I thought I would share the view from my bathroom. I was fully dressed when I took this photograph – it is a bit fuzzy because I was trying to zoom in on the flax fields. Yes, I sometimes sit in my bath and pretend these are fields of lavender and that I’m in France.
A Bathroom with a view….
And here is another picture of a book on a chair seeing as the book on the chair in my previous post proved so popular. I have decided that ‘A book on a chair’ is my new thing. This is The Illusionists by Rosie Thomas – a jolly romp through Victorian London theatre land. As I’m reading I am envisioning Clark Gable in the lead role alongside Warwick Davis and Jenna Coleman, plus my envisioning is in black and white and was made in 1939. I am on page 284 (of 513) and the obligatory reference to Jack the Ripper has just turned up.
Book on chair…
Meanwhile, I have finished this. I am not happy with it. It is suffering from Kolner Miniatum pucker…. meaning the surface of the gold is wrinkly; this is probably because I applied the miniatum too thickly – or because I didn’t breathe on it correctly and therefore introduced unnecessary moisture to the surface before applying the leaf. Ack. This is a fuzzy photo to deliberately disguise my shortcomings.
Finished….
I am happy with this though….
Addressed….
Until next time when I will have another book on a chair.
As it was sunny Charmaine brought the Rolls round to the front of the house in preparation for a trip to the seaside; after a buff and polish with Mr Sheen the old girl was ready for her first outing of the season. The sun shone, birds pooped on the windscreen, whilst Charmaine crunched gears, narrowly missed hitting small children and got her flip-flop caught on the accelerator. Finally we arrived at our destination in time for our first lesson in stone balancing…..
Well balanced…
Sadly, after believing I had a natural talent for this sort of thing I was expelled from the workshop. Apparently the use of superglue was not considered to be a viable option.
I returned to the Rolls to read my book, leaving Charmaine to frolic in the surf and hopefully dislodge the pebble that had balanced itself on her forehead.
After 5 hours of solid reading in variable light with no interruptions for ice cream, fish’n’chips, or anything cheerful, I finished the damn book. And it was a damn book. This one…
The Visitors
The Visitors by Sally Beauman. 540 words of misery; death; more misery; a bit of tragedy chucked in just to make it even more miserable; only one miserly paragraph alluding to sex; grumpy men looking for treasure; posh people stealing from Egyptian tombs; death; more death; typhoid; TB; DEATH. I think the book might have been about death. Set in the valley of the kings it was hardly going to be about the life and soul of the party [she was murdered early on]. Good grief. On the plus side it was extremely well written.
SO…. after finishing the book Charmaine drove me home, sans pebble but with an unsightly weeping wound on her forehead, where I decided that I should photograph this piece of work that has been gathering dust in my studio for the past two weeks begging to be finished….
Gold witterings…
I am slapping this picture in this post with the promise that I will finish this piece for next week’s blog post. AND THERE WILL BE A BLOG POST NEXT WEEK.
Dr. Clive Mutterfort DGM, MRCOG, MClinPscychol, MFFP, DCH, PhD, GCSE looked up from his colouring book and gestured for me to be seated on the Chesterfield sofa opposite his desk. After 30 minutes or so he packed away his crayons and gave me his full attention.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t appear to be relevant to this post; there seems to have been some sort of administrative cock-up.’ He said, rummaging through my medical notes, ‘Oh… hang on a moment…. there is this… it was delivered last week… it’s a meme from some chap called Mr Device, he’s requesting answers to some devilishly difficult questions in reference to your musical memories…. just relax and answer as truthfully as possible…. no need to answer with proper sentences or complicated grammar… just say the first thing that comes into your head.’
I leant back in the sofa, closed my eyes, and prepared myself for unconscious waffle. I heard Dr Mutterfort unscrewing his hip flask before asking, ‘What does music mean to you?‘
I frowned and concentrated hard. ‘Music can be a better representation of emotion than words… music reaches further than the mind.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ Asked Dr Mutterfort.
‘Yes, let’s not get too soppy…or philosophical.’
I heard Dr Mutterfort polishing his golf clubs, eating a blueberry muffin from M&S, and ironing a shirt. He was obviously thinking about Freud, but was desperate not to show it.
‘WHAT IS YOUR FIRST MUSIC RELATED MEMORY?’ Shouted Dr Mutterfort in my left ear, taking me completely by surprise.
…my mum had a portable record player, which was the size of a small suitcase. The speakers made up the lid and were detachable. It was possible to stack several records on the turntable so that when one had finished there was another ready to drop down to be played. I used to spend hours sitting on the sofa eating Opal Fruits whilst listening to records, Arthur Askey was a favourite along with Peter and the Wolf, Lady and the Tramp, and The Jungle Book.’
There was a long silence and I pondered whether Dr M had left the room.
‘Are you still there, Dr Mutterfort? DR MUTTERFORT????’
‘So sorry, my child, I had cottonwool stuffed in my ears, shall we move on swiftly to the next question….What was the first album you ever purchased yourself?‘
‘Do I have to say???? Really????? Do I have to??? Okay, well seeing as you asked it was David Essex. I bought it with my birthday money. To be fair I didn’t really like David Essex but my older sister did, and I bought it in an effort to appear grown up. I was 9. The track called ‘Window’ scared the living daylights out of me so as soon as ‘Gonna Make You a Star’ had finished I’d run to the record player and lift the needle to skip it….
….I think it must have been all the screaming at the end that chilled me and I….”
‘Yes, yes, yes… I think we get the idea, can we move on… what is the latest music you purchased?‘
‘One Strike by All Saints….’
I could hear Dr Mutterfort bopping around the consulting room. It was obvious that he was liking All Saints. Sounding out of breath he flopped back in the seat behind his desk before asking me the final question, ‘What is he very last song you listened to before writing this post?‘
‘Cake by the Ocean by DNCE…. it’s difficult not to hear this at the moment because it’s officially played on the radio after every ten minutes….
….and it features cake, so what’s not to love?’
I could hear Dr Mutterfort’s eyebrows creak as he raised them, ‘I don’t think it means actual cake.’ He replied.
I sighed, read through the post I’d just written, and wondered what Arthur Askey would have made of DNCE.
If anyone would like to do this Meme then please feel free to do so. Ay-Thang-Yaw.
Charmaine has returned home from her stint at being a genius crossword compiler. Apparently there was an ‘incident’ at Cousin Windsor’s [a right Batarde] that she will not speak of. Knowing my Cousin Windsor, trying to forget about it is the best way forward, and I will not press her further for information. With her she brought a picnic basket, which upon arrival she dumped in the hallway before ascending to her rightful place in my attic. Such a pity that in her absence the attic sprang a leak, so it came as no surprise to hear her shouting, screaming, and possibly stamping a bit before stomping back downstairs to disturb my revelry by bursting into my studio in an overtly stroppy manner.
‘What is the problem, child?’ I asked, barely looking up from whatever I was looking at.
‘The roof is leaking, all my clothes are soaked through and there is bird poo all over my vintage bakelite collection. And I bet you haven’t paid this?’
Charmaine stood in front of my desk waving a piece of paper. It was the electricity bill. I smiled wanly as the lights dimmed and then went out.
‘Obvously not,’ I said.
‘There’s nothing else for it, Aunt Scarlet, you’ll have to reopen the wedding calligraphy business, we can’t carry on living like this.’
And I said, ‘NO, NO, NO!’
I sighed, she did have a point, I had rather let things slide over the past five months, and it was true the roof was leaking, the paint was peeling and, much much worse than this, we were running out of gruel. Thankfully, at the back of my mind I had a spare plan.
I looked Charmaine up and down and considered how much money I could get for her if I advertised her dextrous skills on the right type of Internet site. She could look quite fetching in the dark, it suited her skin tone.
‘NO, NO, NO!’ Shrieked Charmaine as if reading my blog post over my shoulder as I typed.
‘Well, what do you suggest we do?’
‘These,’ said Charmaine, stabbing my latest creations with her stumpy index finger, ‘flog these, everybody loves a bit of gold and a bit of bling.’
Flog these???
‘How?’
‘Don’t worry, Aunt Scarlet, leave the marketing to me, I have ideas, and Asmodeus will help.’
With the hazy image of Asmodeus hanging in the air, Charmaine flounced out of my studio in a purposeful, determined, #girlboss sort of way. Who the hell was Asmodeus? I shook my head dismissively. The girl had obviously gone a bit peculiar, but still, her positive ‘can do’ attitude had made me feel uneasy. Cousin Windsor had obviously instilled these ideas, ideas that were well above her station, and possibly above the steeple at the end of the lane, which was very high above indeed. I shuddered in my seat and felt a little faint because if she was successful it would mean that I would [heaven forbid] have to work.
The evenings of my youth smelt of Jazz aftershave and tasted of Jack Daniels poured over chinkles of ice. Nothing much mattered except good lipstick, mascara, big hair and reciprocated urges. Thursdays officially marked the beginning of the weekend, when my friend Gina and I would see if we could club solidly for three nights in a row. I always think of Gina as my sophisticated side-kick – she really could suck the crème from an egg without smearing her lipstick. She always looked stunning in Miss Selfridge black lycra mini dresses and six-inch stilettos, whereas I preferred tight belted baggy trousers from Top Shop and ballerina pumps; she liked to pose, and I liked to dance. We were a good team, she could immediately attract and I would do the chatting. We never used to eat before going out, perhaps we’d share extra strong mints and a squirt of Goldspot spray in the back of the cab before we arrived at the club, but we’d usually be too hyped to eat food.
Anyhow, one night Gina had been force-fed a curry before coming out and she said that her stomach felt a bit grumbly but reckoned she’d feel better after a drink… so she drank… half a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Champagne, four glasses of house white, and two Crème de menthes [looks like washing up liquid, but pretty with a pink cocktail umbrella]. We left the club at about 2am and there were no cabs left, but I never minded walking home, I liked to burn off the buzz. Half way home and Gina began to complain that she needed the loo really badly. She was desperate. Busting. So although it meant taking a short-cut through a really dodgy estate, I said we could probably use the loos on the platform at the railway station. By the time we got there I also wanted to go, and being faster on foot than she, I dashed into the only working cubicle. Big mistake. When I came out something terrible had happened. On platform 2 of the railway station there was a perfectly round cow-pat. Still steaming. Very odd because we were in town. And Gina must have been knocked over by the cow because she was crouching on the floor staggering to get up….
Oh happy days. No CCTV back then. Only the station manager to contend with.
Iwas asleep at my desk, my head cushioned by my keyboard, when Harold flounced into my light and airy studio snapping a pair of castanets for no good reason other than he believed he was a flamenco dancer.
‘Why you do this, Madam Scarlet? Why you let stupid girl abuse pens? Is not right.’
I lifted my head from the keyboard leaving a thread of spittle connecting the s and the k.
‘Oh Harold, I’m tired of all this nonsense, you are a plumber from Southend-on-Sea; wearing a frilly crimplene blouson and a tight pair of lycra bell bottoms is not going to make you anything other.’
Harold snapped his castanets and pouted.
‘So, what’s the problem? What’s Charmaine done now?’
‘She is writing the modern calligraphy, she make letters look like spider ‘aving epileptic fit on paper. I come ‘ere with belief that Madam Scarlet teach traditional calligraphy.’
I glared at Harold. My head felt fuzzy.
‘Are you doing a French or Spanish accent today?’ I asked, wishing he’d just talk like a plumber.
‘You are mad woman. On first day ‘ere you say we must learn proper letter form and now you let stupid girl do what she like. What will ‘appen to the wonderful craft of calligraphy if no-one learn it proper? It will die out and no-one will know ‘ow to use pen; we will ‘ave nothing left of our calligraphy heritage other than childish scribble.’
Harold was looking puffed up and red in the face, so I glared at Harold some more, but with added swagger.
‘So what?’ I said, controversially, with a dash of evil in my eye.
As expected, my reply was like a red flag to a bull. Harold exploded in a Fandango, there was much fancy footwork, an enviable castanet technique featuring numerous redoble rolls, and an eye-watering misplacement of a maraca, which was unpredictable and belonged to an entirely different culture.
After reassembling the wooden floor, I dismissed Harold, dabbed the spittle from my keyboard, and pondered my latest calligraphy request – I had been asked to recreate an ancient village document with Gothic lettering and gold illumination. I smiled to myself, silly Harold, as if the wonderful craft of calligraphy would ever die out!! To be fair this request was probably beyond my remit, but thankfully I knew plenty of calligraphers [this highly talented one in particular] who would rise to the challenge. Horses for courses as they say.
I pushed my laptop to the side of my desk, it was time to get on with some occasional calligraphy of my own….
Wonky Words 
