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.' 

Phew!

The festive season snuck up on me. It sat in the shadows and watched for a while, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. I was vaguely aware of its presence. A twitch of whisker encouraged me to put up the decorations, the slight swish of a tail provoked the buying of wrapping paper, while a gentle growl reminded me to send what few cards needed to be sent. The first weeks of December passed without event, almost without notice.

The next few weeks made up for that! Bad weather, extra shifts to cover at work, sick boys to look after. All these factors conspired against me. Proposed shopping trips were cancelled, Internet orders were delayed, time was running out. The parcels under the tree were going to be very thin on the ground. Eeek!
     
And that's when, without warning, IT pounced! Catching me unawares it landed its full weight on top of me, forcing me to my knees. As its claws dug in I started to panic. A cold sweat of fear drenched my body. I avoided looking into its face, certain in the knowledge that I was unprepared and would have to suffer the consequences. Closing my eyes I waited for the inevitable.


A warm breath engulfed me, scented with brandied apples and cinnamon, clementines and cloves. The soft fuzziness of a hundred hugs enveloped me. I carefully opened one eye. Twinkling orbs filled with shared laughter met mine. Where was the hideous monster looking to punish me for my pitiful display of material love? Nowhere, that's where! Because although the madness of the festive season had pounced, the festive spirit had come to my rescue.


I chilled. I stopped looking at last order dates on stuff that no one wanted or needed. I confirmed arrangements to meet friends and family. I sent off my Christmas ornament swap to my swap partner Flaming Nora and received one from her.

The boys made their recovery, if not fully at least enough to enjoy themselves (with the added bonus of a few days off school). So Christmas Day dawned and while there were fewer gaily wrapped presents to pass amongst the gathered family, the gift of love was as bountiful as ever.


Hope you had a good one :o)

The Christmas Card Conundrum

The festive spirit is at last sneaking it's way in to our home. Last weekend I persuaded the boys to brave the cold of the loft and help me bring down the Christmas decorations.
Dressing the house for Christmas has always been my job. I'm not sure if its because the rest of the household really isn't that interested or if they know how much pleasure it gives me and want to see me happy ( I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter)   
Although it took me slightly longer than usual ( I lost the impetus on Sunday and didn't get it back until Tuesday! ) The tree is now trimmed......

...the wreath is at the door and the boys Santas are in their rightful place ( they made them when they were in nursery and are beginning to suffer slightly from the ravages of time).

With that job done I should be feeling the warm glow of contentment. Instead I am gripped by a clammy claw of dread. The next task I have to face is one of my least favourite of the season. The writing of Christmas cards! 

I spend almost as much time choosing them as I do Christmas presents, trying to marry up appropriate designs with the intended recipients. A lot of trouble for something that will be looked at briefly, put on display (something I've never managed to my satisfaction be they hung, strung or taped), then thrown out for recycling.

I hate to sound like a Scrooge but .... are they really necessary? I don't mean those that get sent to far flung friends and family ( you know, the ones with the accompanying letter filling everyone in on last years news), they are obviously a must. I mean the ones that get given to friends and neighbours. Surely if you see them often enough to hand deliver a card it would be just as easy to wish them a merry Christmas? It would be more sincere than some pre printed message signed underneath with what may or may not be your name, its difficult to tell by the fortieth card. And it could save a tree or two.

Ooh, I do sound a bit 'Bah, humbug' don't I? I don't mean it that way honestly. Let me explain. Due to the unsettling circumstances last year I struggled a bit to focus on the festive season, consequently I didn't get around to sending many cards. Strangely enough I didn't receive that many either. Now to me that seems to indicate card giving operates on a reciprocal basis, if you don't get you don't give! 

I made sure that everyone I met in the weeks leading up to Christmas were wished the best of the season. Later on I wrote a cheque for the amount I would have spent on cards and stamps and popped it in to one of the numerous charity envelopes I had received through the post.

So now here I am with some cards spread in front of me wondering what to do. Do I go back to my card sending ways or do I continue with a new tradition, regardless of how inauspiciously it began,  keep the cards to a minimum and send the saving to charity? Is being struck off a Christmas card list really such a bad thing?

"Aw naw, it's no snow is it?"........

These incredulous words burst forth from my number one sons mouth late yesterday afternoon, a testament to both his Scottish heritage and his advancing years. Gone was the childish delight in the dance of the frozen flakes, at times a sedate progress to the ground, at others a merry jig when the wind joined in. 

That youthful joy had been replaced by a rather adult concern " How am I going to get to school tomorrow? " 

His fears seemed unfounded as the brief flurry made hardly any impact and the light dusting had disappeared before we went to bed.

The rather strange glow in the house when I awoke at 4 this morning alerted me to the possibility that the earlier flurry had just been a teaser. I was right. This was the sight that greeted us this morning.

Number one son was not a happy boy! I could hear him grumbling all the way down the hill. 

Well, he can grumble all he likes. For my part I'm going to enjoy the rather tranquil view while it lasts ( it's melting as I type ) in the hope it will put me in a more festive mood.

If only it were tuppence a bag!

Ten years on and school mornings have become a kind of routine chaos. Each day I count down to the dawn chorus of "Mum, where's my.......?", the blank filled in by any number of mislaid items. The fact that I have been tidying away school books and paraphernalia, unceremoniously dumped the day before on the kitchen table, into the same wooden box for the last three years, or that blazers flung over the backs of chairs have been mysteriously making their way on to the coat rack for the same length of time, seems to have escaped their attention. 

Then comes the inevitable argument over whose tie is lying beside the computer.

"It's mine, I took it off and left it there last night." 

"No, you didn't. You put yours in your pocket on the way home yesterday. That tie is mine. "  

And so it goes on until I remind them they only have 20 minutes left to cycle to school. There follows a mad rush to stuff packed lunches in to bags, grab a pair of matching gloves and depart with a hurried kiss and a door slammed closed so hard it shakes the room. Its at this point I have to dash from the back door to the front, waving the forgotten lunch/bike lock/helmet at them in the hope of attracting their attention before they get too far down the hill.

Is it any wonder I look forward to the next 10 minutes of peace and quiet with a steaming cup of coffee before starting in on the chores of the day? 

Unfortunately, for the last few weeks that peace and quiet has been in short supply. No sooner have I taken my first sip of the reviving brew than the banging and scratching on the walls starts. Before you get the wrong idea and think I'm one of those people who complain about next door neighbours doing a bit of remodelling let me put your mind at ease. Firstly, since we've been guilty of a bit of remodelling in our time, and probably will be again, we would be ill advised to comment on any noise that accompanies such work. Secondly, we live in a detached house. 

The problem is however noisy neighbours.....of the feathered variety! Our cedar shingle clad house would appear to be the perfect hibernation spot for local arachnids and as such provides a veritable smorgasbord for our feather friends. 

The house is south facing so fortunately it is only the back of the house that gets covered in webs, because while I marvel at the construction I'm not overly happy with how untidy it looks! 

The scratching sounds are made as the birds try to get at the eight legged morsels, who are no doubt cowering ( I'm imagining six legs as arms wrapped around their heads with the other two legs knocking together at the knees) deep within the gaps where the shingles meet. 

The banging comes from a slightly different source.

A rather scruffy, juvenile great tit has taken to head butting the windows. At first I thought it was perhaps reacting aggressively to its reflection, thinking it was another bird. But as the days went by I began to notice that it appeared at windows around the house, usually when we were in the room. Was it following us? It then became a regular at the kitchen window just before breakfast and roughly lunchtime. An idea began to form in my mind.

I don't generally feed the birds during the summer. I operate on the principal that there should be enough natural resources for them at that time of year. Besides which the profusion of plants provides way too much cover for any wandering cat that chooses to lie in wait under the feeders. 

The last few weeks saw a dip in temperature and a couple of frosty mornings. Time for feeding season to begin. But I wasn't prepared. I had no fat balls, seeds or peanuts. The feeders remained empty. And that's when 'Wee Mental', as he has been nicknamed, started visiting.

Perhaps he is some sort of avian activist. After he has attracted our attention by butting the window a few times he usually flies off to some vantage point close by. There he sits and I am now imagining him tweeting "What do we want? Seeds! When do we want them? Now!" He is relentless (and definitely a candidate for any Alfred Hitchcock remake).

Anyway, feeling duly chastised I got some provisions. And none too soon it would seem. I filled the feeder just after the boys left for school. I heard some banging on the kitchen window just before 3 that afternoon and went through to investigate. Yup, there he was again, head butting away, drawing my attention once more to the feeder. This is all that was left.

And that's not including the fat balls. All I can say is I'm hoping for a mild winter!

(I know this picture is out of focus but it seems 'Wee Mental' is camera shy and would disappear every time I tried to photograph him at the window. This is the best I could do. He is in the top left hand corner. He actually looks a bit like a blue tit in this shot but he does have a black strip down his middle and his cap is getting darker) 

The perils of poor posture

Perfecting my posture has never been high on my list of priorities. A book is for burying your nose in whilst curled up in front of a fire, not balancing precariously on your head.

If the book isn't enough add a glass for that little extra risk factor

During my formative years the occasional volley of "don't slouch, stand up straight" was fired off in my general direction, only to be deflected by the wall of indifference erected by youth. I'd stand how I wanted to thank you very much!

Needless to say that wall gets torn down by experience and I'm now wondering how many times in the coming years I'll catch myself thinking, 'if only I'd listened'. 

While I escaped any long lasting effects from my teenage slump, years of carrying heavy bags full of textbooks, paperwork and assorted paraphernalia have left me with one shoulder higher than the other. Not a problem in itself ( except when I want to wear a strappy dress) but in the last few years I have discovered that, combined with poor sewing posture, it has lead to all sorts of curious complications.

The do's and don'ts of sewing machines

Two years ago I was experiencing some discomfort when breathing, so I went to visit my GP ( okay , okay so I left it for six weeks before I got around to making an appointment). I'd had pleurisy the year before and was convinced it was rearing its head again. Several tests later proved that while my lung capacity was indeed impaired it wasn't due to inflammation of the pleural lining. Hmmm. The pain wasn't easing any so my next port of call was the local osteopath. Five minutes in to the session she said, "Ah yes, here's the problem........"

Now before I go any further let me explain something. While I fully accept that I may not be the sharpest knife in the block, a realisation that was crippling when I first made it but have come to terms with over time,  I was fairly sure I am of average intelligence. So imagine how dumb I felt when she ended her statement with, ".....you've forgotten how to breathe!"

Wha...? How come someone forget how to breathe? That can't be possible, can it? Well, apparently it can. Sitting, incorrectly, at my sewing machine for periods of time had caused tension in my uneven shoulders. This led to pain in my ribs and in an attempt to alleviate it I had subconsciously stopped breathing from my diaphragm and was shallow breathing using muscles across my chest. Since they are usually only meant to be used as a back up when exercising (HA!) they had quite naturally become a bit irritated at being called in to do the bulk of the work.

A few retraining exercises later and I had my diaphragm back in on the act. Now all I had to do was correct my posture. I changed the height of my machine and my chair, and did what I could with the table. When hand sewing I made sure that I had a suitable support behind me. Problem solved.

Vintage advice, but still pertinent.

Or so I thought. Six weeks ago I began to get a strange sensation down my right arm. It felt as if cold water was constantly running down from my shoulder to my thumb. It later turned in to a persistent ache. I now have a tremor in my hand whenever I have to grip and exert pressure at the same time. It's made rotary cutting something of a challenge, and I don't even want to think about the amount of fabric that has suffered from the wibbly scissor syndrome.

My fine motor skills are slightly impaired and hand sewing is being kept to a minimum, mainly for the sake of my children's delicate ears ( I think I may have mentioned before that I'm not a patient patient) I'm having to type everything as my handwriting now appears to be the visual representation of a drunk spider learning to tap dance.

The cause of all of this disruption? A possible trapped nerve brought about by... you guessed it...poor posture while working. Looks like it's back to the drawing board for my machine set up.

And the moral to this rather long story? Well, fellow crafters, if there is a moral it would probably be this. Unless you want to give Charles Laughton a run for his money pay attention to how you work. Those little aches and pains are telling you to take a break and that maybe, just maybe, you need to balance a book on your head once in a while. 

Charles Laughton as the Hunchback of Notre Dame