wet and windy

Phew that was some storm last night, lashing rain, thunder and lightning, power cut everything. All the electricals have to be re-set. The storm seemed to sweep up the river, revolve around this hill top, sweep off then just when you thought it was all over - rush back and roar.
Checked the plinth people out this morning, they seem to be present and correct, don't know what they did overnight. Being English we are rather ignoring all the lamentable exhibitionism it entails.
At the mo the woman is drawing attention [quietly in writing] to the children of Darfur. Oh now she is getting a bit showy and throwing roses [with tied messages] to peeps below.
We bought this delicate oregano plant when we were are Hampton Court, pale pink bracts [such a nice word] and now tiny mauve flowers. The seller warned us not to leave it out in the rain as the stems are very brittle and would break. Seems an unlikely way for a plant to behave. We put it's pot in a fairly sheltered position, but I assumed I would find firewood this morning, but it is fine. Obviously knows what it is doing.
The golf is swishing along in Scotland so i listen vaguely to that on the wireless [Tiger isn't doing as well as expected but hopefully he will pull thru, tho I do quite like old Padraig Harrington, a good name too].
Then the Test Match starts at 11am. on Test Match Special, I love listening to them chunter on, one day I would like to make a quilt with all the names of the field placings "Silly Mid On" etc.
Saving that till I am even older.
We did so well in cricket yesterday, and then we didn't. Aussies were cock a hoop as you would expect, I suppose we will collapse into a humiliated puddle , or a real one, it is at Lords so presumably got wet too. Tho I suppose the whole country got soaked; however the storms are due to return this afternoon so maybe that will save us.
That is why we pay such attention to the weather, it plays a significant part in the country's history.
Spoke to daughter last night, she is having a 90degree summer, but the roses still manage - with lots of irrigation. No hose pipe ban there, none here yet, but i expect there will be.
We have a well in the garden and next door have purchased a pump, [goes down about 40ft] to water the garden as they are on water meter.

plinth news

Now there is a woman spinning on the plinth, with a spinning wheel, not rotating. How craft worthy

plinth web site

I have been watching the "granny" on the plinth today, knitting.
There is a continuous streaming of the plinth people on www.oneandother.co.uk I recommend it for what ails you/me.

muse and musing

It was quite a long day, stewarding at the exhibition, tho the gallery is open and bright and we did have over 200 "footfall". Unfortunately the "feet" led more positively to the shop-side where we do smaller bits and bobs, and handed over about£250, but however complimentaryly they wriggled their toes I remain the only Exhibition seller so far.
This should not lead to great hubris as I priced my pots at £7.50 each to make sure they passed beyond. The beautiful shibori above was £900 I think.
My wonky Arches are £95 but I suspect mother will be the lucky recipient, should work as she has macular degeneration.

We hung H's cheery patchwork on the wall opposite the door to encourage a positive response to those brave enough to poke their heads round the door.

R's subtle landscape abstract was huge, and hugely satisfying. The framer did a good job with this one, but left wrinkles in her other piece which is a bit desperate.
We had a stitching group from Cambridgeshire, which was invigorating, and I was talking to one who also writes a Stitchey Blog, so we shall have to wait and see if she turns up here.

M's print and stitch on silk organza was much admired and really should be bought by the concert hall, if they ever took any notice.
It was a lovely sunny day, against all forecast. To gee me up I wore my Fat Face dress with asymmetric hem and leggings. Very sprauncy. However in the heat the leggings had to come off and expose my poor bristly pale legs to the public.
Pricing is always a matter of contention - to grab a cliche. Some believe they should be paid by the hour invested, which could add up to as much as the national debt, and takes no notice of the quality of the piece.
Some makers rely solely on their earnings, so selling cheap gets outrage as they feel undercut. Mostly we charge less than we ought as textiles is not a respected medium, water colours seem to successfully charge around £150 a pop with no embarrassment.
Some pieces I charge up to about £200, usually cos I actually don't want to part with them yet.
My rusty containers pleased me, but there is not a spare window sill in the house so I decided to down price them so that if someone really liked them they could afford them. I don't rely on the money, so I am happy to sell at whatever suits really, it is great to feel people will invest a significant amount to live with something I made. But the fact that someone just wants to have it in their life is very rewarding, so if C or G ever see anything they like I am happy to send for cost of postage, if not I will feel quite able to say so.
So far the Disco dancers are still dancing on the wall marked down to £20 as I need to make space; likewise Angry Woman. One elderly lady gazed at her with delight yesterday, I think her maculars may be degenerating too as the face is very nasty really.
PS a double click on the pic will enlarge it on my machine

potted exhibition

This vessel was the most eye catching I thought. Certainly was a deal straighter than my Arches, which when viewed from a distance are shamefully still wonky.

Sadly the pink lady lost her pot when some idiot reversed into the plinth, I have put the shards back up so now she looks a Sad Weed.

This lady had already melded with her pot to ensure total security

My quieter containers sold almost immediately, should have charged more.

city women

When we went up to London this week we took a peek at the Live Statues on the plinth in Trafalgar Square.
I think this was a man, it seems to be an English male habit to dress as women at the first opportunity. Each volunteer [chosen from a lottery] gets an hour on the plinth to do as they like. The previous art work was a young woman, she spent most of her time on her mobile phone, which seemed fairly representative.

In the national Portrait gallery I was very taken with this collection of 300 Fabiolas. The artist, Francis Alys, has allegedly spent his time collecting portraits of her from flea markets and where ever. They covered the walls of two rooms, on the beautifully coloured walls of two rooms. Strange and weird and somehow fascinating.

Fabiola belonged to the patrician Roman family of the gens Fabia. She had been married to a man who led so vicious a life that to live with him was impossible. She obtained a divorce from him according to Roman law and, contrary to the ordinances of the Church, she entered upon a second union before the death of her first husband.

Upon the death of her second consort, she decided to enter upon a life of renunciation and labour for others. On the day before Easter, following the death of her second consort, she appeared before the gates of the Lateran basilica, dressed in penitential garb, and did public penance for her sin, which made a great impression upon the Christian population of Rome. The pope received her formally again into full communion with the Church.

Fabiola now renounced all that the world had to offer her, and devoted her immense wealth to the needs of the poor and the sick. She erected a fine hospital at Rome, and waited on the inmates herself, not even shunning those afflicted with repulsive wounds and sores. Besides this she gave large sums to the churches and religious communities at Rome and other places in Italy. All her interests were centered on the needs of the Church and the care of the poor and suffering.
Maybe she could be the patron saint also of second wives...........

vessels launched

These are my "vessels". We decided to make sure everyone did some 3D work for the exhibition this time, on the same theme of "Bridging the Gap" at the maltings. I used my rust dyed calico and odd bits of wire and fencing.
Actually i think they came out quite well, better than my poor bloody arches which died the creative death weeks before I finally finished them [sadly on the wall it is clear that they are less well made than the originals], definitely not straight. I know I can't make things straight, why do I keep trying.
Anyway the vessels look quite serene, were well received and displayed in a good position so all hope is not extinguished
. Disco dancers are up yet again. They have entered many a show and then bopped along home again.
Angry lady is also going cheap, her sisters [calmer] of the trilogy achieved new owners, but apparently no-one wants an angry woman, same old story

Finally finished Arches.

When we went to the maltings for lunch yesterday I took a real fancy to this ivy covered house. It is the RSPB centre, so I guess over growth is a lovely blanket for nesting birds.
I would love to let the ivy enclose this house but I worry about the brickwork and the gutters. If the ivy joins forces with the weeds and grasses flourishing in the gutters it could get very dark in here.

We met some old friends there - after nearly an hour sitting separated by the cafe. We probably walked by in the middle distance without clocking each other. Fortunately A came for a look around and saw us discussing how much longer we should wait.
Timing is everything.
I only see A&D about once a decade so it is always a shock to see how I must have aged. D had a nasty cancer recently - there is no other kind, but one can be polite about this one, as he seems to have shaken it off.
It is weird linking up with old friends again, especially those made in the formative years [20s?] we chatted on as if we saw each other regularly, not just in occasional emails. I suspect we are actually talking to those people we were in our 20s and a shudder of disjoint derails a conversation now and again when opinions and attitudes no longer fit. Or maybe the way we saw it each other wasn't too accurate to start with.
In the main we were all the woolly liberals we always were.
The marshes were gorgeous in the sunshine, ducks and ducklings shovelling their beaks through the glistening mud. Seagulls yelling and cursing at each other. Older persons perambulating around in an eternal slow waltz.
Lunch at the Snail and Sail or whatever it was called, was very nice, I tried to be good and had fish, but was led astray into a huge, ginormous meringue topped with cream and strawberries.
A was warning me against processed meat consumption, she reckoned ham sandwiches were D's downfall, but i think huge mounds of sugar and cream can't do too much good either. But it was delicious.
RP's birthday today - fortunately we couldn't find room for dessert.

good morning

There are hollyhocks outside the window, old and straggley but stubborn geraniums on the window sill, and cape violets on the table. With the sun pouring in, it is a cheering sight first thing in the morning.
It is also my daughter's birthday.

essex girls

Today we went over to Essex to put my Rosie Ladies in an exhibition there. I did wonder what kind of reception they would get, but the organiser seemed quite cheery about them, so I hope they will enjoy their stay.
Spent several hours in the afternoon fighting bureaucracy trying to find out how to get grandson a British passport to add to his American one, finally it seems the wheels may have started turning, but slowly, very slowly.

words not pics

It is pleasing to finally get some comments, I was struggling so much with the dreaded dongle when we were away, everything was so s-lo-w, but no-one was taking any notice anyway, a lonely voice on the moors crying Cathy..............
I don't really have the oomph to summon up more words now we are home about the holiday, so it was apposite that the videos downloaded easily and said it all much better than i could.
Not my technical expertise I confess, just RP's little tiny digital camera, push the video button and it all happens.
Ma is rarely excited by what i shove under her nose to admire, but when I sent her the videos she was entranced, and wants the Strid on a cassette loop so she can listen to it while going to sleep.
I could have done with it last night as yet again i couldn't sleep till about 4am. I don't know if it is a side effect of the statins, or just my pattern migraine trying to shove thru but it is intensely irritating. I used to find the radio sent me to sleep, but no more. So i tried the new Peter James book "Dead Tomorrow that M exchanged with me yesterday. In the end I had to get up and remove it from the bedroom, it is So Miserable, I didn't want to be infected any more. It was like he had chosen his Issues and then written the most negative, most distressing version he could, [organ transplants], it's a murder story, you can work out the plot as it was cliched from beginning to end,- which I didn't bother to reach.
I don't think he likes women either, do you ever get that feeling about an author? I also started Fay Weldon's Decameron [modern interpretation] so far I don't think she likes women much these days either.

Puffa train

The Strid

winning cups

Maybe this Spring should be remembered as Buttercup Spring, as they are so fine and so golden but most of all so prolific.
I have just taken Hattie the dog for her evening walk, and as we are a few hundred miles further North, the buttercups are still shining in great carpets across the fields.
We motored up into the Yorkshire Dales today, a fairly peaceful drive as most people are back at work. In an unexpected bolt of spontaneity [plans tend to get sticked to when RP is behind the wheel] we stopped off at the Strid. He remembered the name from a boy scout trip when he was about 11, so we turned round and explored.
It was the River Wharf where it crashes thru the limestone rocks, creating "white water" amongst the gorgeous golden brown tumbling peaty waters.
RP remembers it as much deeper and wilder, either he was more impressionable, or it was a different time of year, but it was still beautiful. Notices claimed it was 30' deep as it crashed through narrow gaps that one would think would be fun to jump. However the notices were in blood red and warned the Strid had taken lives before now, so we desisted.
We stopped for lunch at a pub that had a Crock barn [impressive beams] and a basket of little terry towelling flannels instead of paper towels, so it was very posh. However Yorkshire folk, well the ones on public show anyway, don't do posh, so it was friendly and welcoming.
As opposed to the last lunch where they wouldn't let Hatters in and had Victorian naked ladies in the loo. Creepy somehow.
The Crock barn had photos of female role models, and altho they included one shot of the naked calendar ladies, who live near by apparently, it somehow had a much more celebratory feel.
We drove back on the back roads, presumably mostly used by thin rabbits, a bit scary when meeting Landrovers head on.
I am making my rusty dyed calico vessels [with nails] and despairing of ever completing the Arches, and listening to success in the cricket and the tennis, so buttercups all round.

many pies - no pics

It is mind bendingly frustrating trying to up or is it download pics of the moors via this dongle thing. it just refuses to pick up enough revs whether I am within the metre thick walls of this cottage. or sitting in the sunshine outside in the little back yard. Fresh air means nothing to radio? waves it seems.
So you will have to take my word for it that it is sunny and gorgeous and the moors are glowing so brightly the grass is almost fluorescent.
Couple of nights ago Sheffield almost sunk to meet Atlantis in the down pour [that is definitely a down load] but we seem to be in some kind of "water shed" which i can remember Mr Davies my geography teacher rattling on about. being welsh he knew about rain, I think it rains first on Wales then takes deep breath, skids over what ever is in between and dumps the next lot on.......Sheffield.
We have all three walked, climbed and clambered to the top of the fells, and yesterday we drove over to lancashire, crossing Keighly Moor on a lovely twisty road defended from the sheep and cattle by rickety old dry stone walls. i did ask for pate for lunch, but the pub had none so I opted for black pudding fritters. Oh my lord, thank goodness for statins. I hope. they were delicious. Yorkshire food does come on the hearty side, very comforting after scrabbling down to refuel with clicking knee and aching back.
Not to exaggerate tho as I have also caught young Andy Murray winning thru during my afternoon recuperation on the big green couch.
I have just finished Wolf Hall by by Hilary Mantel, 650 pages of sheer pleasure about Thomas Cromwell. Started the Decameron by Fay Weldon, not as much bottom I suspect.
Stitching is fitting in the corners, and not happily as I am stuck and have to have them ready to show in3 weeks.
I have given up on Big Brother, a sad loss but I can't summon up any interest in the young things this year.

Stratford

Here is the stadium, hope for the future. I feel like I am building it myself this dongle thing is so slow.

o

Went up to the right Royal Academy to see the Summer Show last week. These ladles are the courtyard contribution, not even very good for sliding or climbing. Inside lots of pedestrian pompous pics by RAs [entitled to a hanging] and then a pile of people's art [grudgingly displayed by the same RAs] piled up the walls of the two smallest rooms. Piles of people too, hot, sweaty and triumphant even if their offering is 15' up the wall, Pims abounds.
It was quite stimulating in some ways, so many versions of the artist's visions, made me feel - well why not just do it, just make all the dreams, see what happens...............no-one else can do it for you. What is the point of not trying. Nothing will be perfect, who dares wins, all that kind of stuff.
Went looking for Tracey Emin's new show but because we are too English to risk asking directions, we got lost and tired and irritable and just made the train home.
From the train you can see the Olympic Stadium, rising from the rubble of Stratford.
Doesn't look very big, but i guess it is when up close.

Goodness knows how big the Olympics will be, vision seems in small supply at the mo.

Haworth

It seems this fandangle dongle thingy will let me write words but draws the line at pictures, or doesn't draw the line................
I am sitting a cough and a spit from where young Charlotte wrote her words and she didn't complain. The cottage here has the obligatory three pictures of her, all neatly framed, available from the Bronte museum up the hill.
The cottage was built in the 1850s - thick walls and surprisingly large rooms so I guess she was scribbling away at about the same time when one of the mill workers moved his family and range in to here.
Being as it has a double, stone framed window at the front, I would think he was a supervisor or some such. I don't know if Jane Eyre was available in the village, I suppose there would have been a Board School but maybe young governesses falling in love with their employers would not have been deemed appropriate for young minds. One or some of the sisters may have helped out at the school, but adolescent females would already be working in the mill, having babies, finding out about real life in some ways that perhaps Charlotte could not.
Walking Hattie the dog up past the church onto the moor is one kind of sensation, the churchyard is dark and forbidding, crammed with tall gravestones that look like a funeral is permanently attended by stony mourners, blackened with age and disapproval.
Being here in the cottage is different. It has been gutted and refurbished in a very New Labour manner. All stripped and mahogany stained wood floors and fake beams, the kitchen walls artexed but painted dark red. A great big dark green leather couch and a fake fireplace under the granite lintel. Very comfortable tho!

home and away

Meetings are strange events. Even the most united families can sometimes find it difficult to sit down round a table and agree ..............on where to go on holiday, what to have for dinner, how much pocket money should be received................... people who grew up together, know each others likes and dislikes, can fall into argument when each individual strives to achieve their aim and more importantly, persuade others to agree.
So it is not surprising when a meeting of twenty plus mature, independent minded women, gathering together once a month with the aim of exhibiting their individual genius can fall into disruption and disarray.
Maybe it is the size of a group that is influential. I sat next to L at the textile group this week, [24 of us] wranglers were in short supply to hog tie the egos clashing on the floor, in the midst of our democratic circle.
Cliques have inevitably formed, and agendas clash. It is not surprising that British politics is in such a mess, if this is an example of co-operation to the greater good. I must admit if women claim they would make a better job of it than the men, this microcosm of agreeing a way forward does not bode well.
Obviously I don't keep my mouth shut either.
L sighed and said when half a dozen of this large group met away from this arena they were so cheering and supportive that she always returned home feeling more positive.
I had to agree. I also am part of a small group, six of us meet fortnightly. Often I wake and grumble, wondering do I want to trundle over and exchange pleasantries with my compatriot stitchers, nothing we say, or do, will change the world, much less each others understandings.
but invariably i drive home again smiling and comforted.
We are off to Yorkshire tomorrow to walk Hattie the dog on the moors [maybe one last time]. The British Summer collapsed two days ago so I am packing wellies and jumpers and a pile of books and stitching. Just like home really.