Those of you who have read my Blog regularly (thank you faithful friends) will know that my mum is no longer alive. It is now 8 years since she died of breast cancer. I have written about many members of my family, but not her. Not yet.
Mum was 67 when she died - only 2 years older than my darling hubby. Too young. Too soon for someone so youthful and full of energy and life. Perhaps she used it all up too quickly. Perhaps she had had enough.
The daughter of my centenarian Grandma, she was every bit as lively and eccentric in her way. I remember her when I was a child - always baking, always a spoon to lick and something delicious to eat afterwards. Meringues were a speciality - every kind from mint to haselnut. As were peanut cookies & chocolate shortbread & apple pie. No wonder I had no interest in eating normal food. Although she was equally good at cooking that.
She was a cross between Mrs Beaton and Raquel Welch - tall and tanned and toned from endless yoga and dog walking. All done in impossibly short shorts (to make the most of the sunshine) and oblivious to the accompanying wolf whistles. She had beautifully long legs, finished off with equally beautiful long, slender feet. Her size 9s defined her - at once the bane of her life (especially as a War Baby) and her abiding passion. Rayne, Ferragamo, Manolo Blahnik - she is the reason I now stock big shoes.
I was a good child - apart from my refusal to eat. My older brother was a different matter. On becoming a mother I discovered for myself the benefits of embarrassment as a way to control errant children. He and his friends will testify, I'm sure, to the times she burst through the kitchen door in nothing but a leotard - screaming like a banshee because their incessant cacophony was disturbing her yoga session. Then there were the occasions (numerous) when she carried out her threats to disgorge the untidy contents of my brother's bedroom out of the window. Often we would return from school to find the garden strewn with clothes and teenage paraphernalia.
Her love of language inspired all of us. The dictionary was a staple part of our lives. Not only English, but Scottish and French words would be banded about. If we didn't understand what she was saying we looked it up. It was mum who taught us to swear - words, all words, were of value to her.
As her precious only daughter I was loved and cherished, encouraged and showered with affection. A decision to give me all that she had been denied by her own mother, I later learnt. Why I should grow into the insecure, over-achieving woman I did, God (and my therapist) only knows.
I took her nurturing, loving ways for granted until she left home when I was 16. I still have the letter she wrote to me, explaining her feelings for my soon to be Step-Dad and her need to be with this man she loved. I remember being both devastated (for myself) and elated (for her) that this glorious woman was strong enough to follow her heart.
She spent 25 years with Tom and loved him passionately - something that was hard to understand for my brothers and me. Hadn't our parents been happy? No arguing, no raised voices? No voice at all. My brilliant, scientific father with his fierce intellect was (by his own admission) somewhat lacking in social skills, and refused to behave in any way that was not reasoned. Mum, by contrast, was ruled by her heart and led by her passions.
Despite the disapproving tongues & slighting comments of small minded neighbours & family, she created a home that brought together us mismatched crowd of siblings and friends. Always a meal, a shoulder, a wise, comforting word and much laughter. Again I wonder at my own inability to recreate her sense of family in my younger life. I do better now as I grow older. But sadly too late for my own child.
A lioness in a fur coat and high heels, she brought glamour to my student years (however inappropriate her attire to my vegetarian friends). I remember her marching into the bleak hospital room where Max and I had been abandoned on the morning of his birth. Clutching a giant teddy bear and a bottle of champagne, her fur coat billowing, she swept us along in her joy and reminded me of who I was. She even allowed Max to puke on her brand new Ferragamos.
A lioness who would fight to the death for her child. At the end of her first lunch with Chris she smiled and said: "It's been lovely to meet you...and if you ever do anything to hurt my daughter, I will come after you." The following day I remonstrated with her. Hurt, she said defiantly: "I thought I was very restrained. What I really wanted to say is that I will come after you and rip your bollocks off."!
Thankfully, by the time of her death he had gained her approval. I knew he had won her over when he danced down her stairs wearing nothing but a towel and one of her hats, singing along to "You Can Keep Your Hat On". Her laughter told me that she knew I had found my soul mate.
After battling her illness for four years with her usual grace, aplomb and humour, I was called back from a disastrous holiday in Greece to her death bed. On my arrival she roused herself enough to hear that Chris had saved my life in a horrific motorbike accident. All she needed to know in order to move on.
I am honoured to have been with her in the wee small hours when she left this world. I had made the decision to sit with her through the night - not wanting her to be alone if she awoke. Desperate to find some comforting words, I had turned to a book that she'd first given me as a teenager - The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
I'm sure many of you will know this famous work. And if you don't, then I reccomend you look out for it. I knew that there was a chapter on death and I hoped that the words would offer some comfort to us both. But on the night it seemed too bold a passage to contemplate in isolation. And so I started at the beginning and read the book whole: Read to her of life and love, of children and marriage, of loss and joy, while she laboured to breathe beside me.
As I finished the last sentence of the chapter on death, her breathing changed - slowing and becoming more shallow. I continued to read until the book was finished (and, yes, I was freaking out inside!) My teeth were chattering so hard I'm not sure how I got the words out. But once I'd finished The Prophet I called the doctor who told me that her death was imminent.
There wasn't time for for my family to be with her. It was just mum and me. I stood holding her hand in that darkened room and told her to let go, leave her addled body behind, dance her new dance. And she did.
I had prepared myself many times for her death, grieved for her as she'd struggled to live. But nothing prepared me for the power of that moment. I'm sitting here, once more in the wee small hours, trying desperately to think of the words to describe it. But I have none. It was beautiful, truly beautiful. And I am grateful, so grateful to have been given that precious experience.
The knowledge that we had shared her end, just as we had shared my beginning, gave me a profound sense of peace that has never left me. Her death changed me - as you would expect it to. But for the better. As The Prophet spoke of joy and sorrow:
"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."
Now you'd think that this would be the end of my mum. Yes she lives on in my heart and my DNA, in my values and views. But my mum has done a little better than that. Always a strong spirit and sensitive to other souls, she was not to be defeated in death. No, it seems that a little thing like not having a body was no barrier to my communicative mother.
About a week after her death, as I lay in bed one night, she whispered in my ear. I kid you not - I nearly shit myself! "I love you" is what she said. She met me soon after in my dreams. She stood, clear as day, on the steps of the Rodin Museum in Paris - a place I'd always promised to take her. I must admit I reacted badly, screaming out in confusion.
And now she is still with me, influencing my life and coming to me when I need her. My doubting Thomas of a step father took more convincing of her continued presence. Every time she contacted him he rationalised it away. Not one to be put off, she left him a phone message.
My step brother found Tom rooted to the spot one night. On asking what was the matter, my step dad played back a message. White noise - and in the midst of it the words: "I love you Thomas Davidson." Too spooky!
Ah, but still not enough proof for my desolated step father. And so she left him a gift, something to remember her by. Twenty years previously she had given him a Tigerseye signet ring. The ring had been lost for two decades. One night Tom opened his much used bedside drawer and found the ring.
And as my darling mother continues to influence and entertain, I am reminded once more of the wise words of The Prophet. On Death:
"Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then shall you begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Amen
Monday 19 December 2011
Thursday 15 December 2011
I've Been At It Again!
Last week I spent 4 days on a sculpture course. Its title was: "Sculpting the Essence of the Figure - Abstraction." Yes, quite. I booked it months ago and was looking forward to spending a week focused on being creative - a nice change from concentrating on the shop. It all sounded very relaxing and great fun.
Yeah right.
West Dean College is a perfect place to study. The courses aren't outrageously priced, the buildings & grounds are breathtaking, the facilities (including the restaurant) are of a high standard and the staff are wonderfully helpful. No, the problem wasn't with the course. The problem was with my head.
Picture the scene: Ten students, one charismatic young tutor and an idea. What would happen if we used the life model as a starting point and then abstracted our sculpture in whatever way takes our fancy? The idea? That in this way we could tap into the creative energy and sculpt something more than just a representation.
Heavy.
Actually I really liked the idea.
In theory.
Which is of course the whole point. It's one thing having a good idea and another turning it into a three dimensional image. Remember, it's been more than twenty years since I last stood in a sculpture studio. I was terrified! There's nothing like fear for shrivelling the creative impulse. Still, I'm a cerebral creature and not one to be put off easily.
"Think of the things you like. Go with your instincts. Shake off your self-talk and really get into the zone. That's where the creative connection lies."
Okay. So I've got an idea: A figure - half man, half woman. The woman has roots and symbolises Mother Earth. The Man has wings and symbolises God made flesh. Sounds like a plan? Ah but now I've got to make it. And that's a whole other ball of wax (or rather, clay).
First the armature. That's the metal skeleton that supports the clay as you build up the sculpture. Brilliant! I love a bit of DIY. Nothing like a bit of banging on wood and metal for destressing. Having the model in front of me helped to clarify how my sculpture should look - the pose, the musculature - if I wanted to be accurate. Accurate is hard work though, and I am inherently lazy. So I quickly moved away from the model and slapped on the clay any old how.
So my creation began life as a man-woman. No more. That's when the idea for the roots came in. I'd scored some lines of movement on the woman and my tutor gouged out great swathes of flesh, making her more tree-like. I was a bit shocked, but I thought I'd persevere.
The thing is, I was struggling with the idea that we should do what we like. Isn't that just staying in our comfort zone, since we like what is familiar? And where is the creativity if we carry on doing what we've always done?
So I thought I'd give the tree lady a go.
But still, I can't escape from who I am. I can't deny what I know. And my roots are in Classical art. So while my classmates gave their sculptures tongues for heads and lips in the middle of their bellies, I referred to photos of The Nike of Samothrace. Have you seen it? Oh it's amazing. It's a 2nd Century BC marble sculpture of the Greek Goddess of Victory. She stands at the top of the main stairway in the Louvre - a symbol of power and triumph. Fab!
She has no head, old Nike. She's all swirling drapery and crowning wings. I'm not a fan of heads. In my sculpture, that is. They sort of get in the way. Interfere with the flow of lines and planes. And since my figurative sculpture usually symbolises something, then it suits me to have no head - more of an Everyman than an individual.
Bollocks.
It's just that I'm too lazy to sculpt the head. Most of the time. In this instance it doesn't need a head - it's got wings. Want to see it?
What do you think?
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get it home. The course was a nightmare! No, I was a nightmare. Midway through the week I was all set to jack it in. The body of the sculpture was going okay. I was fiddling about with the surface but I wasn't happy with the shape of it. It just wasn't right.
That night our tutor told us to go away and find some more references. Anything we liked. Sculptures, textures, written text, anything that would inspire us. That's when I remembered old Nike. The next day I was in there chopping up my sculpture.
Oh, only so I could take the metal armature out. I reckoned that if I was going to change it radically then I wasn't wasting time making the changes if it was going to fall to pieces when we removed its spine.
So I learnt a lesson in pushing through the dark hours in order to get to something better. And about taking risks and seeing where they would lead. Oh but that didn't matter. Within an hour of my big Eureka moment I was back in despair. That's me that is. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. Like a yoyo. Gives me a headache.
Self Talk. That's what we're doing every time we have a thought. No wonder I have a headache. That critical voice in your head that tells you that you're rubbish, you'll fail - that's Self Talk. Tell yourself you can't do something & you'll probably prove it. But our tutor reminded us that sculpture is 1 part idea and 9 parts hard graft. And he was right.
My next move is to hollow it out. Scary again! Then I'll let it dry out and take it back to the college. I'm booking a day's glazing course so that I can attempt to colour it as I can picture it in my mind. Wish me luck!
Laura x
Yeah right.
West Dean College is a perfect place to study. The courses aren't outrageously priced, the buildings & grounds are breathtaking, the facilities (including the restaurant) are of a high standard and the staff are wonderfully helpful. No, the problem wasn't with the course. The problem was with my head.
Picture the scene: Ten students, one charismatic young tutor and an idea. What would happen if we used the life model as a starting point and then abstracted our sculpture in whatever way takes our fancy? The idea? That in this way we could tap into the creative energy and sculpt something more than just a representation.
Heavy.
Actually I really liked the idea.
In theory.
Which is of course the whole point. It's one thing having a good idea and another turning it into a three dimensional image. Remember, it's been more than twenty years since I last stood in a sculpture studio. I was terrified! There's nothing like fear for shrivelling the creative impulse. Still, I'm a cerebral creature and not one to be put off easily.
"Think of the things you like. Go with your instincts. Shake off your self-talk and really get into the zone. That's where the creative connection lies."
Okay. So I've got an idea: A figure - half man, half woman. The woman has roots and symbolises Mother Earth. The Man has wings and symbolises God made flesh. Sounds like a plan? Ah but now I've got to make it. And that's a whole other ball of wax (or rather, clay).
First the armature. That's the metal skeleton that supports the clay as you build up the sculpture. Brilliant! I love a bit of DIY. Nothing like a bit of banging on wood and metal for destressing. Having the model in front of me helped to clarify how my sculpture should look - the pose, the musculature - if I wanted to be accurate. Accurate is hard work though, and I am inherently lazy. So I quickly moved away from the model and slapped on the clay any old how.
So my creation began life as a man-woman. No more. That's when the idea for the roots came in. I'd scored some lines of movement on the woman and my tutor gouged out great swathes of flesh, making her more tree-like. I was a bit shocked, but I thought I'd persevere.
The thing is, I was struggling with the idea that we should do what we like. Isn't that just staying in our comfort zone, since we like what is familiar? And where is the creativity if we carry on doing what we've always done?
So I thought I'd give the tree lady a go.
But still, I can't escape from who I am. I can't deny what I know. And my roots are in Classical art. So while my classmates gave their sculptures tongues for heads and lips in the middle of their bellies, I referred to photos of The Nike of Samothrace. Have you seen it? Oh it's amazing. It's a 2nd Century BC marble sculpture of the Greek Goddess of Victory. She stands at the top of the main stairway in the Louvre - a symbol of power and triumph. Fab!
She has no head, old Nike. She's all swirling drapery and crowning wings. I'm not a fan of heads. In my sculpture, that is. They sort of get in the way. Interfere with the flow of lines and planes. And since my figurative sculpture usually symbolises something, then it suits me to have no head - more of an Everyman than an individual.
Bollocks.
It's just that I'm too lazy to sculpt the head. Most of the time. In this instance it doesn't need a head - it's got wings. Want to see it?
What do you think?
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get it home. The course was a nightmare! No, I was a nightmare. Midway through the week I was all set to jack it in. The body of the sculpture was going okay. I was fiddling about with the surface but I wasn't happy with the shape of it. It just wasn't right.
That night our tutor told us to go away and find some more references. Anything we liked. Sculptures, textures, written text, anything that would inspire us. That's when I remembered old Nike. The next day I was in there chopping up my sculpture.
Oh, only so I could take the metal armature out. I reckoned that if I was going to change it radically then I wasn't wasting time making the changes if it was going to fall to pieces when we removed its spine.
So I learnt a lesson in pushing through the dark hours in order to get to something better. And about taking risks and seeing where they would lead. Oh but that didn't matter. Within an hour of my big Eureka moment I was back in despair. That's me that is. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. Like a yoyo. Gives me a headache.
Self Talk. That's what we're doing every time we have a thought. No wonder I have a headache. That critical voice in your head that tells you that you're rubbish, you'll fail - that's Self Talk. Tell yourself you can't do something & you'll probably prove it. But our tutor reminded us that sculpture is 1 part idea and 9 parts hard graft. And he was right.
My next move is to hollow it out. Scary again! Then I'll let it dry out and take it back to the college. I'm booking a day's glazing course so that I can attempt to colour it as I can picture it in my mind. Wish me luck!
Laura x
Saturday 5 November 2011
I'm Drowning in all this Rain!
I am not a duck! Right now I wish I were. It always surprises me that for a reasonably intelligent person I have such a tenuous grasp on reality. I live in the UK. It rains a lot here. It has rained continuously for the last 12 days. And yet I am still surprised.
I've been falling asleep on the sofa all week. My normal 10pm bedtime has been augmented by an extra 2 hours of dozing every evening. Am I descending into old age prematurely?
Last weekend I threw a 65th birthday party for Chris. I'd been madly trying to arrange it either side of our trip to Oz and was quite nervous that it would fall flat on its face. I had no need to worry (I never do - doesn't stop me though). The night was a rip-roaring success and the last of the partygoers finally retired to bed around 5am.
We started with a lively but civilised 'do' at The Angel Inn here in Petworth. The addition of coffins, severed heads and zombies were not an indication of the company we keep, but rather of the parallel Halloween celebrations. Our Petworth friends turned out in force and sang Happy Birthday - touching Chris to the point of "fillin' up". Party food was guzzled, toasts were made, balloons were popped, and by 10.30pm our hardcore guests had decamped to our house where the party really started.
By the time I got there the music was blaring and our befurnitured sitting room was awash with writhing bodies. Phew. Now I don't cook (far too stressful) but I do know how to be a good hostess. As the birthday champagne was quaffed I adopted the roll of DJ. This involved me crawling around on my hands and knees with a torch and my spectacles. Well you don't think I was going to let that bunch of drunks loose on Chris's precious HiFi, do you?!
The dancing got off to a gentle start with UB40 - before Prince, Abba and the soundtrack to Footloose had everyone leaping and posturing like lunatics. Demands for Elvis were satisfied, and an array of kitchen utensils were produced so that we might sing along. Later in the proceedings the spatulas were employed for rather more violent ends. But I'll leave the details to your imagination & the memories of our ebullient guests.
Suffice to say there was passing out, snogging, cheese sandwiches, smudged mascara and a charming dog (yes really). All in all the making of a perfect party. Staggering to bed in the wee small hours, Chris pronounced it the best birthday celebration ever. Phew again. I'd even managed to clear away the debris so that Sunday morning passed in a hungover haze of coffee and cooked breakfasts.
Due to the number of guests who'd crashed at ours we were able to continue the celebrations in pyjamas and duvets - dissecting the evening and laughing hysterically at the iPhone photos - probably still drunk. A mid-afternoon Sunday roast soaked up some of the alcohol and by 7pm Chris and I were snoring on the sofa.
My youthful husband's birthday wasn't until Tuesday and we had just about recovered sufficiently to continue the party into midweek. I was joking that instead of a portrait in the attic, like good old Dorian Grey, Chris has me. The younger and more energetic he becomes, the more my wrinkles develop!
So perhaps my exhaustion this week has less to do with the weather and more to do with the excesses of last weekend. We're none of us getting any younger! So a big thank you to everyone who contributed to the celebrations. And a bigger thank you to my wonderful, youthful hubby for whom it was an absolute pleasure to throw a birthday bash.
Laura x
I've been falling asleep on the sofa all week. My normal 10pm bedtime has been augmented by an extra 2 hours of dozing every evening. Am I descending into old age prematurely?
Last weekend I threw a 65th birthday party for Chris. I'd been madly trying to arrange it either side of our trip to Oz and was quite nervous that it would fall flat on its face. I had no need to worry (I never do - doesn't stop me though). The night was a rip-roaring success and the last of the partygoers finally retired to bed around 5am.
We started with a lively but civilised 'do' at The Angel Inn here in Petworth. The addition of coffins, severed heads and zombies were not an indication of the company we keep, but rather of the parallel Halloween celebrations. Our Petworth friends turned out in force and sang Happy Birthday - touching Chris to the point of "fillin' up". Party food was guzzled, toasts were made, balloons were popped, and by 10.30pm our hardcore guests had decamped to our house where the party really started.
By the time I got there the music was blaring and our befurnitured sitting room was awash with writhing bodies. Phew. Now I don't cook (far too stressful) but I do know how to be a good hostess. As the birthday champagne was quaffed I adopted the roll of DJ. This involved me crawling around on my hands and knees with a torch and my spectacles. Well you don't think I was going to let that bunch of drunks loose on Chris's precious HiFi, do you?!
The dancing got off to a gentle start with UB40 - before Prince, Abba and the soundtrack to Footloose had everyone leaping and posturing like lunatics. Demands for Elvis were satisfied, and an array of kitchen utensils were produced so that we might sing along. Later in the proceedings the spatulas were employed for rather more violent ends. But I'll leave the details to your imagination & the memories of our ebullient guests.
Suffice to say there was passing out, snogging, cheese sandwiches, smudged mascara and a charming dog (yes really). All in all the making of a perfect party. Staggering to bed in the wee small hours, Chris pronounced it the best birthday celebration ever. Phew again. I'd even managed to clear away the debris so that Sunday morning passed in a hungover haze of coffee and cooked breakfasts.
Due to the number of guests who'd crashed at ours we were able to continue the celebrations in pyjamas and duvets - dissecting the evening and laughing hysterically at the iPhone photos - probably still drunk. A mid-afternoon Sunday roast soaked up some of the alcohol and by 7pm Chris and I were snoring on the sofa.
My youthful husband's birthday wasn't until Tuesday and we had just about recovered sufficiently to continue the party into midweek. I was joking that instead of a portrait in the attic, like good old Dorian Grey, Chris has me. The younger and more energetic he becomes, the more my wrinkles develop!
So perhaps my exhaustion this week has less to do with the weather and more to do with the excesses of last weekend. We're none of us getting any younger! So a big thank you to everyone who contributed to the celebrations. And a bigger thank you to my wonderful, youthful hubby for whom it was an absolute pleasure to throw a birthday bash.
Laura x
Friday 28 October 2011
Back Home to the Dark Mornings
Ugh. We arrived back from Oz on Tuesday after an arduous journey. Emirates airline were a pleasure to fly with (and cheap!) but 19 hours on a plane (no matter how award winning their inflight entertainment) is not good for the soul.
Since our return, the dark mornings have been taking their toll on my mood. In Perth the sun rises at 5am. I had forgotten what a difference it makes to awake to the light. It was, however, disconcerting to find the sun setting instantly, after a summery day, at 6.30pm. By 7pm Chris and I were convinced that it was bedtime & had to force ourselves to stay awake until a reasonable hour.
If I think too hard, it seems absurd that we were on the opposite side of the planet just a few days ago. Our sole purpose for going was to see Chris's sons. Josh, his youngest, we hadn't seen since they left the country last July. What a joy it was to spend time with him. At fourteen and a half he has blossomed into a young man. And I recognised him as an old soul.
Our elder sons (due to their age and personalities) have always taken up the lion's share of energy and attention. So it was a pleasure to have the time and space to focus on their younger sibling. Of course, at 14, it could all still turn to worms. But I have a feeling that this quiet, funny, grown up boy will go far. His philosophy in life is that he will do what makes him happy - and that if times are tough, he reminds himself that this too shall pass. See what I mean about an Old Soul?!
I am delighted to return to the Autumn colours and long for some cold, crisp mornings. Feeling a little blue, I have brought out my Litepod. This compact UV lamp helps me to cope with the oncoming Winter Blues - scaring away my demons and boosting my energy levels. I admit that it's a constant struggle to stay positive - something that poor Chris has to deal with.
Ever the pragmatist, he cannot comprehend why I should suddenly descend into such bleak, black moods. To be honest, I can't either. And sometimes no amount of reprimanding on both our parts can shift them. But there is no doubt that the love of my husband and close friends, and the continued support of our customers and fellow Petworthians, bolsters my spirits and helps me to move forward.
Once again I am filled with gratitude for our beautiful town and the warm, eccentric community that we are a part of. Brigadoon it certainly is and I am happy to be back.
Thank you.
Laura x
Since our return, the dark mornings have been taking their toll on my mood. In Perth the sun rises at 5am. I had forgotten what a difference it makes to awake to the light. It was, however, disconcerting to find the sun setting instantly, after a summery day, at 6.30pm. By 7pm Chris and I were convinced that it was bedtime & had to force ourselves to stay awake until a reasonable hour.
If I think too hard, it seems absurd that we were on the opposite side of the planet just a few days ago. Our sole purpose for going was to see Chris's sons. Josh, his youngest, we hadn't seen since they left the country last July. What a joy it was to spend time with him. At fourteen and a half he has blossomed into a young man. And I recognised him as an old soul.
Our elder sons (due to their age and personalities) have always taken up the lion's share of energy and attention. So it was a pleasure to have the time and space to focus on their younger sibling. Of course, at 14, it could all still turn to worms. But I have a feeling that this quiet, funny, grown up boy will go far. His philosophy in life is that he will do what makes him happy - and that if times are tough, he reminds himself that this too shall pass. See what I mean about an Old Soul?!
I am delighted to return to the Autumn colours and long for some cold, crisp mornings. Feeling a little blue, I have brought out my Litepod. This compact UV lamp helps me to cope with the oncoming Winter Blues - scaring away my demons and boosting my energy levels. I admit that it's a constant struggle to stay positive - something that poor Chris has to deal with.
Ever the pragmatist, he cannot comprehend why I should suddenly descend into such bleak, black moods. To be honest, I can't either. And sometimes no amount of reprimanding on both our parts can shift them. But there is no doubt that the love of my husband and close friends, and the continued support of our customers and fellow Petworthians, bolsters my spirits and helps me to move forward.
Once again I am filled with gratitude for our beautiful town and the warm, eccentric community that we are a part of. Brigadoon it certainly is and I am happy to be back.
Thank you.
Laura x
Wednesday 19 October 2011
G'day Cobbers!
I am writing to you from the other side of the world. Of course, if you're already in this part of the world, then I'm not.
It is one week today since we landed in Perth, Australia. I've never been this far south and the differences are marked.
Our rented apartment has a pond containing frogs. It's a water-feature really - with a lily pad and lily, artfully arranged rocks and a gently bubbling, modern-looking chimney thingy spouting water.
Ah but the frogs! On our first night we were certain that a neighbour was wielding a chainsaw. By the second night, we thought that the frog owned a Harley. This tiny green amphibian makes a noise like a motorbike roaring into the distance!
Chris has since struck up several conversations with it - about what, I've no idea. But they happily chat away in motorbike language. Too funny.
Perth is a beautiful city divided by the Swan River where beautiful houses overlook beautiful boats, and all bathed in beautiful sunshine. Yesterday the temperature reached an unseasonal 35'. The boys took us to Blackwall Reach - sandy cliffs where the teenagers hang out and dare each other to jump the 15 metres into the deep river.
Yes, you guessed it. Chris was duly dared to jump - the oldest teenager in town. And jump he did, amidst much cheering from the local youths. Offshore several boats had been tied together, creating a makeshift pontoon on which more beautiful youngsters partied to the sounds of Rap music.
Oh I felt so old!! The lifestyle for youngsters here looks blissful - and all because of the weather.
Chris, bless him, has made sure that I've had plenty of opportunity to work on 'My Book'. Bless him again, he tells anyone who will listen that I'm writing it, convinced that it will be a best-seller. I don't know about that, but I do know that I'm having the best fun working on it.
My only aids (apart from a lifetime of writing) have been The Idiot's Guide To Writing A Novel, and a blog about the 15 stages of a plot that I found on the Internet. My method of writing so far has been to write down the bits that are already complete in my head (otherwise I wouldn't write anything) and then to fill in the trickier bits as and when I've worked them out.
It's a bit like the way I complete a jigsaw or eat my meals: Do/eat the easy/favourite bits first and then fill in/move around all the bits of blue sky/cabbage afterwards. Okay so this has worked so far with jigsaws and mealtimes. We'll see if it works as well with literary masterpieces.
What I'm enjoying most is...well all of it! I love the challenge of creating a scene. I get excited when a theme appears - a ribbon that I can weave through the story - whether it's a play on words or a character's tic. It satisfies my urge to tidy everything up. I love lying in bed at night and seeing the answer to a tricky transition appear before my eyes. It is astounding what our brains can do when you put things on your back burner.
I've just been pondering whether to share a snippet with you? After all, you've been very patient and understanding over my silence. And what use is a silent Blog? So I've found a section that I can copy for you without it being too confusing. A little vignette so to speak. And this one's for Heidi!
ooooooooooooooo
It is one week today since we landed in Perth, Australia. I've never been this far south and the differences are marked.
Our rented apartment has a pond containing frogs. It's a water-feature really - with a lily pad and lily, artfully arranged rocks and a gently bubbling, modern-looking chimney thingy spouting water.
Ah but the frogs! On our first night we were certain that a neighbour was wielding a chainsaw. By the second night, we thought that the frog owned a Harley. This tiny green amphibian makes a noise like a motorbike roaring into the distance!
Chris has since struck up several conversations with it - about what, I've no idea. But they happily chat away in motorbike language. Too funny.
Perth is a beautiful city divided by the Swan River where beautiful houses overlook beautiful boats, and all bathed in beautiful sunshine. Yesterday the temperature reached an unseasonal 35'. The boys took us to Blackwall Reach - sandy cliffs where the teenagers hang out and dare each other to jump the 15 metres into the deep river.
Yes, you guessed it. Chris was duly dared to jump - the oldest teenager in town. And jump he did, amidst much cheering from the local youths. Offshore several boats had been tied together, creating a makeshift pontoon on which more beautiful youngsters partied to the sounds of Rap music.
Oh I felt so old!! The lifestyle for youngsters here looks blissful - and all because of the weather.
Chris, bless him, has made sure that I've had plenty of opportunity to work on 'My Book'. Bless him again, he tells anyone who will listen that I'm writing it, convinced that it will be a best-seller. I don't know about that, but I do know that I'm having the best fun working on it.
My only aids (apart from a lifetime of writing) have been The Idiot's Guide To Writing A Novel, and a blog about the 15 stages of a plot that I found on the Internet. My method of writing so far has been to write down the bits that are already complete in my head (otherwise I wouldn't write anything) and then to fill in the trickier bits as and when I've worked them out.
It's a bit like the way I complete a jigsaw or eat my meals: Do/eat the easy/favourite bits first and then fill in/move around all the bits of blue sky/cabbage afterwards. Okay so this has worked so far with jigsaws and mealtimes. We'll see if it works as well with literary masterpieces.
What I'm enjoying most is...well all of it! I love the challenge of creating a scene. I get excited when a theme appears - a ribbon that I can weave through the story - whether it's a play on words or a character's tic. It satisfies my urge to tidy everything up. I love lying in bed at night and seeing the answer to a tricky transition appear before my eyes. It is astounding what our brains can do when you put things on your back burner.
I've just been pondering whether to share a snippet with you? After all, you've been very patient and understanding over my silence. And what use is a silent Blog? So I've found a section that I can copy for you without it being too confusing. A little vignette so to speak. And this one's for Heidi!
ooooooooooooooo
Charlotte had made good time. Well she’d only been at the doctors for a repeat prescription of her contraceptive pill. Never could tell though - those queues could be a killer. Endless coughs and groans. And that was just the staff. Anyway, done now. The GP had taken her blood pressure. (A little high. No bloody wonder with her current lifestyle.) He’d asked if she was feeling menopausal. Cheek of the man. Thirty seven wasn’t that old. Was it?
Pushing open the front door, she could hear the strains of Blue Suede Shoes emanating from the sitting room. Oh. Elvis must have been trawling through his back catalogue.
“Yo!” Brief clapping. “Aw man! You have got to be kiddin me man! 89%? Well sonofabitch!”
“Language!”
“Sorry man. But this machine is out to get me. 93% for You Ain’t Nothin But A Hound Dog, 91% for Suspicious Minds (and man, that is one of my signature tunes), and now this! I’m tellin you man, there’s a conspiracy goin on.”
The Wonder of You started up and Charlotte peered round the open door.
Elvis, feet apart, microphone in hand, was shaking and waving and singing along to the words of the song as they flashed up on the television screen. Behind him Rory and Angelica sat. Her son clasped his hands in rapt attention. She watched emotions playing across his face. His eyes widened as Elvis wheeled his arm and sunk to his knees, winking in Rory’s direction.
Next to him Angelica sat beneath a cloud. Charlotte could see it clearly. Yup. A big, fat, black storm cloud. Woah. This didn’t look good. Her daughter’s cherubic face was contorted into a seething grimace. Her whole body quivered with the force of her anger. Oh boy. This was going to be a biggie. Charlotte half closed one eye, as if squinting might somehow protect her from the blast force when it came.
“... guess I’ll never know, the reason why, I love you like I...” Elvis was in full flow - arms outstretched and mouth wide.
“Right! That is enough!” Angelica sprang from the sofa and grabbed the games control, jabbing at a button. The room fell silent. Elvis froze, still balanced on one leg, his mouth parting like a goldfish.
Whisking the microphone out of his hand, she stood between him and the television. “Whad’ya think you’re doin man?! I was just about to start the build up to the finale.”
“Sit!” Angelica shoved Elvis in the direction of the sofa and he lost balance, coming down heavily on his right ankle. “Now!” Elvis hobbled over and sat down next to Rory. He immediately started remonstrating with Angelica, who was scrolling through pages of song titles.
“But man. I had so nearly got it. Just one more. I was on a roll man. I’m certain sure that that last song would have been the winner.” Angelica scowled at him and made ‘zip it’ motions with her fingers across her tightly drawn mouth.
“I do not recall when we entered this Singstar competition...THAT IT WAS THE BEST OUT OF THIRTY!!” She spat the words at Elvis, and he and Rory cowered back into the cushions. Way to go Angelica!
“But man, I was so close.” Uh oh. Elvis obviously hadn’t learnt his lesson from the last time Angelica put him in his place. (The previous Wednesday. Something to do with white not being the new black.) He tried to struggle out of the sofa and grab back the microphone. What the? Did the man have a death wish?! Angelica pushed him back, jabbing her finger at him and yanking the lead so that the microphone whipped around behind her.
“You will be disqualified if you don’t settle down.” Teaching? Mm, that was worth considering as a career. Or torture? Wasn’t that what MI5 was all about? Spooks. Great. Rory looked crestfallen. He knew his sister well enough to sit still and keep quiet. But she could see his mouth moving and his limbs twitching as he silently rooted for Elvis.
Finally the fight went out of Elvis and there was silence. Well, he must have been exhausted. How many songs? Angelica turned back to the television and selected a song. “Let me show you how it should be done.”
Oh baby baby
Oh baby baby
The unmistakable chords and catchy, thrumming beat of the Britney Spears hit Baby One More Time filled the room. Angelica clutched the microphone and slithered round to face her audience.
...Show me
How you want it to be
Tell me bay-bee...
She leapt and writhed and played to the imaginary camera, all the while keeping up with the fast-paced lyrics. Charlotte was mesmerised. So were Rory and Elvis. The two of them sat agog as Angelica strutted and sang up and down in front of them.
Hit me bay-bee one more time
Finally, after a spectacular move that Elvis could only dream about, she sank to one knee and bowed low. Rory exploded into applause. No point in antagonising her.
“What the hell was that man?” Elvis looked dazed.
“Right. The moment of truth.” Charlotte held her breath as the score appeared on screen.
“Yo!!” Angelica punched the air and made stirring motions with both hands clasped out in front of her. “I am the wi-inner, I got the to-op score. I am so cle-ever, and you are ru-ubbish.”
“No way man! You are cheatin or somethin! Aw come on man. 100%! I swear there’s somethin goin on here man. That is not fair!”
Charlotte backed away as quietly as she could. Her shoulders heaved and it was all she could do to stop herself snorting through the hand clasped firmly over her mouth. Shit. Who left that basket of washing there?! Oh it was her. She stumbled backwards, losing her footing and landing heavily against the corner of the kitchen unit. Ouch! Inside, the cutlery rattled in its drawer. The sitting room fell silent. She fled back out through the open front door.
oooooooooooooo
Back soon.
Laura x
Saturday 1 October 2011
Mmmm, yummy sunshine!
Oh blessed sun. What a joy it is to have the luxury of this extended run of sunshine. In fact, it is all the yummier for being unexpected. Just as we had begun to give in to thoughts of winter, Mother Nature gives us a gift of warmth.
Now I love September. It is one of my favourite months. This has a lot to do with my student days. Unlike most universities, Edinburgh Art College started the new term in September. I can still taste the anticipation, feel the tingle of excitement at the prospect of returning to my studies, returning to Edinburgh.
Edinburgh is a most beautiful city. It has filled my life and made me who I am. It also holds a lot of difficult emotions for me now. And that makes me sad. But when September comes, no matter where I am, I am filled with the same rush of joy that I felt some 27 years ago.
When I breathe September's fresh breath, when I see the first leaves begin to turn their jewel-like hue, I am transported back to the days when all of life lay in front of me and every moment was filled with potential.
One of my dear husband's favourite sayings is: "Experience - you can't buy it, and you can't learn it. You have to live it." And at 45 I am grateful for the experience my life has provided. I enjoy the wisdom and perspective that the years have brought me.
I have tried never to look back with regret. Regret is such a wasted emotion. The life has been lived, the experience gained, and all that can be done is to learn from it, atone for it, in the here and now.
And yet, when September comes - with its misty mornings and its lapiz lazuli skies - my heart soars and I am momentarily sad for my lost youth, and for the innocence that can never be recaptured. What a joy it was to have no responsibilities, to have no past, to have nothing to do but to express my creativity and try life on for size.
And now I am smiling - at my sentimentality and at the worldly-wise woman that I have become. And I am smiling at the thought of my own son, now started on his own journey of discovery, his own educational path.
As I have remarked often, life goes forward. And as the lovely George Harrison once sang:
Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesnt't't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
Sunset doesnt't't last all evening
A mind can blow those clouds away
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of lifes strings can last
So, I must be on my way
And face another day
Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
All things must pass away
And so September has passed once more. But the memories of those heady days live on in me.
Now I love September. It is one of my favourite months. This has a lot to do with my student days. Unlike most universities, Edinburgh Art College started the new term in September. I can still taste the anticipation, feel the tingle of excitement at the prospect of returning to my studies, returning to Edinburgh.
Edinburgh is a most beautiful city. It has filled my life and made me who I am. It also holds a lot of difficult emotions for me now. And that makes me sad. But when September comes, no matter where I am, I am filled with the same rush of joy that I felt some 27 years ago.
When I breathe September's fresh breath, when I see the first leaves begin to turn their jewel-like hue, I am transported back to the days when all of life lay in front of me and every moment was filled with potential.
One of my dear husband's favourite sayings is: "Experience - you can't buy it, and you can't learn it. You have to live it." And at 45 I am grateful for the experience my life has provided. I enjoy the wisdom and perspective that the years have brought me.
I have tried never to look back with regret. Regret is such a wasted emotion. The life has been lived, the experience gained, and all that can be done is to learn from it, atone for it, in the here and now.
And yet, when September comes - with its misty mornings and its lapiz lazuli skies - my heart soars and I am momentarily sad for my lost youth, and for the innocence that can never be recaptured. What a joy it was to have no responsibilities, to have no past, to have nothing to do but to express my creativity and try life on for size.
And now I am smiling - at my sentimentality and at the worldly-wise woman that I have become. And I am smiling at the thought of my own son, now started on his own journey of discovery, his own educational path.
As I have remarked often, life goes forward. And as the lovely George Harrison once sang:
Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesnt't't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
Sunset doesnt't't last all evening
A mind can blow those clouds away
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of lifes strings can last
So, I must be on my way
And face another day
Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
Its not always going to be this grey
All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
All things must pass away
And so September has passed once more. But the memories of those heady days live on in me.
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Jackdaws
I love Jackdaws. Their blue-black feathers remind me of Elvis, and they make the strangest parping sound when they call to each other. Like their cousins the Crows, they are intelligent and full of personality. We are lucky enough to have a bird's eye view from our roof terrace, so I am able to watch them at close hand.
Do you know our roof terrace? Many of you will, because you are also friends. You will have seen the Jackdaws first hand - wheeling and parping all around us as we sit. Many more have seen our roof terrace from the street. You've probably noticed our collection of flags too.
Chris decided one day that he liked flags, pronouncing them "cheerful things" and instructing me to order four. They now adorn our railings along with a flying pig, a sausage dog and a dragon fly. Whoever said "An Englishman's home is his castle" was right.
Now I know I've been lax recently when it comes to Blogging. And I know you'll be sick of my excuses (still the same), but I have a new one: I've finally started writing my first book!
It's been formulating on my back burner now for over a year. I started off thinking it would be factual, an autobiography of sorts. I've heard many times that authors should 'write what they know'. And being a literal kinda gal I took that, well, literally.
But while on holiday in Montana it came to me that my tale would make better fiction.
What?
You don't think that a story featuring a time-travelling Elvis, a God-seeking, frustrated writer and a dollop of Quantum Physics sounds far fetched?
Being an expert procrastinator when it comes to anything creative, I have contemplated creative writing courses, journalism courses and generally panicking because 'why should I be able to write a book?'
But in the end I came to the conclusion that I can do whatever I like. I can write whatever I like and if no one else likes it then it doesn't really matter. I'll still have fulfilled my desire and, as God himself said: "What is known cannot be unknown."
So wish me luck and, if you miss my once obsessive blogging, please feel free to reread my previous ones. There's enough to choose from!
P.S: I'll keep you posted on my progress.
Laura x
Do you know our roof terrace? Many of you will, because you are also friends. You will have seen the Jackdaws first hand - wheeling and parping all around us as we sit. Many more have seen our roof terrace from the street. You've probably noticed our collection of flags too.
Chris decided one day that he liked flags, pronouncing them "cheerful things" and instructing me to order four. They now adorn our railings along with a flying pig, a sausage dog and a dragon fly. Whoever said "An Englishman's home is his castle" was right.
Now I know I've been lax recently when it comes to Blogging. And I know you'll be sick of my excuses (still the same), but I have a new one: I've finally started writing my first book!
It's been formulating on my back burner now for over a year. I started off thinking it would be factual, an autobiography of sorts. I've heard many times that authors should 'write what they know'. And being a literal kinda gal I took that, well, literally.
But while on holiday in Montana it came to me that my tale would make better fiction.
What?
You don't think that a story featuring a time-travelling Elvis, a God-seeking, frustrated writer and a dollop of Quantum Physics sounds far fetched?
Being an expert procrastinator when it comes to anything creative, I have contemplated creative writing courses, journalism courses and generally panicking because 'why should I be able to write a book?'
But in the end I came to the conclusion that I can do whatever I like. I can write whatever I like and if no one else likes it then it doesn't really matter. I'll still have fulfilled my desire and, as God himself said: "What is known cannot be unknown."
So wish me luck and, if you miss my once obsessive blogging, please feel free to reread my previous ones. There's enough to choose from!
P.S: I'll keep you posted on my progress.
Laura x
Monday 12 September 2011
The Vicar of Dibley
Having returned once more to work, Lou & I spent a very pleasant day on Friday visiting Lewes near Brighton for a buying appointment. The day was sunny, the collection beautiful and I had the chance to finally indulge my craving for an extra hot Calabrese pizza at Pizza Express. All in all a good day out!
On the way home Lou remarked on my last Blog, laughing and saying she'd remembered me telling her about my Tube experience previously. I went on to tell her about the following - a story she hadn't heard before, despite working for us when it happened. This must have been another case of my being too embarrassed to admit to it!
About 4 years ago we had a visit from an old friend of mine, Margaret. Margaret lives in North Queensferry where I grew up. I've known her since I was 9, and despite the age difference (her being some 15 years older than me) we've always been close.
At the time Margaret was training for one of the Moonlight Walks for Breast Cancer. A great lover of the outdoors and keen to encourage me to be the same, (fat chance) she brought me a book of South Downs Walks and dragged me out to Pulborough to undertake one of the routes. The walk was about 4 miles long and took us along the Downs for a mile or so before cutting through woods and fields and returning us to our starting point.
Now I have no problem with walking. I do it all the time! I just can't quite get my head around walking for the sake of it rather than as a means of getting from A to B. Not that I was going to admit this to Margaret. So off we strode, wrapped up in jumpers and boots.
About a mile from our finishing point we came to a house with a large garden. The book indicated that we should cross the small, elongated pond at the edge of said garden and continue up the hill. Margaret duly stepped onto the stones lying just beneath the surface of the pond and hopped blithely across.
I paused to look, unsure as to where the stones ended and the water began. (You can see what's coming, can't you?)
I stepped out onto the pond only to find that what I thought was a stone turned out to be water. As I disappeared up to my armpits in freezing cold water, Margaret stared aghast, unable to believe what I'd just done.
She was laughing so hard that she couldn't even help me out and I stood oxter-deep in weed and mud until I managed to clamber out myself. Cow. (There appears to be a pattern here - I do stupid things, and my friends laugh at me.)
Having extricated myself I then had to squelch the final mile uphill and drive home in my bare feet sitting on my waterproof coat.
Later, standing in the shower in an attempt to clean up and get back to work, I was like some monster from the deep - shedding green weed and mud all around me.
Needless to say, the book has since languished on my bookcase unused.
On the way home Lou remarked on my last Blog, laughing and saying she'd remembered me telling her about my Tube experience previously. I went on to tell her about the following - a story she hadn't heard before, despite working for us when it happened. This must have been another case of my being too embarrassed to admit to it!
About 4 years ago we had a visit from an old friend of mine, Margaret. Margaret lives in North Queensferry where I grew up. I've known her since I was 9, and despite the age difference (her being some 15 years older than me) we've always been close.
At the time Margaret was training for one of the Moonlight Walks for Breast Cancer. A great lover of the outdoors and keen to encourage me to be the same, (fat chance) she brought me a book of South Downs Walks and dragged me out to Pulborough to undertake one of the routes. The walk was about 4 miles long and took us along the Downs for a mile or so before cutting through woods and fields and returning us to our starting point.
Now I have no problem with walking. I do it all the time! I just can't quite get my head around walking for the sake of it rather than as a means of getting from A to B. Not that I was going to admit this to Margaret. So off we strode, wrapped up in jumpers and boots.
About a mile from our finishing point we came to a house with a large garden. The book indicated that we should cross the small, elongated pond at the edge of said garden and continue up the hill. Margaret duly stepped onto the stones lying just beneath the surface of the pond and hopped blithely across.
I paused to look, unsure as to where the stones ended and the water began. (You can see what's coming, can't you?)
I stepped out onto the pond only to find that what I thought was a stone turned out to be water. As I disappeared up to my armpits in freezing cold water, Margaret stared aghast, unable to believe what I'd just done.
She was laughing so hard that she couldn't even help me out and I stood oxter-deep in weed and mud until I managed to clamber out myself. Cow. (There appears to be a pattern here - I do stupid things, and my friends laugh at me.)
Having extricated myself I then had to squelch the final mile uphill and drive home in my bare feet sitting on my waterproof coat.
Later, standing in the shower in an attempt to clean up and get back to work, I was like some monster from the deep - shedding green weed and mud all around me.
Needless to say, the book has since languished on my bookcase unused.
Friday 2 September 2011
Total Chaos
Just a quickie to let you know once more that my life is a guddle and that my multi tasking skills have not miraculously developed just when I need them most.
Louise, our manager, has been on holiday for a fortnight...and everything has descended into chaos. I suspect that she'll be quite glad to hear that she is indispensable, and I'll be very glad to have her back to work.
Being in charge is not all it's cracked up to be. I much prefer it when I can drift around being smiley and creative without the need to be in one place all the time.
Not only has Lou been on holiday but Chris has been in France, my lovely part time lady has been sick, Max came down for his first visit in 2 years, we've had our glamorous friend Dorothy and her boys to stay and it's the height of the new season's deliveries...argh!! And happily (although bemusingly) our customers have decided that, now the sun has come out, they all want to buy winter clothes.
It seems like such a long time since I've had the luxury of a bit of time to myself. Now I know that's the case for most people but I go a bit demented (okay - more demented) when I can't find a wee space for some peace. So much action seems to drive out the creativity and leave a whole lot of white noise in my head.
Now it's Friday night and Chris is sleeping soundly so here I am.
It seems as if I've been a bit serious lately and so I'm going to tell you a wee story that I recounted to Max when he was here:
About twelve years ago, when I was working as a menswear buyer for Jenners in Edinburgh, I was on a buying trip in London. As was the case with most of my buying trips, I made them alone - staying at The Berners Hotel off Oxford Street and visiting various showrooms by day, mostly in the Mayfair area.
On this particular occasion I had to take a trip farther afield to Lancaster Gate to buy Kenzo. (Oh what a delicious collection - all sharply tailored suits and amazing textures and colours - yummy.)
Now the location of this showroom was a bit out of the way for me and I was a little nervous about finding my way there. (I have no innate sense of direction, plus I never pay enough attention to where I'm going - poor Chris will vouch for this!)
Being Scottish (and tight - even with company expenses) I decided to take the Underground train. I planned my route and the changes I had to make and proceeded to the first platform.
When the train arrived I politely waited for all passengers to alight from the train, as instructed by the man on the Tannoy. In front of me was a young couple with a baby in a pushchair. Again, politely, I waited for them to board the train. I waited - and then they appeared to change their minds. Finally realising that they were not boarding, I stepped around them and started to enter the carriage.
Now, it turned out that there was a reason that they changed their minds. Unfortunately I didn't realise what that was until too late. No sooner had I put one foot into the carriage and leant forward to climb in, but the doors began to close. I had been concentrating so hard on the little family that I had failed to hear the warning beeps indicating that the train was about to depart.
Picture the scene: The doors close and I am trapped. Not my foot, or even my body - but my head. Only my head. My face is wedged between the train doors and I stare inwards, head immobile as the entire carriage stares back.
Well I was surprised, and stuck, and staring from side to side. After what seemed like an age the doors reopened and I was able to step back onto the platform while the doors closed and the train sped off without me.
A kind lady asked if I was alright (much to my mortification) and I waited for the next train, somewhat dazed and with a face that was starting to hurt. Now I'm trying to be cool here. I'm a professional working girl out and about in London and attempting to fit in with the capable crowds around me...not.
Oh boy did my face hurt! The doors had caught me right on my cheekbones and by the time I finally arrived at my appointment I had a thumping headache. To add insult to injury (literally), I'd never met the guy I had the appointment with.
I wanted to throw myself into a chair and go: "Oh my God, you'll never guess what's just happened to me!" Instead I discretely took a couple of Paracetamol and tried my best to look interested and knowledgeable as he presented me with swatch after swatch of fabrics. After three hours of selecting suits and shirts and ties I finally escaped to my friends' house for dinner.
With cheekbones still throbbing I at last threw myself into a friendly chair and wailed: "You'll never guess what happened to me!..."
Dear generous Scott looked suitably concerned and made all the right noises as I took them through the events of my day. Dorothy (yes, my glamorous friend D) made no such attempt. Rolling around on the kitchen floor she laughed until she cried. Bitch.
Oh dear, this is so typical of me. If I'd a meeting to go to I'd fall over, skin my knees and ruin my new tights. I used to think I should have grown out of such behaviour. Now I am resigned to being a pensioner who'll trip up crossing the road and show my knickers to the bus driver who's had to do an emergency stop to avoid me.
Ah, but this is not the end to my sorry tale. The following evening I took the plane back to Edinburgh. I was asked by a stewardess to swap seats with a family. (Was it the same family? Were they stalking me?)
I settled myself wearily into my new seat and the friendly man next to me struck up a conversation. You know, the usual stuff between two professional people - "What were you doing in London?" "What line of work are you in?"
It turned out that my neighbour worked for London Underground...in the Complaints Department!
I so wanted to ask him if he had many complaints from people who got their heads stuck in train doors.
But I didn't - I was too embarrassed.
Louise, our manager, has been on holiday for a fortnight...and everything has descended into chaos. I suspect that she'll be quite glad to hear that she is indispensable, and I'll be very glad to have her back to work.
Being in charge is not all it's cracked up to be. I much prefer it when I can drift around being smiley and creative without the need to be in one place all the time.
Not only has Lou been on holiday but Chris has been in France, my lovely part time lady has been sick, Max came down for his first visit in 2 years, we've had our glamorous friend Dorothy and her boys to stay and it's the height of the new season's deliveries...argh!! And happily (although bemusingly) our customers have decided that, now the sun has come out, they all want to buy winter clothes.
It seems like such a long time since I've had the luxury of a bit of time to myself. Now I know that's the case for most people but I go a bit demented (okay - more demented) when I can't find a wee space for some peace. So much action seems to drive out the creativity and leave a whole lot of white noise in my head.
Now it's Friday night and Chris is sleeping soundly so here I am.
It seems as if I've been a bit serious lately and so I'm going to tell you a wee story that I recounted to Max when he was here:
About twelve years ago, when I was working as a menswear buyer for Jenners in Edinburgh, I was on a buying trip in London. As was the case with most of my buying trips, I made them alone - staying at The Berners Hotel off Oxford Street and visiting various showrooms by day, mostly in the Mayfair area.
On this particular occasion I had to take a trip farther afield to Lancaster Gate to buy Kenzo. (Oh what a delicious collection - all sharply tailored suits and amazing textures and colours - yummy.)
Now the location of this showroom was a bit out of the way for me and I was a little nervous about finding my way there. (I have no innate sense of direction, plus I never pay enough attention to where I'm going - poor Chris will vouch for this!)
Being Scottish (and tight - even with company expenses) I decided to take the Underground train. I planned my route and the changes I had to make and proceeded to the first platform.
When the train arrived I politely waited for all passengers to alight from the train, as instructed by the man on the Tannoy. In front of me was a young couple with a baby in a pushchair. Again, politely, I waited for them to board the train. I waited - and then they appeared to change their minds. Finally realising that they were not boarding, I stepped around them and started to enter the carriage.
Now, it turned out that there was a reason that they changed their minds. Unfortunately I didn't realise what that was until too late. No sooner had I put one foot into the carriage and leant forward to climb in, but the doors began to close. I had been concentrating so hard on the little family that I had failed to hear the warning beeps indicating that the train was about to depart.
Picture the scene: The doors close and I am trapped. Not my foot, or even my body - but my head. Only my head. My face is wedged between the train doors and I stare inwards, head immobile as the entire carriage stares back.
Well I was surprised, and stuck, and staring from side to side. After what seemed like an age the doors reopened and I was able to step back onto the platform while the doors closed and the train sped off without me.
A kind lady asked if I was alright (much to my mortification) and I waited for the next train, somewhat dazed and with a face that was starting to hurt. Now I'm trying to be cool here. I'm a professional working girl out and about in London and attempting to fit in with the capable crowds around me...not.
Oh boy did my face hurt! The doors had caught me right on my cheekbones and by the time I finally arrived at my appointment I had a thumping headache. To add insult to injury (literally), I'd never met the guy I had the appointment with.
I wanted to throw myself into a chair and go: "Oh my God, you'll never guess what's just happened to me!" Instead I discretely took a couple of Paracetamol and tried my best to look interested and knowledgeable as he presented me with swatch after swatch of fabrics. After three hours of selecting suits and shirts and ties I finally escaped to my friends' house for dinner.
With cheekbones still throbbing I at last threw myself into a friendly chair and wailed: "You'll never guess what happened to me!..."
Dear generous Scott looked suitably concerned and made all the right noises as I took them through the events of my day. Dorothy (yes, my glamorous friend D) made no such attempt. Rolling around on the kitchen floor she laughed until she cried. Bitch.
Oh dear, this is so typical of me. If I'd a meeting to go to I'd fall over, skin my knees and ruin my new tights. I used to think I should have grown out of such behaviour. Now I am resigned to being a pensioner who'll trip up crossing the road and show my knickers to the bus driver who's had to do an emergency stop to avoid me.
Ah, but this is not the end to my sorry tale. The following evening I took the plane back to Edinburgh. I was asked by a stewardess to swap seats with a family. (Was it the same family? Were they stalking me?)
I settled myself wearily into my new seat and the friendly man next to me struck up a conversation. You know, the usual stuff between two professional people - "What were you doing in London?" "What line of work are you in?"
It turned out that my neighbour worked for London Underground...in the Complaints Department!
I so wanted to ask him if he had many complaints from people who got their heads stuck in train doors.
But I didn't - I was too embarrassed.
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