An ever expanding list (Part 1)

Get a haircut.
Have a new passport photograph taken.


Two more items to be added to my mental list 'Tasks not to be undertaken by my teenage sons without adult supervision'.


I sent them out the other morning with those instructions. I thought I was helping with their personal growth, giving them some responsibility, encouraging them to make decisions on their own. In hindsight I should have known better. Their downfall didn't lie in the absence of ability but rather their lack of vanity.


Haircuts have never been high on the list of priorities, in fact for the first couple of years they weren't even an issue. The boys newborn auburn fuzz gave way to gossamer. Hair as soft as silk, as fine as spun silver. It would glow in the sunlight, a luminous halo above their cherubic faces.
It also meant they looked bald for the first 10 months! 


When it did eventually begin to sprout and darken we discovered that No 1 son had been blessed with what has become affectionately known as the 'bedlam barnet' ( or 'Muppet mop' on occasion). Of course, in the age old tradition of good cop bad cop, that meant No 2 son has hair that usually behaves impeccably.

Initially, and somewhat nervously, I dealt with the few curls that crept over their ears or nestled messily at their napes (The first ones cut are tied with a ribbon and kept in a small box. What can I say? I'm a sentimentalist!) But their hair became longer, thicker and beyond my dubious skills. Was it time to let someone else loose on their locks?


Enter the man of the house. With clippers. He's cut his own hair (or what's left of it) for years and after a bit of wrangling over which guard was to be used I agreed he could take over. So for the next four years they were bi-annually shorn like sheep. It worked really well in the summer, preparing them for the anticipated heatwave (snort!), but meant that winter attire always had to include a natty line in hats. 


If it got too untidy to wait for the next clipper session I took them to the 'Gents Hairdressers'. They liked it so much their dad was given the heave- ho.( I think it might have had something to do with the lollipop the barber would give them on the way out) 

It's an unassuming little establishment, set in off the street almost hidden from view, easily missed if it weren't for the barbers pole.


Walking through the door is like taking a step back in time. Not to the dim and distant past, just a decade.... or four:o) The floor is covered in vinyl, the pattern of which has long since been worn and scrubbed away. Two large barbers chairs, all shiny chrome, cream enamel and burgundy faux leather, take pride of place in the middle of the room. Since the proprietor is also the sole employee only one of the chairs is used. It's artificial ageing is a distant memory, the dark red worn to bright cherry, polished by countless posteriors.  


To the right, under the window, is a wooden bench. There is no appointment book made up weeks in advance, here you simply walk in, take a seat, and wait your turn (be it for a haircut, a fishing permit or to drop off your pools coupon). 
It will be a quick, no nonsense cut of the short back and sides variety, and no paying over the odds for fancy products or verbal inanities.(The barber, being born and bred in Moffat, probably knows more about you than you do yourself so has no need to ask if you're going on holiday. In fact she could probably tell you where, when and for how long you're going, and what the in flight film will be! ) 
To pass the time while you wait there is a choice of reading material in the corner, a couple of daily tabloids, invariably turned to the sports section, and a pile of old Dandy annuals (the boys love them). 


Sometimes though, when 'bedlam barnet's' curls and ringlets act up, slightly more styling is required. That's when I make them an appointment with my hairdresser. Which is what I did. And made the mistake of letting them go themselves! 


Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. Maybe I should have written it down. When I said, 'a haircut' No 1 son must have heard 'a hair cut' because that's apparently what he got. I could detect no discernible difference when he arrived home. I just wonder how he decided which hair to sacrifice?  
As to No 2 son, well what can I say. He came home looking like a Paul Weller tribute act! ( I'm sorry if that offends, but lets be honest here, for all his musical talent that man has never had a decent 'do )


So its back to the hat box for a few days until I can arrange another appointment, and this time I'll be going with them!


As for the passport photographs. Well.........

Rescue and refurbish

I should be able to get back to crafting by the end of next week and I can honestly say, for the first time in ages, my fingers are twitching to get started. I have no idea yet what they want to get started on, they don't keep me that well informed. I just know if I don't make something soon I'm going to pop ( I don't do explode - too much mess to clean up afterwards)


In preparation I have been squirrelling away some finds from the charity shop. When you can't make, hoard! Many people bring in textiles that aren't fit for resale but can get sent for recycling. The shop receives a donation for each bag they send off. We often have to decant the bags brought in by the public into sturdier pre-printed bags we have for transporting to recycling depots.


It was during this task, sorting through grubby net curtains, frayed towels and pobbley brushed nylon sheets that I came across these.

I took them out , checked them over, but could find nothing wrong with them other than the fact that they were slightly dated and the donor obviously thought no one would want them. 


Ha! I fell in love with them on the spot. Which was quite strange actually since they are so 'not me'. But that's the thing, I think I was drawn to the vintage novelty of them, if that makes sense. So I rescued them, measured them, priced them and bought them.  


I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do with them, the only thing I am sure of is that they will no longer be curtains. ( I say that but judging by past experience they are likely to remain in their present state for some time to come)


I few days later I arrived to start my shift and found this little treasure at the till point.

Can you tell what it is yet?

Perhaps if I open it up....

...add the trays....

...and flip down the sides?

A slightly shabby but fully working butlers table!

Well I couldn't resist. It just had to come home with me. With a little bit of TLC,(I'm still not sure whether to sand it down and wax it or paint it in some trendy colour. Any ideas?),it will be perfect in my workroom. I'm a bit of an untidy crafter. I invariably have half started, or worse still half finished, projects strewn across my worktable, taking up valuable space. It makes it increasingly difficult to lay out patterns or cut out fabric. 

This butlers table will give me somewhere to put works in progress, keeping my large table free of mess ( well that's the plan anyway:o)), with the added advantage of trays I can bring in to the house with me of an evening should I feel the need to continue some crafty endeavour.

I can't wait!

Ice!

There's a lot to be said for living at the top of a hill. Its quiet, there is little chance of flooding and the view is not obstructed by ariels and satellite dishes.

However, when a layer of ice covers every surface horizontal, vertical and all 90° in between....

 ....getting down off it can prove to be a bit problematic.

 A car won't manage, no matter how many wheels are driving, if it has nothing to grip on to! 

 A bicycle would just be folly ( although the boys seemed to manage it)....

.....and my walking boots didn't come equipped with crampons.

 How about a tea tray? I could pretend it was the skeleton....

 ...then again perhaps not. Maybe I'll just stay up here until it thaws.

 Now that seems like a plan I can work with :o)

Winter visitors

I've been unable to craft or blog much recently ( or catch up on all my blog reading!) for one reason or another. I hope to get back to it all soon but in the meantime I thought I'd share these with you. One of the things I love about the snow is the evidence our garden visitors leave behind :o)

After we had all come inside Billy, one of our resident badgers came out for a stroll.

After a tour of the garden he climbed the 15 stairs up to the balcony...

...had a little wander about ( I always imagine him doing this while humming tunelessly to himself)... 

...then left to let another visitor have a go.

They decided to stay for breakfast...

...and seemed a bit embarrassed at being caught in the act.

True or Faux

Sometimes a memory pounces on you with little or no provocation, like a frisky kitten after a short nap.


'They're aw fur coat and nae knickers!'


That was the snippet I overheard as I was walking past a gaggle of old dears the other day. And that's when the memory jumped me. I wasn't reminded of someone displaying false airs and graces, or even of a case when outward appearances had been deceptive. No. I was recalling a coat. A fur coat. My mothers knee length, mink coloured, musquash fur coat to be precise.

This isn't her coat (she's not quite sure what happened to it),but it does look very like the picture I carry of it in my head 

It was a luxurious coat, so thick and sleek it was impossible not to want to reach out and stroke it. I remember as a wee girl sneaking in to her room, opening the wardrobe, and burying my fingers deep into its silken pelts as I rubbed my face against it, back and forth, lost in its downy softness. Whenever she wore it I would get as close as possible, my face either nuzzling her sleeve or snuggling in to the skirts as we walked. 


But probably the most vivid memory I have of that coat is like something from a Billy Connolly sketch. It was the 10th of December and we had just moved house, only to discover that the previous occupant had pocketed the money my mum had given them to buy enough coal to see us through the coming week ( our arrival fell in the middle of the delivery schedule). The house was freezing, being unheated for two weeks prior to our arrival. My sister and I were to share a room and we set about unpacking every bit of bedding we could find. We went to bed wearing our night wear as well as extra cardigans, jumpers and at least two pairs of socks. It wasn't enough. Out came the coats and they were added to the pile of duvets and blankets. Ahh! But who would get the fur coat? An argument ensued in the midst of which I pulled out the top trump of being the pitiful little sister ( well, all's fair in war and fur coat procurement!).Needless to say I fell asleep cooried under its comforting weight, feeling slightly guilty, but more importantly warm :o) 


I'm afraid the coat spent most of its later life in a cupboard. It became very unacceptable to be seen wearing the fur of any animal, in some cases down right dangerous. Mum thought about a faux fur replacement but it wasn't the same. None she looked at were as soft, warm or inviting as the real deal. It was fur or nothing - she opted for nothing. That hasn't been the case for everyone though.


A couple of months ago I bought some velboa, a low pile faux fur fabric (try saying that when you've had a few!) that's meant to look like antelope hide. It's not a fabric that I usually go for but I wanted to try something a little different, and the antelope was the most subtle design I could find. Every handbag I have made from it so far has sold almost immediately. This is my latest one.

Faux fur definitely seems to have appeal. As far as I can tell you can get a fabric that replaces any kind of pelt or skin you can think of. Crocodile, snake, leopard and mink to name but a few. Even leather, suede and sheepskin have a fake alternative. It's quite obvious that we still love animal fur/skin (I think it must be primeval), but feel better about ourselves if we use a faux version. 

And this is where I come to a moral crossroads.

It is indeed reprehensible to breed and farm animals solely for their pelts. Yet I eat meat, fish and poultry, also bred and farmed, and have no intention of becoming a vegetarian. What is the difference between skin and flesh, and why do I feel so different about them?

While I agree that keeping these animals in cramped cages is deplorable, freeing them in to the wild is not always the answer. Non indigenous species play havoc with the balance of nature.  We have, at times, had our fish pond raided by mink , no doubt  descendants of those released at some point by a well intentioned but misguided activist. Would it be deemed acceptable if they were housed in a more humane environment?

Musquash, or Muskrat, in the wild

And what about all of those pelts that have already been used? I'll admit that I would love a vintage fur coat and occasionally have a look on line for one. Oh to be so warm and cosy! I like to justify that aspiration by saying that these animals were killed years ago, long before my time. I had nothing to do with it and don't condone any further killing.

Then again by wearing such a coat would I be saying I thought it was okay to wear fur, regardless of what age it was? Would I be guilty of perpetuating the desire for such products? But to my way of thinking even the use of faux fur panders to this desire. Should it be frowned upon too?

Just what is the problem with fur? Is its use vilified solely for humane reasons or does it smack slightly of the politics of envy?

So many questions! Which road do I take? And how can I be sure that the choice I make is because that's the path I want to travel down, not just the one it would be more politically correct to follow?  

A matter of taste.

"Oh I love your scarf. It's gorgeous," she said. " Where did you get it?"
"Thanks," I said as I fiddled with the fringes " It was a gift"
"Well whoever bought it for you has excellent taste."
"Yes, they do." 


That was the brief exchange I had at work last week and I've been pondering over it ever since. Excellent taste? Hmm, bit of an assumption to be made based on one scarf don't you think. Also fairly egotistical on my part to have agreed, the inference being that I also had good taste since I was wearing it. Just what is good taste anyway and who gets to decide?

Picasso quote pendant on Etsy

My dictionary defines taste as ' a person's tendency to like and dislike certain things'

Okay, so everyone has taste then.

It then goes on to elaborate  'taste: the ability to discern what is of good quality or of a high aesthetic standard'


Ah! Now that changes things somewhat doesn't it. While good quality might be quantifiable I can't help feeling that a 'high aesthetic standard' may be a bit more subjective. If nothing else, working in the shop has shown me how ludicrous that concept is. One mans junk is another mans treasure (and aren't all charity shops grateful for that!).


After a moudie around the interweb thingy most of the images I found would seem to indicate that our concept of good taste in all things is minimal, neutral, highbrow and expensive. 
Well I'm sorry but I'm just not buying it! Whats wrong with a bit of clutter and colour? Good taste can be cheerful and cheap too you know.  

My two closest friends and I have different tastes. One fills her house with some of the most amazing charity shop finds. I doubt if she has a minimalist bone in her body. Her home has more in it than I'm used to but it works for her. The other is far braver with colour than I am and has a very definite style that mirrors her confidence. She has a voracious appetite for books and buys them anywhere, caring little for authors and the prizes they've won, recommending them only as long as the story is good.

I like to think of us as sine waves on an oscilloscope. Occasionally our wavelengths cross, we find a pair of shoes/painting/music that we both like, but in general we are more than happy to merely appreciate the others choices, offer admiring comments while continuing to travel our own path.

So what does that say other than our tastes are complimentary? Are they good, bad or merely mediocre?  What do our tastes reveal about us, if anything? 

Blue - more than just a colour.

I really struggle at this time of year. 


I used to put it down to the end of the festivities. An excess of socialising had left me tired, exposed to numerous bugs and viruses and seeking solitude. Removing the twinkling lights and tinsel was bound to make everything look dull and uninteresting. A fortnight's diet of rich food was enough to make anyone crave simple pasta dishes and uncomplicated carbohydrates. And after all the hype and excitement in December it was understandable if it was replaced by a certain amount of lethargy in January and February.

I would go in to a sort of 'semi hibernation', sleeping longer, avoiding company and rarely leaving the house. Well if some animals could do it why shouldn't I? Okay, so not much was achieved for two months but I would emerge at the end of March ready to face anything. Surely that wasn't a problem, was it?


A few years ago a friend came to visit me in the middle of my hibernation.
"This is sad you know." she said
"Well a bit unconventional perhaps, but I wouldn't have said sad exactly." I replied
"No, I mean this is S.A.D., Seasonal Affective Disorder. Loads of people suffer from it, but there are things you can do to help alleviate the symptoms"


When she left I summoned up enough energy to have a little Google and see what I could find out about S.A.D. and just how to beat these winter blues. Logically it all made sense. Unfortunately there are times when logic is of absolutely no use whatsoever, unless you happen to be a Vulcan and have your emotions firmly under control. 


Any time I see the word 'depression' logic takes a back seat. 


I suffered a mild case of post natal depression after the boys were born. It took me three months to admit it though. My head knew that the way I was feeling was due to hormones running amok. My emotions on the other hand had me convinced it was because I was a failure as a mother already. I would make a terrible job of bringing up my children if I couldn't even cope at the beginning. If I asked for help I would be admitting defeat and letting everyone know just how useless I was. Fortunately very supportive family and friends got me through it.


Now, according to these articles, it would appear I'm so weak I can't even cope with a change of season without becoming depressed. I'm a failure at getting through the winter!  Yup, those emotions completely failed to register the bits about lack of sunlight, melatonin levels, serotonin levels, you know all the stuff that proves there is a biological reason for feeling the way I do.  


Friends and family came to the rescue once more. Logic was forced back in to the drivers seat and I've taken steps to make winter as bearable as possible. Blinds have been taken down and curtains are open as wide as they'll go to let as much light as mother nature can manage( and to be honest I think some days she could try harder) in to the house. That's been supplemented with a light box and a daily dose of vitamin D. My work table, should I ever get around to actually doing any, has been moved closer to the window. 
I'm back to working two days a week so I have no option but to socialise, while the walk to work gets me out into the light and provides some exercise ( yes I know I should be doing more but hey, baby steps!)


I'm not going to lie and say I've got it completely beaten but, as with most things, once you recognise the problem and admit to having one it no longer has the upper hand. And we all need a little help sometimes. As Eeyore says...

'We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it.'