An ever expanding list (part 2)

Passports!


Well, passport photo's to be precise. I have yet to meet anyone, correction, any woman who is happy with her passport photograph. It offends our sensibilities and seriously messes with our self esteem. Not surprising really, that unsmiling stare doesn't do much for anyone. Mine usually makes me look like a combination of deranged psychopath and the intellectually challenged. Although to be fair after an early morning/late evening start, a three hour wait in an uncomfortable airport, a flight of however many hours in a less than spacious plane serving dubious 'food' it could be said that it's probably doing me some favours :o/

With that being said, while I wasn't expecting the boys to come back with shots that made them look like the next teen heart throbs, I was hoping for ones that wouldn't make me want to be standing three aisles away, looking in the opposite direction during check in.


It was so much easier when they were younger. Perhaps easy is not the right word. While I completely understand the need for children to have their own passports (although can't quite get my head around why only lasting for half as long as an adult one they cost more than half the price!) did anyone at the identity and passport service actually stop to think how difficult it was going to be for parents to get an acceptable photograph of their infant?


I was fortunate. The boys were nearly two and a half before we were invited to join their grandparents on holiday. I dutifully set off, with the help of my mother-in-law, to obtain the appropriate images. After two aborted attempts at the photo booth it became apparent professional help was required. Down a little side street in Dumfries we came across a photographers that was open. In amongst all of the wedding and Gala day shots in the window was a sign advertising passport photographs. Result!


The door had one of those springy bells hanging above us that jingled as we entered. It was quite dark inside since all of the windows had been blanked out with black velvet, the perfect backdrop to the pictures on display within them. A door creaked at the back of the room. I looked at my mother-in-law at the same time as she turned to me. The door creaked again. Okaaaay. So that was a bit spooky! The door opened a bit further and then, with a violent pull, it was opened to its full extent revealing a small woman, dressed in a high necked blouse and long skirt, who must have been about a hundred and three. For some reason  Arsenic and Old Lace immediately came to mind.

Feeling a bit like a landed fish, mouth wordlessly open and gasping I eventually got out the usual pleasantries and explained what we were there for. Full of a charm and grace that is sadly missing in most receptionists these days she informed us that yes, indeed we would be able to get passport photographs of the boys taken that day and ushered us in to the studio. 


It was much lighter in there, white back drops and bright lights creating the illusion of daylight. I was expecting to see the photographer in a corner doing something technical with a light meter and lenses so was completely at a loss when this tiny little woman, wearing orthopaedic braces on both wrists started manhandling a tripod with a camera on top across the room. I looked to my mother-in-law again. She looked back with a raised eye brow that would have done Spock proud.


It transpired the receptionist was the mother of the photographer, who not only minded the shop but could also fill in for him when he wasn't around. She fussed and tutted for a few moments murmuring to herself, leading me to question her suitability for the job in hand.She then proceeded with a strange bird like efficiency to position the boys just so, and somehow managed to get them to stay that way while she took the photographs. Which was a good job really since she wasn't using a digital camera but rather a passport specific instant Polaroid ( producing four identical images on one sheet).


She did however have a problem pulling the paper from the camera, eventually enlisting my help with the procedure. At this point my mother-in-law and I silently, almost telepathically, agreed not to look at one another again in case we offended the old dear by collapsing on the floor in a fit of the giggles.

No 1 son looking suitably worried, as every innocent person going through customs usually looks

No 2 son couldn't help a small smile, it's in his nature, and at the age of  2 is excusable.

Fortunately for my peace of mind by the time the boys next passports were due the local chemist was offering a photograph service. I don't think I could have kept my face straight if I'd had to see her again. 


This years upcoming school trip to Belgium meant another renewal was required. I sent the boys off, stupidly thinking they would be capable of obtaining a decent photograph themselves. Vanity thy name is woman, because its glaringly obvious it doesn't belong to my teenage boys .


They both came home with mug shots that any police file would be proud to sport. All that was missing were height lines and serial numbers along the bottom. No 2 son looked like an ASBO waiting to happen, complete with hoodie, one that he had only been allowed to wear under the explicit instruction it was removed before any camera made an appearance. 
No 1 son on the other hand had excelled himself. He looked like some sort of drug dealer that had sampled too much of his own product.If I hadn't been so taken aback I would have been impressed. What was even scarier was that the assistant had asked them to check the images before she printed them off and they hadn't see anything wrong with them! Geesh!


I met them from school the other week, oversaw the new haircut, frogmarched them back to the chemist and had new photographs taken. Looks like the independence is going to have to wait a while. Either that or I'm going to have to learn to relax:o)

Avian antics

The expected return to the workroom the other week didn't materialise. Boooo! Why is it that the only time you have a burning desire to do something is the very time when you are unable to do it? The contrariness of human nature I suppose ...... or it could just be me.


The upshot of my further delayed return is that I have no new projects or finished products to show you. What I do have is a short video. You may remember me telling you about Wee Mental a few months ago. A scruffy little bird that had taken to battering at the kitchen window. Well he has been a constant visitor throughout the winter and I managed to capture his antics on film the other day.

He does this at least 6 times a day for about a minute and a half on average. He doesn't limit it to the kitchen window either. There is food aplenty outside, there are no spiders on the glass so I'm not entirely sure what he is hoping to achieve. It's quite possible, after so many blows to the beak, that he can't remember what he's trying to achieve either. But it's entertaining nonetheless and I've come to expect his visits, often stopping whatever housework I'm engaged in to watch him (as if I need an excuse!).


I started uploading this post a few days ago and I'm sad to report that I haven't been visited for the last three days. My hope is that Wee Mental is otherwise occupied. It is Spring after all and he may be too busy impressing the ladies to pop round and entertain me. Thats what I'm telling myself anyway :O(

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?