soapbox

I am always ready to respond to an invitation to "say more" except for my brain which refuses to co-operate.
I went to my Stitching group monthly meeting this morning, it was our AGM.........oh dear.
First i had to find the way, only having been to our new venue once before. Obviously i got lost then, as I am crap at following maps, or any instructions. This time I went wrong in a different place, perhaps when I have exhausted the possibilities of whizzing by muddy fields and startled cows I will eventually settle down to a route.
They claimed on the wireless today that dyslexia can be genetic; mother has no sense of direction, even tho she has been practising for 87 years and my daughter is a spelling disaster zone.
Fortunately she is expecting a boy, so maybe he will be able to guide us around in our old age.
Unfortunately ADD seems to run thru the boys in his father's side, so we may have to tie a string to him first, so we can keep up.
His dad had Ritalin, and now so do his 2 little cousins, I am hoping that a good dose of distracted creative mother and g'ma will encourage him to realise his existence probably depends on him shaping up for his self survival.
Back at the Stitchers jamboree I had to read out the Minutes in a serious voice, but 20 women soon find something to say, so we plunged out in various unexpected directions ourselves.
We plan to use Bridging the Gap as our theme for next years exhibition, as we show our work in an ancient Maltings which is rapidly turning into expensive apartments, thus we hope to muse on past and future.
Also we have also pledged to each create a "vessel" - that strange objet d'art, beloved of textile artists. As I usually have a Female bias i think mine might show a pregnant women with a hinged tummy....................back to daughter again.
The Tory Boy Toff is on the wireless at the moment pledging to run the country to all our advantage, I doubt it, but the Labour Bother Boys are doing no better, thus my agreement with JG of the Grateful Dead.
Last night i watched a programme on the gog about Jack Kerouac and On The Road, apparently we hippies got it all wrong, it shouldn't have been flowers, drugs and rocknroll........we missed out on the Spiritual Revolution.
Probably did, tho I do remember trying tramping round London on a few marches. But then I had babies and concentrated on the Feminist Revolution, don't know if we won there either.
Now I just sit on my hill. maybe when I become a grand-mother I will resurrect the need to fight -for personal freedom+ personal responsibility.....................or maybe I will just pray the babe grows up and lives a life that he chooses, with a granny flat of course.

wise words

Somebody has to do something, and it's just incredibly pathetic that it has to be us. - Jerry Garcia
Need I say more

Virtue is it's own reward

Went up to Suffolk Norfolk border on Saturday to see the Seven Deadly Virtues exhibition. Not very deadly at all, rather agreeable in fact, except for my crazed creations. This is screenprint & patchwork is by Helen, whose gallery and workshop it is. We tend to call her Helen the Rottweiler [behind her back] to differentiate from Helen the Meek who is also a patchworker.

It was a lovely day in the rural flat lands, corn all gathered in, potatoes' browned off heads waiting to be lifted. Recently we were asked by a couple from Texas what these strange plants were, presumably they had not been to Ohio, - is that where potatoes come from?

Other exhibitors were a mixed bunch, I liked the automota by John, Helen's large and silent partner.

Lin has never shown her work before, one of H's deadly virtues is bullying people into having some confidence about their work. L uses pen and ink and water colour by the look of it, and does calligraphy quotes to frame it. Her literary references didn't seem to be mine so I didn't have to try and squeeze one of her pieces onto our already over crowded walls.





John2 takes and prints rather wonderful digital photos, and only jealousy stopped me buying one, no matter how little room their might be.






















Finally Heather stitched and dyed, in a not very exciting way, but perfectly competently. She called this Homage to Tiamen which does lend it more gravitas.

We stopped off on the way back at Walberswick for tea and cakey, lovely pub amongst the salt flats leading to the sea, and all was gorgeous - till i realised I had left my bag back at the gallery, which lengthened the return journey considerably Four times through the one way system of Beccles is 4 too many.

winged chariot

Hastings was good, as was the sunshine, I wonder if we would be different people if we all had sufficient of sunlight and ............holidays.
Lots of bossy magpies up on the East cliffs; a couple of determined crows quartering the grass every day - they found an abandoned apple and spent a merry couple of days pecking it to the core and beyond.
The seagulls screamed from chimneys and all high points, often the top of cars which they strutted around on as if the car was a ragged rock round which we ragged rascals ran.
All the birds soared in wonderful swooping glides on the thermals, what kind of people would we be if we could fly in the sunshine, and scream and curse whenever we feel the urge.
Couldn't resist a couple of fish and chip suppers, scrumptious, I had forgotten how good hot fat batter and starch can taste.
Also a lovely spicy lamb casserole and another night an even more scrumptious cassolet - duck and herby sauage squeezed among the beans at the Dragon. Nothing like it at home - a kind of wine bar, but a down market arty one with odd tables and chairs. low light and jazz on the vinyl. Almost like being young and intellectual again with black eye liner and nail varnish. Though my mother told me once that she wore black nail varnish when she was young, [with shoulder pads and a big hat and 3" heels clambering over the ruins of London to the office, she claims]
Why can't we stay young, only our thoughts and understanding maturing, then when we finally get bored we can switch off.

The value of old things did raise a finger for attention as old town has many, many junk shops. The lady in flibbertigibbet [or some such] reckons she could sell anything, even wet fish, to anyone. She didn't stock wet fish but maybe it was in her experience. I bought a double white cotton sheet, presumably from a failed hotel of which there are probably many as Hastings is not what it was, one look at the poor old pier gives you a glimpse of the ghost of past glories. The thick white Egyptian cotton was irresistible, one day i will dye it.

red with anger

It is blustery today, sudden sunshine then black clouds, the washing was almost dry when I lost my nerve and brought it in.
Big push to finish work for the Seven Deadly Virtues exhibition.
Have done a triptych on Awakening Anger, unfortunately it is a bit more Awankening as I first spelt it. It was a long horizontal work, which might have interested Coffeespooners present interior decorating requirements, but I thought sagely - who would want a long horizontal piece, so I cut it up..........Timing is everything, as we know.
Finally I stitched each face to a gold fabric covered board and sent them on their way [not rejoicing]. The scarlet threads of Anger flood the photo as usual, not sure what it is about red, or how to deal with it more successfully.
Another piece is also lengthier than high, Envy Lurks, takes a remarkably clear pic, as it is rather dark, in all senses.
Eastern Region Textile forum has a competition [saints preserve us] to stitch a postcard on the subject On The Doorstep. It has to be 5" x 7" which is an odd size to start with.
I did think of a Stabbed Body lying across the doorstep, but may settle for a Rough Sleeper. I suspect there will be many beautiful garden views so I have to think of something different, or be upset when my garden isn't up to scratch.
I should be thinking of making some more traditionally sized fabric postcards and bookmarks for the local craft show. I don't think Envy Lurks will quite cut it.
We [me, him and Hattie] go away fro a week on Saturday, maybe the South coast will inspire me, if i can see thru the rain.

playing skittles

I receive emails from the Cancer Charity that I support, todays asked me if I read the e-newsletter and what ideas I had for revamping it.

I never read it, and don't usually read the emails. I coped with my breast cancer by being frightened out of my socks, slowly recovering some equilibrium and ever since, about every six months, descending on the doctor witha new ache that i want to be reassurred about. Not very mature perhaps but that's the best I can do.

I reckon spending the rest of my life fighting morbid thoughts is burden enough, without adding new information on which to brood.

The cancer was twenty years ago now, and I don't think of it every day, but getting newsletters doesn't help this rickety fence of denial.

I am willing to support the ladder to help out others who find themsleves in a similar hole, but in the main I want to get on with Life.

The shock did make me re-assess to some extent, I became much less - discontented, less ambitious, not so full of myself. But of course I also have become much more full of myself, hugging myself close..................that's only human, being able to hold fast to two totally opposing positions at the same time.

It is heartening that throughout this time others that have been skittled by the dreaded Big C mostly seem to still be with us, so I guess the money is at least going to good effect.

PS Didn't have a piece involving skittles, so this merry romp is meant to remind me to have fun.

grime and crime

Sunshine after rain - couldn't really avoid doing some gardening.
We inherited these tall daisy plants [White Choristers?], which spread like billio, but are useful at this time of year, displaying an elegant sea of white. Very fresh.
However, once they have gone over, it is just a junk yard of dead heads towering above all else, so had to get out there with the secateurs, heaving some of them out every now and then, when the rest weren't looking.
Hidden below are other late summer plants requesting their turn for some sun, but also a carpet of the many varieties of grasses, some short, some long, all defiantly rooted and clinging on for dear life, cunningly they delve their roots under "proper" plants resulting in minor earthquake if I try and yank them up. I have the broken black nails and 3 plasters to evidence a battle well fought.
There is also creeping buttercup which i intend to spray with nasty stuff. We did have terrible Ground Elder, which has driven many to despair, but I upped the solution and frequency and for now it is subdued, it has obviously called up reinforcements.
We have a brown bin, which means once a fortnight the local council comes round and empties said bin of weeds and composts them. We have various composting arrangements in the garden involving worms in one and gentlemen peeing occasionally [at dead of night] on another, but weeds need the compost to reach a certain heat to destroy them so we assign them to the authorities to do with as they wish.
Sort of Vegetable Guantanamo.
Which leads me to our own home grown terrorists, who struck last night, presumably after the pub closed.
They ran amok down the lane destroying house signs and chucking solar night lights as they cavorted along. They ignored our doggy and the two dogs of our neighbour [fair enough as all doggies ignored them] and broke the Mercedes insignia off their elderly car. Lady down the hill lost her bird table.
The community policewoman has been informed so I expect developments.
I always fancied writing a crime novel so maybe this is the beginning.

fitting in

Have been invited to contribute to an exhibition on The Seven Deadly Virtues. H the gallery owner has done a fair bit of wikipedering to nudge us into pastures new.

Lust is already born,

and I have this lady

which deadly virtue I wonder?
My boxed ladies can probably be despair, it can be a creative emotion at times.

The Warring Angels must fit in somewhere. Obviously I just need a weird title and all my stuff finds a place!

tracy 4 coffeespooner at 10th August

Thoughts have been well manured, buried deep, time has passed, result may not make a beautiful plant.

dancers

cats and dogs

PS Just checked the Orwell diaries blog and he had similar weather "today", but more acceptably it wasn't cold and dark when the hard rain fell in Kent [with snakes].
Since my complaint the sun has come out and Hats and I had a lovely walk and met a cockerpoo, or spoodle, whichever you prefer. P craves one, I had been dismissive, but Chloe was very sweet and scampered gamely around as Hatters bowled her over and tried to roll her creamy, newly trimmed fur in the mud.
Owner - new to the village, otherwise i wouldn't have expected conversation, obviously - has problems in that her husband seems to be allergic to the house they have just moved into. Had to take him to A&E a few days ago, hopefully the surveyor will uncover the sacrificed outsider, or whatever, under the floorboards and all can be exorcised.

august

My environment has suddenly changed, which has at least jolted me out of neutral.
It is pouring with rain, and so dark with heavy clouds at 9a.m. that the lights have to go on.
This is August, I cannot believe it.
Already this month is a strange one, everyone with kids goes away, is getting ready to go away, getting over going away. This is pointless to older persons who have just got their garden looking nice, [though actually it is going over a bit now], but one does expect to sit out there beneath the sunshade and read the odd crime story.
But no it is dark, cool and wet.
In a way it is cosy to be in with all the windows pulled shut and the lights beaming out, but it all feels wrong.
Now the wind is gusting and the yews and hollies in the churchyard are writhing in quite an alarming manner. In the garden some of the hollyhocks have bitten the dust/mud and the passion flower I am trying to distract, so the wisteria can take over, is whipping around flinging hard little green fruits [full of pale little seeds], does anyone do anything with them?
The postman has been and gone accompanied by much barking from Hattie. She knows perfectly well who it is but she likes to remind everyone that she may be old and grey, but, like her mistress, she can still raise a racket if need be.
This postman is a locum, and rather than toil round in his baggy shorts, complaining that my herbaceous border gets his legs wet, this one speeds up in his red van and drops a load of pamphlets through the cat flap [we don't have a letter box] and roars off again.
I rarely get mail, as i rarely write letters.
God's business however often appears on the mat - hidden behind the window of an anonymous white envelope, fortunately addressed to the Treasurer of the Church - not me.
It would be disconcerting to actually receive a bill from God[dess] I would welcome the reassurance of a metaphysical being, but quake before its demands no doubt.
It would only end in an argument, there is, after all, much to complain of, despite the get out clause of free will, - starting with the current weather.

composted for coffeespooner

I have been reading various reviews of the Tracy Emin exhibition, which is frustratingly in Edinburgh, rather a long way to go.

I have seen quite a lot of her work, starting with the tent with the Names of Everyone I have Slept With stitched all over it at the Serpentine some years ago. It was quite a shock in a challenge kind of way, the rest of the exhibition was progressive textile work, but I kept returning to circle and peer into the little enclosed space.

At first I was dismissive, anyone can stitch, not very neatly, names of far too many men onto this unprepossessing surface. It took some time to twig that the names included Everyone she had slept with, - her family, her friends, the foetus from her abortion.

The enclosed space, womblike itself, became a more tender enclosure, the rough stitching a much stronger expression of all the feelings that the names anchored into the fabric. I had never heard of her, but I thought she had used the shape and the stitching to communicate so much to me. Moreover it was textile art, definitely not craft, [the materials and finish were not paramount}

As with most of her work I felt it wasn't just her life, it was an aspect of female experience that she was representing. She gave the terrible mess we make of our lives from when we are adolescent - status and understanding, instead of guilt and dismissal.

Since then I have tried to see what she does next, not usually too difficult as she also has excellent skills in doing work that gets noticed by its notoriety rating. As with most contemporary artists she deals in life & death and identity and sex, but perhaps she gets more stick than most because it is female angst that she explores.

I find her work disturbing because she excavates all the feeling and fears I have experienced and now try to forget, and don't have the courage to explore in my stuff. I sit on my hill hoping I won't have to face any more hard work, just yet.

Contemporary art requires we bring our feeling and thoughts to the piece, it literally doesn't "paint a picture" . To make themselves heard artists have to have a status in this celebrity culture, make a splash. damian hurst's diamond encrusted skull says it all to me death and terrible beauty - the futility of trying to grasp riches, at the same time that he does it himself an annoying contradiction that worms and burrows into ones consciousness.

Tracy Emin is confessional, on one level exploitatively so, but also honest. I am not sure how I would react to rooms and rooms of her howls of out rage, it may seem too one note, i would love to find out.

water ways

Have been away for a couple of days thanks to the Queen Mother [long story] no doubt influenced by our birth signs we set course yet again for water, and ended up cruising up [down] the Thames in the rain. More fun than it sounds.

The boatman, stoutly Chelsea, intoned the list of interest, MI5 - not where I thought they were, MI6 - who were.

Lord Archer's somewhat dilapidated penthouse suite raised a small communal raspberry as the road bridges slid overhead - painted sage green, pretty pink with gilded fripperies.

This one, for good measure, has worthy Victorian statues. This is Art, they were all women which was rather sweet or irritating..

The railway bridges are more solid and serious. Many more trees than you would expect when pounding the fume filled city streets.

The splended power station is Listed, meaning the main structure must remain; after many attempts to turn it into a disco, may now become guess what, luxury apartments.

Gradually the trees win through and there you are in Kew.

If you are lucky and have caught an earlier tide you can slide thru the cool green locks at Teddington and end up at Hampton Court. But it is a tidal river, which I should have remembered, [after all we live next to one here too], and we couldn't get that far this time.

Three men in a Boat has always been a favourite of mine, Hattie could be Montmorency and I would definitely remember the tin opener, as I like pineapple a lot.

Next day it was raining rather more aggressively, if in spurts, so we ended up at the National Portrait Gallery as a reverse oasis.

The annual Portrait Competition was on, rather irritatingly it was obsessed with painting of the photo realism variety, huge and pockmarked faces gazed soulfully out. Rather clever but boring IMO, everyone looks mournful as if they can't remember where they left their smoothie.

Foyles provided further shelter, now swept clean of all idiosyncrasies; no more running around with slips of paper to at least three different pay stations before they would deign parting with a book.

I bought two of the long list Bookers, no display of the collection as yet, Foyles does at least maintain the dignity of less haste - Case of Exploding Mangoes [reportedly funny about general Zia, neat trick if true] and Child 44. This one is the first ever? Thriller to make the Booker lists. It is unremittingly tragic - it would take a heart of stone not to roar with laughter or curl up and whither away. Only those with a strong sense of humour should take the journey.

imprint

Imprint was the theme of our recent exhibition.
Hattie the dog and I imprint our footsteps/pawprints in repeated rotations thru and around the fields about here. There are many footpaths, some sign posted and some just invitations of flattened grasses.
The one up the hill to Hill farm is deeply rutted and then back filled with horse poo. On occasion the farmer adds sand and gravel to the mix.
When we have heavy rain, the run-off drags most of the ingredients down the steep path, across the road and into the drains and gardens of the "new" houses below.
Once upon a time there used to be allotments on that site, many gooseberries and peas were grown and delivered to the village shop to be sold to the village populace.
Everyone was happy with the arrangement, but somehow the land was sold to a builder and a Close was built. The Closees are not amused when they awake to a mucky lawn, so after some years [complaints have to compost for some while in the country] the farmer found some evil tarmac concoction and covered the sand and poo for about half the distance of the path. Presumably his half.
The village awaits results after the next rain storm, hopefully tonight as it has been very hot for a very long, un-English time in this corner of the country. We could do with some air freshening.
Another path leads thru the horsey field, now without the entertainment of horses, with a side turning off thru the cows or sheep depending on whom is renting the pasture that month.
The Grindel runs across the bottom field, so feet can get rather wet if following this path, the cows enjoy this feature and stand about hock deep in mud and contentment gazing dreamily at passers by, such as Hatty and I. Unless they are young and curious, in which case they lower their heads, bat their long silky eyelashes and advance in a inquisitive semi-circle, if they were children they would be holding hands.
If we keep walking down the hill, one way or another, we reach the river, then we can go right and inspect the houseboats, or left and to pass the yacht club and boat yard. Hatty doesn't mind which we choose just as long as we keep moving on.
The path up [or down] the Long Fields has been officiously designated a Cycle Path, and has the signs on tall poles to prove it. This advent was largely ignored until Tonka type earth movers arrived and proceeded to surface the path with flinty stones, presumably so that if a cyclist ever did use the path [none sighted so far] they would be unseated by the strange terrain and then receive everlasting scarred knees to record the adventure.
The horses that carry riders down, and up, the path [it is also ordained a bridal path] reject the sharp, shifting stones and have made a new imprint by the side, thru the farmers crop.
Walkers, including Hatty and I, also reject the unsteady and noisy stones and take refuge in the soft earth and horse shoe prints.
Thus a new imprint is added to the pages of the country journal.

an alternative view

I was about to walk Hatters the dog today, with an extra purpose - to post a couple of letters. Even tho the main aim was to take a walk I couldn't bring myself to go that extra 5 mins. and walk up to the pillar box on the main road.
Also would Hatty appreciate that extra excursion thru the village was not poo territory, she's a smart dog, but basic needs tend to gain impetus in us all, when the need arises.
I have not taken the trip down the Drift and thru the horsey field to the river for some time. The two horses who grazed there were quite friendly Except when their sense of humour led them to thunder up together behind the unwary walker and then just as instant death seemed nigh beneath their flashing hooves, swerve off into an adjoining field, flicking tails in derision.
However we seemed to have reached a mutual non proliferation treaty that allowed all to progress with dignity, when their owners suddenly started appearing with wax jackets and peaked caps, and opinions on doggy poo.
Not horsey poo.
Signs began to proliferate and snappy arguments ensued, I can doggy-bag when required, but every day seemed to take the shine off, so I took an alternative route.
However, the other post box is at the bottom of the hill, by the river.
Lately I seemed to have met said horses, not the owners, carrying persons of differing proportions from the new stables up the hill [one horse, like one car, looks much the same to me,] so I wasn't sure - but we decided to risk it and set out for the nearer post box.
Excellent, the apology for a fence round the ever present potential bonfire had fallen down, not to be resuscitated. Previously the horsey owners didn't approve of horsey snacking on delicacies such as broken fence posts and brushwood, but it seemed they reigned no more.
And so Hatters and I made it to the river and post box unaccosted , the nettles got dumped on without comment and all was peace.
But as we wandered on it did strike me that there have been quite a few checks introduced on our wilful ways.
Doggy poo was the top topic when I was on the tenants council in N London twenty [whoops nearly 25] years ago, when actually the abandoned syringes and fledgling gangsters may have required more attention.
But the only open space then was the car park smeared around the base of the flats, with occasional holes to allow spindly trees to poke up among the brickwork. Kids got mucky enough without the dog, cat and rat poo.
But now dog poo is a middle class campaign and like seat belts, drink driving, smoking bans, attacks on happy hour, it seems to have become part of a new tradition, for better or worse.

journeys

It's been a busy day. P came over with Jpeg [black lab.] to walk round the Clamp with Hattie [grey and white collie/lab] and me in the sunshine.
Didn't see much as we were talking so hard, but the fresh air was good.
Then we picked up the ancient Tortoises and took them for a meal down at the Shipwreck. Lunch tasted like it had been in a real shipwreck for some time, but again the fresh air was good.
It was strange to find stories that I have told to describe my relatives are not in fact strictly true. I am sure I was told - by my mother - that P & G taught ball room dancing for years. However P informs me that they told her that it is not so, they "call" at square dancing things.............and G, I was told taught in Special Ed. no says Pat, just ordinary Ed. [she drove G in her car, while I had P]. I am confused, what else is not true?
The Ancient Ts are due to fly back to Canada tomorrow, goodness knows where they keep their stamina, maybe they store it all up in a pocket, and that's why they walk so slow.
Who needs to walk when you can fly.
I am getting restless, need a different horizon myself; got to drive out to take down the exhibition tomorrow, but that is just more of the same now.
Nobody with any sense looks forward to the A12.
P, Jpeg, Hattie and I decided we may make a day trip of the ferry over to Harwich [at least 10 mins.] and back some time, scarcely foreign parts but it will have to do.

binned

They emptied the bins! [see below]

live long Amy

There is a garbage collection strike today. I have read most of Ragged Trousered Philanthropist - the present offer is less than the rate of inflation, keeping in mind they are only earning just above minimum wage now, should I support them when they are faced with threatened redundancy if given a better pay rise? - or should I put out the bins and hope for the best.
Or should I sit on my hill, accept my impotence and read a book. P has lent me the newish Plum, kill or cure.
My mind is moosh, I have no definition, I may recant some of my previous musings.
Today I am miserable and there isn't really a good excuse [discounting the perfectly reasonable existential angst that should be the basis of every thought word and deed]. Nothing much has changed from the day a couple or two back when I was cheery to the point of smuggery.
Oh Amy Winehouse is singing Cupid draw back your Bow on Radio6, life suddenly got better, amazing how wonderful she sounds when you don't see her pottering about with wonky beehive and a big glass of something pink on the stage.
Gone now, that silly noisy man is on for hours......... back to a CD and misery.
I suspect that my moaning is largely hormonal, so maybe memory doesn't make us who we are, maybe it is just the pineal gland.
Also I wonder if I am feminist who doesn't like women, maybe I live in a cosy glow of theory which Correctly defines the gender position in the country IMO but perhaps due to eons of conditioning women really can be a pain.
It could be in the genes, we had/have to compete with each other to attract a mate and continue our line, but that has got corrupted over time into habitual cattiness and back stabbing.
Told you I was fed up.

memory lanes

Picked up mother from the station today. She and sister plus husband have been cruising on the River Elbe, then 3 days exploring Prague.
She was not best pleased.
Ma is 87, sister is 84 and sister's husband isn't even 80 yet, but the youngsters were not sprightly enough for my mother. Far too much sitting back, letting her make all the decisions, or go on side trips without them.
I suggested that ma always took the decisions, and if not, immediately insists on an alternative of her choosing.
She grunted that I was wrong, of course.
Anyway she is home, with a cold, refusing all support as usual.
She reports that sister's husband has dementia, I claim he just forgets things and sometimes gets lost. It made me wonder if she says the same about me, I don't usually forget where I live, but often forget what I have done. Complete black hole about whether I have done it at all.
Memory makes us who we are.
We remember the things we do and think [or most of them] and that linked narrative we tell ourselves is our identity, isn't it......?
Hattie the dog is an old girl now, old and knobbly. Sometimes, if she feels tired after an exuberant walk the day before, she will halt and refuse to go further, until I acquiesce and turn round.
Then she bounces with pleasure and sets off home, tail wagging, nose to the ground sniffing eagerly.
She understands a lot of words and phrases, and much body language and tone of voice. But how much does she remember, is her memory deteriorating now she is nearly as old as ma in doggy years.
I don't remember anything, except tiny snapshots, before I was ......10? I used to have a memory that I thought came from early on, but i have worn it away in the remembering and now I only have the words of telling myself the story.
I do remember chanting my times tables in Infant school - being so bad with numbers I would guess that is because I was so terrified of being last to get a red shiny paper apple on the tree collage on the gloss painted tiles of the classroom wall.
I remember my 2 last teachers at primary school, Miss Gretorex and Mr Endicott, both young, tho I think he had been in the War so he must have been in late 30s at least, I suppose. Fifty two in our class, ruler across the hand if we talked too much, I worshipped both of them.
Each time I type the word "remember" I leave out the second m.
I have noticed this before, once a mistake is repeated it seems to stick and I have to take conscious care not to continue thus. So I imagine that memory is some form of electrical charge that forges a path linking synapses, an alternative spelling starts a new path.
Our exhibition theme is Imprint this year so one of my mistress-pieces is plan of the various walk patterns Hattie and I make round the surrounding country side. Then I stitched the names of all the tress and birds we see. Very satisfying.
Think the other textile artists were a bit non plussed tho.