, coming home from cleaning up old lady spit and gardening in my lovely established garden full of hardy perennials and shrubs and peace.

It is, I suppose, an anachronism but is there really any harm? And if they suceed in dumping this what will be next - not Sailing By, please. It is so often the music we drift off to in that post-coital swoon.

The strength of feeling is apparent with questions tabled in parliament - I suppose, a ludicrous misuse of parliamentary time but I don't want it to go.

If you agree visit savetheradio4theme.co.uk and add your name.

In the scheme of things it's a trivial cause, I know but if things can be changed here, they can be changed in other places too.

Bette Davis and me

Thanks very much, Cheryl, for the plaudits at Christmastime. I was not ignoring your kind remarks but finding a way to respond which either completely ignored my new hairdo or pretended I was fine with it.

Four days before Christmas I woke up with the urge to have hair a bit like Stockard Channing in Grease (above). There are worse things I could do.

Instead of leaving this little fantasy firmly on the inside of my head where it belonged and due to the proximity of our local hairdresser (downstairs) I was convinced what I needed was a perm. I'd never been to the place before but I'd seen lots of old ladies going in and having perms - they must know what they're doing, mustn't they?

The answer is they do. They know how to do old-lady-perms. The stylist did ask me if I'd considered a colour - but the thought of a blue or pink rinse was just a bridge too far. I wanted to look like Stockard Channing for f***s sake, not Frenchy in her Pink Lady phase. I was quite pleased with it until I got home, which given it is only upstairs is not long.
I persevered with it and went into town looking like Deirdre Barlow's 20:20 vision sister. By Christmas Day I was absolutely in hate with it but fairly circumspect: what could I do? I cooked and served Christmas dinner looking like the leader of the hair bear bunch and struggled like a gladiator to get my Christmas Cracker hat over the frizz. It perched improbably on the top and just enhanced the effect perfectly.



Now, most of the time, it behaves itself fairly well. And a lot of the time I even quite like it - I would caution anyone with somewhat blurred and fond remembrances not to try it at home though - a place in fashion history is what it deserves not a place in modern life.

Here comes 2006 ...

Bliadhna Mhath Ùr ’s a h-uile nì nas fheàrr na chéile

Happy New Year

Happy New Year


No more champagne
And the fireworks are through
Here we are, me and you
Feeling lost and feeling blue
It’s the end of the party
And the morning seems so grey
So unlike yesterday
Now’s the time for us to say...

Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have a vision now and then
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don’t we might as well lay down and die
You and i

Sometimes I see
How the brave new world arrives
And I see how it thrives
In the ashes of our lives
Oh yes, man is a fool
And he thinks he’ll be okay
Dragging on, feet of clay
Never knowing he’s astray
Keeps on going anyway...

Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have a vision now and then
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don’t we might as well lay down and die
You and i

Seems to me now
That the dreams we had before
Are all dead, nothing more
Than confetti on the floor
It’s the end of a decade
In another ten years time
Who can say what we’ll find
What lies waiting down the line
In the end of eighty-nine...

Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have a vision now and then
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don’t we might as well lay down and die
You and i

What I wanted to do by stealing this song was to invoke the kind of hope I felt at our family New Year parties back in the seventies, I can't find a copy of the tune anywhere - well, probably if I knew where to look, I could, so these stolen lyrics will have to do. The site I stole them from didn't even credit the writers (SCANDALOUS). So I'm linking here instead - which does cite the writers (Benny and Bjorn, of course) and you can even listen to the track if you sign in.

Anyway it's time to put 2005 behind us - every year I hope that the next year will be better. In some ways this year has been great: the Artist has sold 10 paintings in 2005 and is hoping to go back to work sometime in the New Year. Arty, Daughter, Surrealo Son and the Two Year Old Genius (or Harry Potter, the Boy who lived , as he prefers to be known) are all thriving and I planetd a garden and even did some writing (thanks Cheryl, Erin et al for the encouragement).

The poor allotment hasn't been touched since September 6, but I placed a large order with Thompson and Morgan yesterday - mostly for plants so I can't just leave it or they'll all die. Hopefully the dry weather forecast for next week will give me the chance to get down there and clear the plot ready for this coming year.

Happy 2006

Every Little Helps

So, as if our life was not difficult enough, we have now been boycotted by the Tesco delivery drivers at our local store.

You may remember, those of you who have been paying attention, that we are stuck in a 2nd floor flat with several furry things, three children of varying sizes, a bloke with a poorly leg and worse arm (according to the council "at danger of becoming housebound") and me with a bad back.

Perhaps they thought I was getting a bit above myself and didn't really deserve to have my shopping delivered. A bit posh sounding, too many fresh fruit and vegetables for someone living in a council flat with a piss stained lobby, liable to phone the helpline to ascertain that yes, you lazy bastard, you are supposed to climb the stair and DELIVER her shopping to the front door (unless of course you can make up some excuse to do with health and safety at work and then you'll have her over a barrel).

After an angry exchange via the intercom and accusations involving the sighting of a hypodermic syrringe, I called the local store who apparently knew all about it. They didn't. Neither did the local housing office, environmental services or street cleansing emergency response team who are actually the poor souls who have top go out and retrieve these things.

Another call to another bod at Tesco who apologised but said she could not compel her driver to deliver to me under their terms and conditions. She was informed that according to the City Council there had never, ever been a report of a needle and none had been cleaned up from here. She passed me on to head office who were supposed to email me. Jim (a very nice man) rang me to say one was on its way - of course none turned up. He rang back the next day and spoke to the artist who's not great on the phone when both arms work but the upshot was that the hypo - was not really the issue - it was the piss and the skanky nature of our abode - not his words - mine. He was very pleasant and as helpful as could be at all times. He also informed us that we had now been boycotted (again, my word) by all the drivers.

Now, you probably think I should be furious with Tesco. I'm not. I'm furious with the first driver who had been to the flat before and very reluctantly had had to deliver up the stairs.

I'm humiliated by the fact that the whole garage has boycotted us and in fact one of them called me "number X", our address.

In the mean time, we are back to lugging it all on the bus - there's no advantage to a cab as it would only stop in the self same plaace as the bus - to cap it all off very nicely the wheels on the shopping trolley went yesterday.

Tis the season to be jolly, fna, fna, fna.

Favourite Carol

After the soothing papfest which is Saturday night telly had become just a blur in the background, Arty Daughter had us all trying to work out which carol she was talking about.

"It's got a robin. A frozen robin. It's really sad. You used to sing it". The only thing I could think of was an awful song we learnt for a singing competition with our school choir. Which went something like this:

Robin on a leafless bough
Lord in heaven how he sings
Now the winter's cruel wind
Makes playmates of poor dead things.

Cheery, I know - great song for ten year olds to sing.

Anyway it turned out to be, after much deliberation, In the Bleak Midwinter (words by my fave rave Christina Rosetti). It set me to thinking what blogland's favourite carol was, or yours anyway.

Mine is Angels from the Realms of Glory (please note popups if you click through) and note that I prefer the traditional french tune not the American one. Which is yours?

Going, going, gone!

www.minigallery.co.uk/john_morris

Choked...

As I said in the last post I have, as it were, bitten off a little more than I can chew. Normal service will be resumed shortly following a large bar of chocolate and some delicious red wine.

More than I can chew ...

As is my wont, it seems I have have bitten off slightly more than I can chew. I always was a child prone to gluttony - not all the time, but if the right digestive experience was to present itself to me it was quite plausible for me to bite off much more than I could comfortably chew.

In this case it happens not to be a feast but a concordance of events. I'm sure most people would stride through them in their seven league boots but as I've only (no slaps please - you know what I mean) been a house-Sheweevil for quite a while now - I have a new job. It's very little but it might help in restoring something of my lost confidence: that or push me over the edge completely.

In addition to that, I decided it would be a good idea to take part in the writing task detailed below. So far I have managed 375 words which means I'm lagging somewhat. Yes, I've got a plot , reading Cheryl's blog this makes me feel rather smug, just no botheration at the mo. This is mainly because, three cheers and a hoorah, the Painter came home last Friday. We have also had news that we are a priority to be rehoused (DOUBLE HOORAH).

It was very weird to begin with and we were both a little, well, the only thing I can equate it to is, shy. We went to Tesco's today (his first trip out since coming home) and he said I could blog about what a crip he is but he did really well so he can go whistle. Supermarkets are a trial when your fit and healthy. I must admit I felt very protective - note to self: just make sure you are not over-protective - and one or two AHs were in real danger of a bunch of fives.

In other news, Samuel MacBeth from the first kiss story below contacted me to say he didn't remember a thing and who was I. Well Sam, I know who I am without the need to google myself (she lied). Truthfully, though, the interweb thing is a beauteous thing. Hi again Sam and thanks for the emails.

On a slight tangent, I can only commend the benefit of bedroom arranging to my mate Ally over at Ducking for Apples. Having been here for a year now and with the vestiges of the first stroke inducing wardrobes still obvious in the bedroom and us still living out of boxes and a couple of skew-wiff argos rails, the backlog of benefit paid for two wardrobes, two chests and two bedside cabinets. Get us with our hotel stylee room. The Painter thought he'd come to the wrong place so tidy and un-trippy was it. I even laid a carpet. What a boudoir.

Thanks Cheryl

For your post about NaNoWriMo. I think I went there once. No, that was Nanaimo. I digress. I've signed up as when I was trogging around the other day I had a bit of an idea. A germ. So now I too can wear my particpant badge with something akin to pride but rather more like terror.

Here it is:




Now, if I can only work out how to link to it you can all get one too.

Friday Picture

Not done one for a while. Check out affordable art at www.minigallery.co.uk/John_Morris .

A bit of a breather ...

I was going to spend the morning running about in preparation for my Mum visiting but she can't come so I can take things a little more easily. I still have loads to do because the Artist has made excellent progress since the last update and on Friday he is coming home for a few hours with his occupational therapist in order to prepare for him coming home permanently next Friday. This isn't certain yet but is looking likely.

Once home he'll continue therapy as a day patient. His leg is getting good now and his hand is slowly improving but it will be a long slog. If you can imagine (or remember) waking up after having slept with your arm in the air - you know, when you wake yourself up by hitting yourself in the face - he's got that kind of level of dexterity at the moment.

Yesterday I came home with such a big smile. I can't wait for us to be a family again.

First Kiss

Back in the day (to irritate my absent husband, who will at some stage no doubt plough through this), 30 years ago today as it happens we moved from what I regarded as home, a sleepy little Cornish village (clicking this link will show you some really charming pictures but your ears may be assaulted by some kind of ragtime tinkly stuff) and birthplace of the Twentieth century's communications technology revolution, to the dizzy excitement of the metropolis of Falmouth.

I moved from a village school and my own clothes to a catholic school with uniform and rules and positively no swearing (no really we didn't). The school had an infant bit and a junior bit and the juniors left at a different time; there were bells and smells and Mass every Wednesday. It was also in a new building with indoor toilets and everything. Shortly before this I had even appeared on the local news in a feature about the village schools outside loo, holding a noddy picture.

I found it scary, regimented and foreign to begin with but actually grew to love that school and the people in it.

My first kiss happened in the cloak room near the girls' toilets in the infant area although as I was 7, I was actually counted as a junior. The bell rang for the end of afternoon break and it happened. Samuel MacBeth ran at me and planted one on my kisser. He looked at me for a moment and then ran off with a nervous sort of smile. I only remember being really taken a back. Kissing was for grown ups. One day I would want someone like Samuel, although not him exactly, but not here and not now. When it did happen I wanted him to be a cross between Carry Grant and Rock Hudson, to be wearing a shirt, tie and long trousers.

It made me grumpy. I didn't feel invaded or violated just thought it was a bit bloody stupid and with my milk bottle complexion and red hair, my face stayed scarlet for the rest of the afternoon. Well at least until we did our times tables and said a Hail Mary.

There, Mrs Baggage, it's done.

Parsnip Fay Weldon

To concur with a certain huffy sister of mine in the comments below the last post, I am indeed a little daft around the edges. The title of this post, however, is not a sign of that vast madness but instead a sign of someone else's.

Having a quick squizz at my sitemeter results is often quite interesting and this morning is no exception - apparently if you google the above I come up second. The question is why would you want to? This must be one of the weirder google searches I have been visited by although not the weirdest. That honour goes to zebra f***ing -a reflection of my wont to use florid profanity and of others strange predilictions. It brought up several links to photos none of which I followed. Not that I'm prudish just of a slightly nauseous dispositon.

According to the BBCs new life change programme How to Get Lucky, having a haircut now counts as Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I can vouch for the therapeutic effect as by another weird coincidence I had one on Monday to cheer myself up.

Curiouser and curiouser

This next little ditty will either strike you as a weird piece of happenstance, serendipity (call it what you will or it won't.

Our local post office is quite good for dealing with straightforward things like the sale of a first class stamp or paying a bill but if you through recorded delivery books at them or present them with a request to send something to somewhere remote and exotic in under three months they tend to get a little flummaxed. Normally, though, postcodes don't throw them - them being a mainstay of the postal service.

The new certificates of posting are all computerised and so you are sometimes faced with the "Computer says no" scenario. On Thursday we had the same thing: woman in the post office insisting the postcode was wrong, me insisting it was right. She decided to hand write the address on the receipt/certificate of posting (probably completely invalid) crossing through the computer generated stuff. There was such a queue (another one) behind me that I didn't scrutinize what she had done but put it in my purse and went to Tescos to buy succour (can you buy it?) for my family.

On Friday morning the receipt is on my desk and something about it keeps drawing my eye. I can't understand how my name is on it as I never gave my name and it wasn't on the back of the parcel. I'm trying to ignore it and phone the BA but the line just rings and rings and this thing is drawing me to it. My name is in the bit she crossed out with a dud postcode at the end. I look more closely and see it says E & F McLachlan (okay, I have an extra a) Architects. Do I send this Fiona a Christmas card or will she just think I'm mad.

Tears of A Clown

Well, baby, if there's a smile on my face it's only there to fool the public. I was forced on Friday to take drastic measures when talking to the people at the local BA. Despite the girly pink wrapper on this blog (skin - I think the cogniscenti call them), I'm not a girly girl. Or even a girly woman. I'm normally a pragmatic, businesslike and no-nonsense kind of a soul.

Ringing the BA every day to see wtf was going on took its toll, though, and when I finally got through on Friday morning and was told that contrary to what had been said on Tuesday (that the claim was on the system and was about to be paid) it was in a queue still waiting to be processed; it was in fact not on the system at all. Furthermore, there was a large backlog.

I lost it and started wailing about the fact that I now had no money to visit my husband in hospital and blubbing. The woman got the paperwork in a bid to calm me down and leafed through and came to the conclusion it was quite straightforward and would only take about five minutes to process. Cheers for that - I already knew that or I wouldn't be hassling you everyday. Anyway, she said she try and get it moved to the front of the queue. I came off the phone feeling rather aghast that I'd actually cried in front of someone not sitting next to me at a cinema re-release of Truly, Madly, Deeply or someone I was related to by blood or marriage.

Don't get me wrong, I cry at the drop of a hat in front of those very specific groups of people - I even cried at the wedding of Peter James Andrea and Katie Price last night on Sky Mix. I try never to drop my guard infront of members of the bureaucracy or to use my tears to my advantage. This is a policy I will be ditching forthwith as on Saturday morning a nice fat giro for gazillion of our British Pounds floated down and landed on our non-existent doormat. So now we're practically solvent again.

Hoorah.

Come day, go day

Well it seems like some small glimmers of progress are finally being made. The Artist's mood seems to have lifted a little and he even phoned me last night - he doesn't even phone me when he's not stricken (some strange part of the verb to have had a stroke - Mary don't hit me). It made me smile for the rest of the evening.

Otherwise, no news on any front. Not on a garage - he'll ring you back; not on a new house - they'll ring you back; not on any money - we didn't receive your claim until the 29th -your letter says 27th - oh - and you returned my birth certificate on 20 - I don't know why there's a missing week but in any case your husband didn't sign the medical certificate we need to return it to him - exasperated remarks about the fact I'm running out of money as the WTC was stopped from 13 and I can't afford to keep going back to the hospital - sorry we can't process your claim until the form is signed.

Tuesday was a very bad day. I flooded the kitchen because I was trying to sort more paperwork out and forgot I was running the sink to wash the dishes. Had a huge row with Arty Daughter, then phoned rescue centres to have the animals rehomed.

Yesterday was significantly better and I cancelled my place on the waiting lists - I we are rehoused we would all be so gutted to have rehomed the animals.

Come day, go day.

The Artist - writ large at Minigallery

John Morris
Interview with the artist

What is the first artwork you ever sold?

It was a life drawing. I was 17ish, and I had some life drawings in my portfolio from school. School? Yes, school. My school was of the "Rowing and Latin" variety, and I was part of a small, dedicated and well-resourced group doing art A-level. Our teacher (a fantastic character called Pete Dryland) was devoted to us and our progress, so he engaged a fellow teacher to pose in a skimpy bikini (I suppose I should mention that this teacher was a she) for the life drawing option of our mocks. I got some lovely pencil and charcoal drawings out of that week. (Incidentally, in order to keep 1st years out of the art room during these sessions, Pete locked the door. The headmaster couldn't get in either, of course, so out came the fags...)My parents split up and my dad bought his own house. His first "girlfriend" was a dreadful American woman who said the word "Art" in a way that made my teeth itch. She bought a bikini drawing to impress my dad. I got £20 which was less than I'd want now...

What is your favourite media and why?

My favourite medium(sic) is Doris Stokes... Seriously, though, it's the traditional stuff I was trained in: pencil, charcoal, watercolour and oil. Absolute favourite for finished work is oil, no question.I love it; the feel, the smell, the taste, the sheen, the smell, the feel, the stains on my jeans. I'm an old fogey. I don't mind that it takes ages to dry, or that it costs a fortune, or that it makes brush cleaning a nightmare.

Did a particular person or event spark your interest in art?

No, not that I can remember. I think I'm a classic case of "always done it" from aged 3 or something. I recall a horse's head, in biro, on a shiny piece of cardboard, that I did when I was 4 or 5. It must have looked like a horse's head, because my parents passed it round the suburban dinner-party circuit with some degree of pride. I don't suppose it impressed those whose tiny offspring were destined to be lawyers or dentists, but I remember I was chuffed, and I did acquire a sort of sense that this was the thing I was made for/good at/going to be etc.Later, of course, I can point to some remembered influences: my art teacher at primary school, Mrs Sparks, my art teacher at secondary school, Pete Dryland (thank you, Droopy), my college graphics tutor Tony Hemingsley (who told me at an important time, very politely, that I needed to get my s**t together), and many others, but these were signposts along a path I had been treading since I was tiny (see above).

How long does it usually take you to complete an artwork?

This is an odd question, because of course it varies. I'm usually quick, now that I'm not so intensely graphic in my style. Some things I do have to force myself to be patient with, but generally, and especially with big paintings, I love the energy that only comes from spontaneous working and the discipline that says "STOP FIDDLING !!" when the thing is finished. I've scrapped and over-painted a lot of work because I've made one brush-mark too many and ruined someting good.As I get older, maybe I'll get slower and more cautious. I don't know. Provided I'm happy with my progress I have no strong feelings about it, so my pace could easily change...

When and where did you first exhibit your work?

On the fridge at home, like everyone else...and on the covers of my exercise books at school, of course. My art teacher at school exhibited a screen print for me, in Richmond town hall, but that was for brownie-points, not money. I've sold some botanical Illustrations at country "fayres" and so forth, but best of all is a painting on the marina wall in Porto Santo (got an eye infection doing that one!).Seriously, I'm exhibiting this summer (2005) at The Art Garden in Plymouth, and on minigallery.

Do you have a favourite amongst your own artwork?

The work I'm working on now has to be favourite, I suppose, or it won't have the positive energy I want it to have. I like my fruit pastels, and I like anything I do with a woman's bottom in it (I'm good at bottoms). Apart from that, I like things in phases, going through peaks and troughs of affection and disdain for various of my own paintings. The one I can look at anytime and never feel negative about, though, is "Catch me if you can" (the giant mackerel). I've sold this, so I've only got photos and memories, but I still think it is a truly great painting. Have any of your artworks ended up in unusual or famous places?Not that I can remember, although my oil pastel drawing "Satsuma" sold this year to a lovely chap in Australia, which is a long way to send a drawing.

Who or what has been the most influential factor in your development?

Well, my mum and dad, wife, children and friends and so forth, obviously. I've had a lot of praise and support throughout my life for which I'm grateful. It's not cool to acknowledge the influence of a schoolteacher, but Peter Dryland was a fantastic bloke with a laid back, low-key attitude. He seemed to just sort of be there, while we learned by osmosis. Without him, etc. etc.More recently, I have obviously to thank my wife Fiona for her (usually) sanguine reaction to my giving up my job to do this full time. I owe her a life of some sort, I suppose.

Which famous subject would you like to use in your art?

Catherine Deneuve.

When did you first start?

I was very little. I've always known. I've run away from it and done other things, but I came back because, insofar as I believe in these things, I was born to do it.What media would you like to try out?I'm open to anything that will make the image work the way I want it to, but because I invisage things done in oil, I need to persevere with it. When I know everything about oil paint I'll move on. That'll be quite a while, of course...

Which is your favourite art gallery and why?

The ArtGarden Cafe on Plymouth's Barbican, because they are hanging my work. More generally though, the Tate in London. It's where I went when I skipped school.The real answer to this question is this: any gallery with art on the wall is always a joy to be in. I love looking at art. Anywhere.

Have you ever had an art-related disaster?

I'm having one now, but I don't want to talk about it.

Do you have a funny story related to your art?

Sorry, no. Should I have? I'm starting to feel inadequate now. Cheers.

What do you like best about being an artist?

Everything. Even not having any money, because that will change. I love it when someone asks me what I do and I tell them I'm an artist. I have the life they want.

What do you like least about being an artist?

The money thing, because it affects my family. Another thing: I really don't like sniffy galleries (you know who you are, with your sign saying "No Riff-Raff" on the door).

What is the most expensive art related purchase you have made?

My freedom, otherwise known as "giving up the day job". On a day to day basis, I struggle with the cost of paint and canvas, etc. If I framed my work then I suppose the cost of that would feature in my nightmares too.

Where do you work, do you have a studio?

I have what I call a studio. It's a converted dining room in my mother's house, but it works for me. I love to work at home (my easel in that case being a short walk from bed) but we have dogs, cats and a young'un, so it can be tricky. My studio is quiet, reasonably well lit and plenty big enough for the time being.

Have you ever inspired somebody to become an artist?

Yeah, me. Seriously, I don't know that I have ever inspired - or caused - someone to become an artist, but I like to think I am a help to my daughter, who at sixteen is off to art college and may well become a brilliant painter. (She may of course choose to be a sculptor, fashion designer or photographer instead, which would be okay. If she becomes a social worker or a traffic warden then I will wonder where I went wrong...)

Are there other artists in your family?

Not that I know of. My wife is a poet, which is an art. My daughter is a painter, but she may become something else in time. Eldest boy is a historian and other boy is two, so who knows? My dad could draw a bit, but he was a policeman mostly. My mum was a restaurateur and my brother is an HGV driver/karate instructor. So it's just me, folks. Sorry.

Describe your routine on a day when you are working on your art?

I'm starting to think this is all a bit nosey. Okay, er...get up, have coffee, get dressed (not necessarily in that order), go to work.Seriously though, I have children and dogs, so I don't get out to the studio as early as some. I don't mind that. I'm not one of nature's nine-to-fivers.At the studio I'll have more coffee and a bit of a think before putting any paint on my brush. As I've said earlier, I work quickly compared to many artists, but there's a lot of contemplation, planning and evaluation between bursts of activity. I stop work when my inner voice tells me to stop. Then I go home and spend the evening with my family. This is a "typical" day but nothing is carved in stone. Days may be similar, but no two are exactly the same.

If you could pick just three colours to work with what would they be?

Black, white and brown, I suppose, but that wouldn't have to be paint. I like Conte Crayon, pastel and charcoal for drawing, so three colours wouldn't feel too restricted. If I could only PAINT in three colours, I suppose I would choose the primaries and mix everything else I needed from those, with the white of the canvas being another colour. So there.

What is in your artistic toolbox?

Various kinds of paint, brushes, palette knives, drawing media, same as everybody else I suppose. I buy linseed oil, turpentine and brush cleaner from DIY shops rather than art shops because they're about a hundred times cheaper and just as good.There's nothing surprising here, because I'm a fairly traditional sort of painter. I'd like to be able to tell you I mix my own pigments or something interesting like that, but I don't.

What item could you not do without?

My talent. Heck, I don't know. If all I had was a pencil, then I'd just use a pencil, I suppose. There are lots of things I would miss if I didn't have them, or if they hadn't been invented: oil paint, canvas, an easel, red wine...

I surrender ...

… to ape something I said yesterday. I’ve always had a morbid fascination with those surrendered wives (well, I say always but they’ve only been around for about 10 years and only exist at all because of women’s lib). Of course, I could never be one, my mouth is too fond of being left to its own devices and beside, The Artist, would not, I think, have ever wanted that kind of responsibility.
Ours is a modern marriage, a blended family. We try to be a team and most of the time it works – The Artist has what he wants: to work as an artist and I have what I want: a third child after years of being denied (by virtue of divorce) and denying myself (that part of my life is passed – at twenty-four!!). We have no money to speak of, our car’s a c**t and we are trapped in the heart chavland. Apart from these minor problems we are for the most part happy.
Now, though, we are apart. I’m on the verge of tears often – last night at the school awards do I had to ask people not to be nice to me. Of course, they still were. I’m very afraid. Afraid of the immediate future: the possibility of being re-housed and the idea that that may well mean we are out of the frying pan and into the fire; afraid of not being re-housed and the idea of The Artist being in rehab for even longer than necessary. I’m afraid that every time this happens a little bit of what The Artist is to me is lost.
The thing I’m most afraid of is that this will happen again. I’m not afraid of having to care for The Artist but I’m so afraid of losing him.

And in other news ...

The visit to the hospital yesterday went quite well after a shaky start. When I got there (outside of visiting hours) I was ushered away from the ward by a woman of unknown job description before I could even see The Artist. I was taken to sit in the day room to wait for the Consultant's ward round to finish. The Two Year Old Genius sat doing his jigsaws, eyeing up the TV which wasn't on and the collection of videos none of which were really his cup of tea (Bridge on the River Kwai et al).

Two agency health care assistants came in and started moaning about their pay, places they'd worked and one kept saying crap in front of the TYOG. I know, I know it was just the word crap but they shouldn't have been talking like that in front of a patient or carer (as I'm now officially known). Oh, and she was American - so it doesn't even mean the same there or atleast is more inoffensive. Really I was just sitting there feeling very vulnerable and consequently touchy. I began to think that I wasn't even going to be able to see The Artist and would have to hand his things to the ward clerk. I felt like crying and in the nick of time the smiling, northern, male staff nurse came into the room, apologised for the length of time we'd had to wait and asked if we would like to go and sit with The Artist instead.

When the consultant's (Dr N) ward round finished he came down to get me, introduced himself by his first name to the TYOG whose unusual name tends to disarm people.

The Artist said he didn't want to come, so I went with the boy genius. He confirmed they haven't been able to pinpoint the exact cause but apparently this is not unusual. We talked about the problems as I saw them and as they saw them - he was very reassuring, kind and helpful and not in the least patronising.

The bombshell was that the Artist's stay is likely to be at least 3-4 months, more if he does not begin engaging in the whole process. His age is on his side and if he suddenly becomes inspired he could be out in two.

That said they have offered to provide any support they can. They use a real multi-agency approach there and believe that support for the family is an integral part of the therapy package.

We agreed it might help The Artist if I were to visit less often, thus making him reliant on ward staff and himself for things instead of waiting for me to come in and sort things out. This has the added benfit of saving our dwindling funds and my slightly frazzled being.

God bless the NHS. Graeme, over at Incorrect use of the soap, I concur.

THE LIFE

THE DRESS

And in my spare time ...

[SEE ABOVE]

When I'm not running around looking slightly more haggard by the moment, I'm just whipping up cocktail dresses for Arty Daughter's prom. She chose the dress and the fabric and of course is completely unsure about it now. I would be adding a picture of it at this point just so you could all see what a domestic goddess I am but blogger has other ideas again.

We (Arty Daughter, Surrealo Sone and Two Year Old Genius) are all going to the awards dinner and then AD is staying on for the bop, as us naval types used to call them. She's not going in a limo - just on the bus. A certain retro chic, n'est-ce pas?

Cheryl is right, most blogs seem to lurch from one crisis to another - this one certainly does. Or maybe it's not just the blog but my life that does the lurching.

What I really want is this life:

[SEE ABOVE]

Maybe I'll become surrendered.

Early one morning ...

It's not unusual (to coin a phrase) for me to be on the computer at this time of the day but today we have an appointment at the rehab centre with the Artist's consultant.

I've been quite concerned about the apparent lack of information and arranged this on Monday. However after visiting with the Artist yesterday - the consultant spoke with him yesterday morning and it appears that they have not found the cause of the stroke - none of the tests have apparently been able to locate the new injury.

So it seems that I am going to have a wasted journey if that is all the consultant can tell me/us. Of course there are lots of questions that this apparent lack of diagnosis brings up in itself: how do we stop it happening again; is it a stroke or something else with stroke symptoms et cetera, et cetera. I feel like I'm in an episode of House. Any second now everything will start whooshing and the Artist will break out in horrible giant hives or start shaking uncontrollably.

So me and the two year old genius have to get ready and get out for the trek to the hopsital [sic] even earlier. My entire life consists of getting on and off buses at the moment.

Thanks for your comment, Vickie. Emotional lability is one of the most profound symptoms remaining from the Artist's last stroke in February. Nobody really tells you that even though your loved one is physically 99% recovered that the person you used to know may actually be changed forever. Some of the survivor stories over at Different Strokes (a support group for younger stroke survivors) indicate that this has led to marriage break-ups etc.

Monday, Monday

Well, this is as frustrating as everything else. I'm trying to insert a picture here but as usual blogger has its own ideas. It keeps telling me it's done it but voila - no picture.

Well the Artist has been moved to the local specialist stroke unit for rehabilitation. He's feeling extremely sorry for himself and his movement is limited although he can now sit and stand - a big improvement on this time last week. I've contacted just about every government and local government agency in the last week and filled in over 100 pages of forms - we need to get out of this place before the Artist can come home, basically. At least that's the way it's looking. So I'm working on that basis.

The car is sitting out the front like a huge white elephant - MOT just expired, tax just about to go, no way or where for me to move it. A known fault that we haven't been able to fix and a duff headlight. I can't even sell the bloody thing. I've applied for a garage but of course there is a waiting list - you have to wait until somebody gets sent down for fencing stuff out of theirs before they become free. I'm sure that's not actually true.

Anyway, paradise has never looked rosier - a shame it's so far away. Poesy for all of you interested is permanently on hold - was going to relaunch in October but will wait for things to settle down.

No news ...

... is not always necessarily good news. Been feeling rotten all summer, compounded by the holidays, tiny shitty little flat and no money. This week started off all vim and vigour: Surrealo Son went back to school last week, Arty Daughter due to start college on 13th. Trying to address my problems and get my head straight.

What could possibly go wrong? Well probably everything if I'm involved.

We (me and the Artist for newbies or those who need to dust my abandoned blog down)spent a very pleasant evening post Ashes (sorry Antipodes) and a lovely dinner enjoying each other's company and generally being rather silly.

We decided to go to bed to watch the very silly film (Soldier Blue) we were sitting up watching at about half past midnight. At around ten to one the Artist started rolling and lolling over the side of the bed (a sneaky tactic to avoid my advances I thought). When this had happened three times (the Artist thought it was really funny) I noticed in the glint of the TV that the residual effects from the February stroke looked much worse on the left side of his face. By this time instead of trying to sit on the bed he had slid to the floor.

I said I thought he'd had another stroke. He couldn't grip my hand. He couldn't sit up straight. He said he was fine. I called the ambulance who were there within 6 minutes.

We are still waiting for a diagnosis - the CT scan only showed the old brain injury; nothing new. His MRI results are being disappointingly elusive. Hopefully he'll have had them now.

Just waiting for Tescos to deliver the shopping and then I'll be off with the Two year old genius to the hospital.

Sorry to everyone who has contacted me over the summer - just not been able to get this or anything else into gear. Have to now though.

Love to you all. Will keep this posted.

The picture is not of me by the way - to see my naked bum you'll have to visit John's online gallery at http://www.minigallery.co.uk/John_Morris/. Reclining nude with red hair is me, not the stick insect above.

Lulu - don't it make you want to shout?

Shameless plug - sorry.

Perplex City - Original Cards for sale

Not been too well - back soon, hopefully, and Poesy too.