When Worlds Collide and a Pair of Striped Tights

Iwoke up again. Not only was I still a failure, but now I was a failure surrounded by unfamiliar voices. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all, I really wasn’t sure. My garret appeared to be filled with a haze of sparkling Champagne bubbles that were emanating from a jolly Australian lady who seemed to be using them as a means of communication with an assistant called Muriel. I shrugged – I mean why not? At some point in the future Champagne’s bUbbles would rival Apple’s iPhone – I knew that.

A nice hazy picture to break up a huge swathe of text.

Moving on [as swiftly as possible], I realised that the other unfamiliar voice belonged to Mr Devine; a dead giveaway was his broad Norfolk accent. He was very tall, and took up too much room. He looked a bit cross, and this crossness seemed to be directed at me. He was ranting about the RHS, and a cease and desist notice, or some such; he was going a bit pink and puffy in the face, but thankfully my faithful hound, Sid, calmed him down with some gentle sniffing and a few adoring looks, which Mr Devine fell for because he crouched down to Sid’s level and stopped taking up so much space.

Finally I could talk eye to eye with Dinah, the jolly Australian lady with the twinkly blue eyes; she informed me that she had all the empty bottles I could possibly need to carry on with my bottled art project. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I flung my arms around her, which was somewhat uncharacteristic of me. My happiness was swiftly dampened when I noticed her kindly face clouded by a frown.
“What?” I asked.
“The cost of delivering the bottles from Ausland to the UK may be prohibitive.”
Dinah stood in the middle of the garret with one hand on her hip clutching an extended wand, whilst the other held her chin as if deep in thought.
“I’ve got it!”, she exclaimed, “Jon would be the cheaper option!”

“Aaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeee!” Howled Mr Devine from his crouched position. He appeared to be grappling with my drapes and pulled one down into a heap on the floor.
“Oi, watch the drapes!” I shouted.
“Oh don’t mind him,” said Dinah, “he’s got a problem with the cute blackbird that’s perched on your crate, none of us can remember why so we humour him.”
Much to my surprise Dinah pulled down my other drape and used it to cover Mr Devine’s shaking limbs.
“It’s okay, Mr D,” soothed Dinah, gently patting Mr Devine’s back, “you stay under here and Sid will stand guard and protect you should Beaky try to attack.” Dinah rolled her eyes and then winked at me as Beaky the Blackbird flew out the window and back to Norfolk.

Sid, taking his job of guarding Mr Devine very seriously.

“Doesn’t he scream like a girl?” a new voice observed, a little later than expected.
“Your timing is a bit off,” I shouted into the bUbble Haze™, “he screamed about 5 minutes ago.”
Ms Mistress?” Said a drape muffled voice.
A pair of red and black striped tights appeared from the bUbble Haze™ and dangled above us, jigging lightly from foot to foot.

“Who’s this?” I mouthed to Dinah.
Mistress MJ, from Canada.” Replied Dinah, mouthing back.
“I can see you,” said the tights in a slow, cool, Canadian accent, “I would join you, but Ms Scarlet’s keyboard is too grubby, and too riddled with germs for me to be typed into this blog post so I have sent a representation of myself. Ms Scarlet, if you could please sanitise your immediate environment then I will be able to appear in all my glory.”

I winced. Cleaning my keyboard, and garret, to Mistress MJ’s exacting standards would take over 23 years to achieve, and I did not have 23 years to spare. I needed the empty bottles for my art, so, at my peril, I ignored Mistress MJ’s request.

“Dinah, where can I find this Cheap Jon fellow?” I whispered.
“*Sarf London,” Dinah whispered back, “you can’t miss him, he has an award winning back passage. God’s speed Ms Scarlet, good luck, and don’t worry about the cleaning, I’ll get Mr Devine to do it.”

Dinah and I clasped our little fingers together, tapped our right heels 5 times, and then I was away on my adventure, with my trusty hound, Sid, at my heels, and with no worries about domestic chores – I trusted Dinah to make everything spic’n’span.

“STOP HER!!!” Shrieked Mr Devine…..

*Incorrect location due to data privacy laws, and also artistic licence.

To be continued over the cusp.

A Realm Beyond Comprehension and a Shortish List

Iawoke realising that I had failed. Not only had I failed in my mission to become an internationally acclaimed artist with medals and an OBE, but I had also failed in my attempt to achieve world peace.

‘There is still time.’ Whispered a distant voice from a realm beyond comprehension.
‘You’re optimistic,’ I replied, strangely unperturbed by this new aural phenomenon, ‘my deadline is 21st November 2045, I only have 23 years and a bit and then the crowds will descend on Mogwash village hall expecting some kind of spectacle/experience/miracle/wonderment/world peace/artistic extravaganza [delete as applicable].’

The distant voice offered no further advice so I heaved myself out of bed and decided that today would be the day that I would start to get things done. I had to be positive, I had been dribbling stupor for long enough, and maybe the distant voice had a point – there was time – so I washed, dressed, ate a bowl of gruel, and hauled myself up to my garret at the bottom of the garden.

My garret was much as I left it, though a bit more dusty. On my desk was a list [please see exhibit A]

After removing a pile of books from my chair, I sat, and tried to gaze out the window – I couldn’t, it was far too grubby so I added ‘clean window’ to the list.
It appeared that I had my work cut out, or at least written down. But there was something I’d forgotten – something very important, and I swear I could hear the words: Did I win yet? being typed on a keyboard. My reverie was interrupted when I felt a cool presence brush against my left elbow, and from the sound of glass bottles rattling in a cardboard crate. This was all rather startling, but even more so because of the Blackbird  standing on the bottles with its wings outstretched in a cormorant pose, as if perched on a groyne. There was only one thing I could do in the face of such terrorism, I passed out, hitting my head on my desk as I slowly slumped to the floor.

To be continued over the cusp.

Too many Daisies….

Iseldom speak of the day when I pranced around in a field in nothing more than a badly fitting nightie, whilst chanting repetitively for 6 hours and 43 minutes. Friends and family considered my behaviour to be environmental folly with a strong whiff of self-indulgent twaddle, and also extremely irritating, but they didn’t have my vision, or know a film producer with 45 acres of hemp.

For the first time ever my friends and family were correct, my behaviour was completely out of character, and my vision a little bit blurred. To start with I would never wear a nightie because fleece lined pyjamas are my nightwear of choice; and I would never trample wild flowers underfoot. Judging by my embarrassed demeanour and glazed expression I can only imagine that I was coerced to drone on endlessly about daisies in such a tedious fashion, for which I can only apologise. Perhaps I had entered some kind of bizarre beauty pageant to become Little Ms Ditzy 1978. Who knows? Let us never speak of this incident again.

I mean, it might look divine to prance through long grass bare foot with a daisy chain wrapped around your head, but trust me, it isn’t, well not unless you’re some kind of wide eyed bovine. The ground in a field is uneven, it is lumpen, often soggy, and strewn with cowpats. And please be aware that bare legs and a flimsy white garment will offer no protection from tics, snakes, and creepy-crawlies such as red ants, wasps, horse-flies, and hornets. I would recommend sturdy boots and insect repellent for anyone intent on trampling through the undergrowth. Never wear white as it attracts storm flies – well most flies to be honest – and also mud. Finally, never sit in a tree in your nightie as this situation is ripe for an unfortunate ending.
As I said, Let us never speak of this incident again.

This has been some kind of public information broadcast about the perils of wearing unsuitable clothing in the British countryside, brought to you by someone who has learnt the hard way.

Thank you, and have a well attired Bank Holiday Weekend.

Of Unicorns and Boobs

Phew! Wot a scorcher, etc, etc… I am a day late with my promised post, apologies, but I am still wafting aimlessly, and playing around with my curtains/windows as per my last post. It is exhausting.

And, speaking of my last post, Mr Mags enquired about the background paper that I use in my collage photographs. It is this:-

Back in 2012, or thereabouts, I decided it would be a challenge to paint some text from my favourite book – a book that always makes me laugh until tears are streaming down my cheeks and I am reduced to a hiccuping mess on the floor. It is this book:-


I originally bought it for my Dad when I was about 10, and didn’t quite understand it like I understand it today. It is a collection of misprints from the world’s press. And I can’t even read the cover without snorting and getting a stitch in my side.

The clipping I was trying to paint was this one:-

I will zoom in…

I was trying to paint it so that I captured the print quality, and failed miserably. Sadly, today’s press is digital and therefore news-sites are less likely to make such comical errors, however this didn’t stop me from reading this morning that Unicorns Warn on Cost of Living Crisis….

A tune, I think, with a seventies vibe…

Hot and Bothered

It has been too hot to do anything other than to waft about in loose clothing opening and closing windows as per instructions via the BBC weather people. Open a window during the wrong part of the day [God forbid] and there is the threat of being turned into something resembling a dry roasted peanut, or such like. Anyhows, this week has been tropical in Devon, despite appearances….

But thankfully it is fresher and a lot less humid today.

I have a nagging thought that I’m supposed to be taking pictures of my garden for the Great Blogging Gardening Competition 2022. I am also supposed to be supplying Melanie with a picture of a tree, and of a secret path. I must remember to do these things.

I do have this picture of my very first family garden that I can’t resist publishing before Mr Devine’s big event….

I have no idea why my aunt is wearing heels to weed, nor why my mother saw fit to wear slippers to use the concrete roller thingy. This is the only time I’ve seen the concrete roller thingy in action – as a child I used to climb on it to try to see over the big fence at the end of the garden [not the same garden or big fence as in this pic]. I think this picture only serves to underline the eccentric nature of the Blue family – see what I had to grow up with!!!

Moving on, I have made a couple of collages, the first is for a calligraphy exchange…

using calligraphy scraps in art.

….and the second is not going anywhere….

collage-and-calligraphy

I have made a lot of collages, and most of them get sent away to far off climes, or just down the road, but I am going to keep this one. I will frame it, and I will make more in a similar vein. I have a big one planned that will break copyright laws. Tough. It’ll worth it.

Next week [or the week after?]: Scarlet makes merry with a scalpel and some gold leaf. And also takes more photos.