Conversation piece

January has been a bit draggy, scraggy and irritating... a bit like me 

At the beginning of the month I started a conversation with a very beautiful woman, I asked her what she was expecting for this coming year. She said that after more than 40 years of marriage to a beautiful but awful man - who'd made her feel worthless and ugly, she'd just finished divorcing him. She'd walked away from the beautiful house and beautiful garden, the beautiful cars and she was quite detailed about the beautiful furniture she'd left behind. Interestingly the one thing she'd kept was his beautiful name, which had been the thing that had made me start talking to her.

The Wee Willie Winkie Robber

Our house is situated on a crossroads, halfway down a hill. A wonky street light outside our gate is where people gather to sing songs, gossip and plan criminal activity. Over the road is patch of grass where general noise-makers like to set up shop and opposite our house is a big high wall - last year, a car of pink balaclava'd drug-stealers drove a stolen car into it and smashed it all down.* 

There's a squeaky front gate then a little patch of concrete before the steps up to our front door, by the side of the steps is a little nook to get to the side gate, Here's an inaccurate picture of our house

Dogs and people like using the little side nook as a toilet, to do drugs and have sex. The wall by the nook has a thick thatch of ivy where burglars like to park the tools of their trade, best scores so far are several bolt cutters and a heavy duty iron trolley.

Outside our squeaky gate the ivy rampages up the street light sending out prongs of vegetation to attack people walking by. Last week while giving the ivy a trim my shears hit tinny metal, I pulled out a brass candle holder, like the one Wee Willie Winkie used, it had a candle stump in it. I've bought it in and cleaned it off - it's a cheap, scarred little thing, it doesn't look like the spoils of a heist so I'm wondering if it's another burglary tool - maybe an old-school cat-burglar who hasn't heard about modern torches yet.

* two weeks ago - exactly a year after that the wall was smashed down - a bobble-hatted man and a skinny lad, turned up and built the wall back up. It was finished yesterday, a shiny big car pulled up next to it and a spivvy character in a suit and dark glasses got out, inspected the wall and signed it off as satisfactory.

 

Apple Time - Slug Time - Brazilians

Mabon is the pagan celebration of the autumn equinox, the image associated with this holiday is a fruitful apple tree. My apple tree was fruitful to a ridiculous degree this year, I can't collect them and give them away fast enough so the slugs have been pouring into the garden. Going into the garden at the moment is a squidgy affair.

After the Great Flood I needed help - mainly to fix the electrics and the roof. The electrician offered to send some Brazilians my way, they had just finished working on a big building project and were looking for employment.

My current Brazilian is very attractive, last week he was making things nice up inworking on the roof, he speaks barely any English and we both have enough  Spanish to ensure a continuous stream of misunderstandings. He arrives in the morning, I suggest 'Te o Cafe?' and he beams nodding enthusiastically 'Chocolat - si si si!!!' 

At midday Alejandra brings down his packed lunch and I make myself a sandwich then we sit in the garden looking at all the apples and slugs and he tells me about the numerous offspring he has seeded around the world, he sees my face and beams  'I can't help, I Brazilian...'

Exhibition alert!

I lurk around noticeboards, if you click on the 'small ads' tag at the end of this post a host of posts around the subject will arrive.

These public notices are short stories, often poignant, sometimes funny, sometimes sad -  they are an illustration of our society, describing loneliness and need. They show us who is vulnerable, and how labour is valued . 

There's a lot of everyday sexism in these places. I've not yet seen an ad where a woman offers a man a place to sleep in return for managing her home maintenance and social needs.

I've done an exhibition about this

 it is on in London at postROOM,

41 Ecclesbourne rd N1 3AF 

open from Thurs 25th May - 17 June

open thurs - sat 2-6pm

more about this project can be found on my other website

This is a drawing of last nights dream

 

Yesterday I drew a circle around a 'situations vacant' ad for a  'Senior Odour Consultant' 

Then I went to our local pub and  overheard someone explaining about biometrics, that her sister has a car that she can open without a key because the door handle can read her fingerprints, the person listening looked puzzled - So how does she start it up, does she have to lick the steering wheel?

 

Knitting and drugs

 

 

This morning our local church hosted the Community Keeping Active Christmas Luncheon*.   

For the luncheon I made a stack of salmon and cucumber sandwiches and carried them carefully up the steep hill to the church hall, I was a little late and the room was already buzzing with ladies in lavender twinsets arranging platters of quiche and sausage rolls. The men were all in properly smart suits with ties and Good Shoes. Here I learned quite a lot about the French and English yarn industries (genuinely fascinating) and  also more than I needed to know about badminton and exercise schedules.

After lunch  I went back down the hill, beyond my house and further on down until I arrived at the very glorious tattoo parlour where Frank, my current houseguest is working, I had been invited for a tour and was not going to turn down this educative opportunity. Frank used to be female, he has a lot of tattoos and  an impressive reputation for his work. He's not too keen on doing the sort of tattoos that people want him to do** but we all have to make a living.  Artwork was pinned up around each person's work station - someone was very keen on scenes depicting Egyptian sphinxes and Aztec gods overlooking landscapes of brightly coloured limbs climbing out of holes bearing bodily organs.

My afternoon learning was mainly about which drugs inspired what sort of artwork and also to be careful  about getting too popular for the work you do during the more transient phases of your life.

 

* I am currently living my life backwards: last week the church hosted the Community New Year Party  

**  wolves howling at psychedelic moons,  weeping faces ....

Drug Drama

Our plane back from Turkey landed at midnight, it was after 3am by the time the taxi dropped us home and we sleep-walked the last few yards to our front gate so we only partially registered the sea of scattered rocks in the road outside our house.  

Waking in daylight, the view outside our bedroom was alarming. We live on a steep hill at a crossroads, the house opposite is considerably higher than us and a tall Scots Pine dominates the space in their little front garden. This massive tree is surrounded and supported by a chunky stone wall and is a much-loved feature of the neighbourhood. The downhill part of the supporting wall was now collapsed, stones, shrubs and earth spread over the road and pavement beneath, the tree looking very precarious.

Our next-door neighbour had seen the whole episode, he'd been at his upper window the day before when a car rocketed over from the road opposite, smashing into the wall with a force that rocked our houses. Two men in pink balaclavas were trying to get out of the front of the car and yelling to each other about 'getting the f***ing food'. The cars air bags had inflated which added comedy to the scene. People were coming out of their houses trying to offer help and the drama was further enhanced when a large gangster-looking chap strolled down the road from the direction the car had come, the balaclava boys clocked him and ran off in opposite directions. The big guy went to the car, took out bags of what must be assumed were the 'f***ing food' and headed back in the direction he came. 

My neighbour tells me that 'Food' is code for drugs - his interpretation of the scene is that the balaclava boys had stolen a car to pull a heist on our friendly neighboorhood drug baron and it had hadn't really worked out for them. It didn't work out for the poor guy whose car was stolen either, nor the tree, nor the people in the house with the tree.

PS: The  BBC tv comedy/drama series called Outlaws was filmed in our neighbourhood, we were quite grumpy about the disruption at the time but loved the series and seeing our house in the ariel shots.

Seems it's on Amazon now - here's a trailer

There are Young Men in my house

 

They are on tour with the Lion King - a cause for huge excitement around here.   

Offstage man is slight and seemingly quiet, he nibbles on the edge of a pizza or takes little bit of ham sometimes, he has set up a keyboard in his room and before they set off for the theatre he belts out a show tune to set the mood

Onstage man eats like a carnivorous horse, cooking up huge quantities of chicken at midnight to power him through the next 24 hours, he tells me he undergoes 20 costume changes at each performance of which there are 9 per week.

Last week I was given a ticket so I could see where all that chicken gets spent

The performers come on and off stage at a dizzying rate wearing costumes that range from spray-on-almost-nothing to magnificent puppet-costumes with people balancing inside a towering construction on uneven stilts or bouncing around in lumpy body bags with spring-loaded heads. Sometimes a person will stroll across stage pushing a little animal-trolley like they're delivering in-flight drinks 

The finale consists of a triumphant parade, colourful paper birds swoop overhead as the animals assemble singing heartily, making it all look fun and easy. I can see my boy half-bent over inside a giraffe, his face framed by a circular hole in the animal's neck, the grin on his face looks like his life depends on it.

Access all areas.

 

Earlier this year I was getting ready to head out to work when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to see a young woman backing rapidly away while talking to me through her mask. She was out-of-sorts maybe not sober maybe upset, I didn't think I'd seen her before (but I have poor facial recognition skills and regularly blank old friends in the street). 

What with the mask and the distance she had put between us and her distress and my confusion, it took a while to understand that she was asking to borrow a ladder because she was trying to get into a flat in the house next door and her key wasn't working. I live in a row of tall old houses which have a storey below the front pavement level.  Spear-tipped railings  along the front of the houses protect people on the pavement from falling 20 foot into this cellar well. 

The woman wanted access to the first floor flat and had a mad plan of balancing the ladder from the railings, across the deep drop and up to the windowsill of the flat that she wanted access to.

She looked a bit frail. I always seem to think I am obliged to do everything that is asked of me so I realised that I couldn't just hand over the ladder, I'd have to do the death-balancing thing and the breaking-in thing because somehow whatever befell her would be my responsibility.

To stall, I stayed at the door listening while she kept talking, going over her story and I realised that I wasn't convinced - had she been locked out by a dastardly lover or was she a burglar with an unusual MO? maybe her story was a bit true - there was definitely something else going on and I really didn't want to pull on that thread. I said I didn't have a ladder and suggested she find a locksmith, I wished her luck and continued on out to work, the image and the mystery of her went with me.

Last week I answered the door to a woman asking to borrow my ladder to gain access to her flat because 'her key wouldn't work', she was the same sort of age and hair type as the first woman but this woman said she lived in the basement flat I remembered chatting with her through the hedge in the summer when we were both outside gardening but we were hidden from each other by all the leafiness, I remembered she was called Martha and Martha's plan was to lower my ladder over the railings into the basement, her boyfriend would climb down and hope he could access though there. I gave her the ladder, the boyfriend tried, failed and was stuck in the cellar until a locksmith came.

Yesterday afternoon I answered the door to a young man in a towelling bath robe. He wanted to borrow my ladder to get into the first floor flat - he had locked himself out. His plan was a lot better than the first woman - he said that he had no idea who she might have been, he seemed sober and he knew Martha, Martha had told him that I had a great ladder and would hand it over to anyone who asked for it.

naked sunbathing

 

I'm loving all the gorgeous nude trees brandishing their limbs in the sunshine at this time of year. I'm particularly feeling kinship with all those feisty pollarded trees raising their knobbly fists in protest.

Today we are remembering Sarah Everard, a man kidnapped and killed her because she had the gall to go out walking by herself. In today's Guardian Marina Hyde wrote about a normal everyday walk to her son's school, a day that included the sort of encounter that has happened to me more often than I want to remember, Hyde describes how we usually deal with this kind of encounter

'... I genuinely forget about these things soon after they happen... Should have just tied a weight round it and sent it to sleep with the fishes, with all the other ones. The healthy option.'

Spider with Yumen Zed

Yesterday I passed a man telling a small boy that he was 'getting spider with yuman zed' -  my first thought was that this was must be a new and interesting foodstuff - maybe on the takeaway menu at Wagamama. Lockdown has made me obsess about food even more than usual so it was a bit disappointing to realise a few seconds later that the man was actually telling the boy that he would be getting 'a spider with a human head' and I think that sounds too big to eat. 

Maybe I'm just making up excuses,  I buy sheep and deer from the butcher, I hardly think a human-headed spider would be much bigger than these creatures, if they do arrive on the market, portion size is probably not going to be the main issue.

 

In other news

This morning I set fire to the vaccuum cleaner after hoovering up warm ashes - the smell was far worse than I could've imagined

I still swim in the sea but only for 5 minutes because it's reached the sort of cold that makes a person go completely crispy  - in the way of those lettuces that get stuck at the back of a fridge

A dog fox has been patrolling our neighbourhood every night for the last week making a noise that sounds like a queaky-toy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Food Foraging in the Time of Covid

is fraught with issues, I scope out shops with small queues. A bakery/coffee shop near my house sells sublime olivey-cheesy twists. Windows too fogged up to see inside,  I have to open the door to check the territory; two masked women clearly waiting their turn, to the side a man,  his queuing status unclear. My specs as fogged as the windows I ask him if he's queuing - no response,  the man is not wearing a mask but does have headphones, he stands,  swaying, mute and I realise that he must have teleported his mind to another planet.

Statue Wars

Last month, shortly after Edward Colston the Slaver was pulled off his plinth and dumped in Bristol's city dock the Mayor sent a dawn crew to dredge him out of the water and haul him off to a secure holding place. First thing the following day a fat concrete bloke, wedged in a wheelie bin was parked next to Ed's empty plinth. By dawn the next day the Binman had disappeared.

The weeks passed, no plinth action - until -  4am last Wednesday the famous sculptor Marc Quinn came down from London with a big crew and cranes and ropes and tv cameras to install a 3d printed effigy of Jen Reid, the woman who had climbed onto the plinth as soon as Edward Colston fell off it. The image of her punching the air had circulated around the world, Quinn and many others saw this as an iconic moment and this sculpture was christened 'A Surge of Power'.  All of Bristol was agog and flocked to see Jen and take pictures, to praise or complain and argue about whether or not this was actual history or just fake history.

By dawn the next day, the Mayor's crew had removed Jen, putting her alongside Ed and the Binman. Marc Quinn had not been invited to interfere with our plinth and Bristol should decide its fate democratically.

Good luck with that - but the bar has been set and I am looking forward to the next contender.

The Covid days have provoked

an explosion of creativity here in Bristol, local food suppliers trying to maintain their livliehood are outdoing themselves by redesignating themselves as caberet artistes/gourmet-food-deliveristes - I have ordered a wine delivery with added ukelele, there's a magic-trick vegetable person and ... my personal favourite - Disco Hummus, shiny bomber-jacketed folk in spangled flares, sound-tracked by Saturday Night Fever as they hip-wiggle their way up the street to deliver a vegetarian party

Shopping these days

Grocery shopping in the  Melt Lock Down era  has gone a bit 'underworld'. Neighbours tip each other off about ways to get supplies without standing in long queues outside shops.

an email from a friend says she lives next door to a fishmonger, he could make local deliveries, should she pass my details - I said YES!! 

Thursday afternoon
Pete-the-Fish calls
I can deliver tomorrow what do you want?  

I place an order

Saturday evening
I'm in pajamas, supper eaten, a glass or two drunk, think it might be time for bed.
Phone rings -  Pete-the-Fish

I'm coming down the road with your haddock, meet me outside your house and bring a tenner

Scrambled, I can't find shoes so walk outside barefoot. A man walking towards me is holding a net in front of himself, he throws a bag on the road and tells me to drop my tenner in the net.

I do all this as though it is a completely normal sort of transaction

We can't buy flowers for funerals

The emergency regulations put in place due to Covid-19  means that we can no longer get flowers or a professional florist for our funerals. Yesterday we needed to create a funeral for a man who had died from cancer. The only attendees allowed in to this little service were his wife and young children.

We prepared the room, the coffin placed centrally and devoid of decoration was stark. We put a request on social media asking if anyone local had something in their gardens that they could spare. Our neighbours were truly wonderful and contributed whatever they could find,  some bringing just one or two blooms and some fronds of foliage. The effect of that kindness on the four bereft people was beyond what any amount of professionally orchestrated garlands could have achieved.

the outside lake is nearly at zero degrees warm

 I still go there for a swim when I can.

My neighbour Simon hears voices and loves Jesus, he  prints out 'Jesus is Great' leaflets and goes out campaigning vigorously for his man.

Lately Simon has taken to dancing in the street. Most mornings at 10, with headphones on, he marches down to busy a traffic intersection and dances among the traffic for all he's worth. He's happier than I've ever seen him, if he sees me, he comes over to put the headphones on me so I can hear what he's raving to.

Yesterday, I packed my bags for a swim in the lake and as I walked over to the car Simon was coming up the street in his dancing gear, I said, Have a nice dance Simon, I'm off to the lake for a swim. Simon passed me his headphones so I could listen to a bit of Bob Marley, then he called me a F***ing nutter and went on his way.

An intense odour filled the bedroom

in the early hours this morning - the sort of scent I associate with perfumed fabric conditioners. I lay still, concentrating and  trying to work out where this smell was coming from. I did an imaginative olfactory tour of the smelly items in the bathroom that might have exploded but none of our soaps, shampoos or shaving foams smell like this.

Something was preventing me from getting out of bed to have a look but I finally decided that the smell was coming from outside the house, the only rational explanation being that youths no longer disturb the peace by shouting and spraying grafitti, these boys have grown wings and are going round puffing perfume through people's windows.

how often does a thing have to happen before it becomes a Tradition?

I'm thinking at least twice.

This is my second year of getting involved with coffins around Halloween time. This time last year I was decorating some very modern bio-plastic 'Koffins' in Liverpool. This year  my 'coffin project' was to find/make a 'Bristol Coffin' for my neighbourhood funeral parlour*  - locally made from a sustainable wood source, one that will be no more expensive than the eco-nasty-cheapie MDF coffins sold by most funeral directors.

My investigation discovered a wood recycling yard near my swimming lake that is already making inexpensive coffins from reclaimed pallet planks, they will modify the design slightly to make them a little sleeker - I expect to display a photo here before too long.

Other things that have happened recently

1) The Man went to Utah to visit Bryce Canyon National Park, which is full of geological formations known as Hoodoos. He was hosted by a Mormon couple who sent him home loaded with gifts for me, these included:
a tiny white origami box filled with dried, sliced plums
a soap made from home-milked goats milk
a very beautiful oil painting of an evening landscape

2)  I bought some new everyday shoes to replace my very-old-and-collapsed everyday shoes, they are a bit hard though and the breaking-in process is making my feet bleed

3) *I have a part-time job as a Parlour Maid

I've joined a social network for our local area

Mainly it's used to exchange news about cleaners, coffee mornings and car break-ins but sometimes people post sightings of a naked man running away from a police helicopter or a man walking around with a burning shed on his head and sometimes a great row breaks out. Yesterday, Bob posted about the guinea pigs that he keeps in his garden being eaten by foxes. This is the second batch of guinea pigs that Bob's lost to foxes, he claims that he sees 'tens of foxes regularly in the garden' a fact that he blames on the community leaving out food for them.

Here's an extract from his original post ... and the best response

BOB 

STOP FEEDING THE FOXES

We have just had our four beloved rescue guinea pigs killed by a fox ... there have been rumours of someone feeding the foxes ... if this is you or someone you know then please please stop... it’s just inconsiderate and evil. If you’re that desperate to feed an animal how about you get a bird feeder? They were our truly loved and cherished herd and I can’t believe that they are gone by such a selfish and uncaring action.    

Response from Edward

You have sort of left food out for the foxes though...