Festive cheer?

Christmas has never felt so far away, and I have never wrapped presents feeling so tired. Outside the snow, or sleet, has begun, Sinatra and Bing are hijacking every radio station, and the sellotape is speedily selling out, but it's still a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Because to be honest, Christmas can't help just being another day on which we are all human beings, and so normal amounts of people end up headachey, have appendicitus, have a house fire, and far more than normal prbably throw up, but then Christmas is ruined because we all heap so much expectation on that one day.

24 hours like any other as far as our bodies are concerned. Last year I was so tired by the time the big day itself finally rolled round I fell sound asleep in front of the doctor who Christmas special. Another time the oven broke, and we ended up eating turkey at 5. On your average saturday these would not be an issue, a good thing as far as the nap goes, and would be forgotten in a day. Yet becuase they just happened to fall on December the 25th, they remain ingrained in my mind as fluctuations from the set xmas routines.

So this year I'm going to get it perfectly right, by getting it wrong. Christmas will be a day for relaxing, whatever goes wrong, and as an annual lover of tradition, festive food, and the inevitable boardgames, this will be a hard challenge.
Because as scroogey as I sound (and I am probably just in need of a night's sleep before i'll be bopping alone, sprouting tinsel and good cheer like the rest of the country) I love Christmas. Lucky, then, that we're going away, so that if it all goes peep Tom, and I fail to stick to my it-doesn't-matter-it's-just-a-day resolution, I'll have some other family to blame.

Recipe number 1 - melty chocolate pudding

This took a few disasters to get it right, but the final one is quick and tastes like the real thing! Really good with cream...

1 mug serves two people - ate this with a friend and we were both full by the end!

In a really big mug (or it overflows, believe me!) mug whisk an egg, around 3 big spoons of milk and 3 more of oil. in a seperate bowl mix 3 big spoons of sugar (brown or white, whatever you have), 4 of self-raising flour, and 2 of cocao powder (we have the really strong green and blacks one). Add the dry ingredients to the mug and stir it all round a bit. Push a few squares of chocolate into the middle to make a melty centre, and cook for 2 minutes on 850w, or the equivilent on your microwave. Add some cream and eat whilst hot!

A few things I love more than ever this autumn

Lovers Walk. I pass it every day, but it never fails to amaze me with the red and oranges it displays in october. But I'm taking special care this year to drink it all in, notice every leaf and colour, because this could be one of the last times I see it like this for a few years...

There is something about autumn light, aumtumn sunsets. This was the view from the roof of my house last night:

 



A three year old I was picking up from nursery ran ahead and found a present for me on thursday. I nearly just subtly popped it on the ground, but something made me stop, and now it is sitting, probably rotting, on my desk. But I don't really care, because a bright fallen leaf is a nice present to get, as far as presents go.

Outside my dad's house, Oxfordshire

 

But my favourite part of the Autumn is the mornings. The first breath of air outside the front door, before December's chill, puts me in such a good mood for the rest of the day. And I am determined to be in a good mood all of this Autumn - after all, it's my last one as a child, so I will never get another change to kick clouds of leaves up into the air as I walk.

autumn, poetry and not nearly enough time

I am still alive, believe it or not. I have had the craziest few months I can remember for a long time, and so my poor blog has been forgotten under the endless to do lists! But now the university's have been applied for, the english coursework is safely underway and I have decided to stop all revision for the oxford entry in November and just let what will happen happen... either they want me, or they don't, and if i fail them I'm just not good enough to go!

But anyway, yesterday was pretty monumental, because the new kitchen was FINALLY finished. And I do not use capital letters lightly, but we have been living on a building site for 10 weeks. It wasn't only the washing up of lasagne dishes in the bathtub, the eventual conversion to paper plates, or hammering starting at eight every day of the summer holidays that was the real problem. It wasn't even been seen in the shower by a builder unexpectedly putting up scaffolding on the back of the house, or the dust that settled sneakily but firmly on every possible service. The worst thing, that made me crave roast dinners and apple crumbles and just plain old boiled vegetable, was the food.
But after the first few weeks we began to get pretty creative. When you know whatever you make is going to be strange, you lose any fear of messing up, so at lunchtimes, with the house to myself, I came up with some pretty interesting inventions, using just a microwave, a kettle and a toaster. And so, to honour the monumental occasion that was yesterday, I will be displaying one kitchen-free survival recipe every day this week.

Be ready, because some of these were so nice I might even be tempted to make them WITH a kitchen... once the novelty of cheese on toast has worn off.

A more personal statement

My name is Hilary. Strange for a boy I know
But I just think it shows
My individuality.
Essential, at university.

So why dont you send me to the city? Where the roads stretch wider than 3.7 metres,
the width of a standard tractor.
I need to hear the police cars' howl before it's even light
I've heard the stars are hidden by the smoke at night.

I was born as I am. At Fort William.
Or just to the East.
I was in the boy scouts for at least
9 years. So have commitment and confidence.
I can tie a reef knot.
I have perseverance, and can sow a field in nine minutes flat.

But send to the city. I long for fruit in packets,
For a place a green space is called a park
Used for the enjoyment of nature in small doses.
Send me to the city. Where coke is not kept in the coalhouse,
where weed is not ragwort,  where the grass is not known,
where pot is not yesterdays rabbit stewed overnight in spices.
Where the names of the tree are not known
by the general public.

I want to count the hours with the rumblings of the trains,
the seasons with the tesco shelves, not changing, shifting rains.
Easter eggs, ice lollies, mince pies.
Here I use the sun and the colour of the oaks under close and cloudy skies.

Did I mention I have two weeks experience on a salmon farm?
And can describe three types of Aberdeen Angus cow?
So take me. Please, take me now.

Send me to the city
I know I would excel
at Marine Biology. Glasgow is for me,
and I can tell these things.
So please, UCAS, send me to the city.

Photographs: Morocco

wanderlust and the west

There is something different about the South West of England. When we’re on home ground, we feel relaxed, laid back, cool even. But in slicker areas such as London, although I desperately try to hang on to my inner Bristolian by choosing velvet leggings over heels, I end up feeling simply scruffy. Like the country-bumpkin in Jane Austen, we often struggle to remain calm in formal occasions, and only the other day my 6 year old cousin corrected me for mispronouncing Marylebone in a game of monopoly. Although Bristol is the sixth biggest city in England, and home to some of its edgiest graffiti, it is also surrounded by counties such as Gloucester and Somerset, famous for producing cider, cows, and that stereotypical farmer’s accent. This rural-urban clash perhaps means we’re left in limbo – back to London, I couldn’t name a single station on the circuit lane, yet I’d also be hard pressed to identify a given tree, wildflower, or butterfly.

I am a Bristol girl through and through. My idea of sophistication is a spa in Clifton, and I am at ease in a cafe on the Gloucester Road. When the weather warnings arrive in December I remember the Downs in 2008, and the bars and clubs along Stokes Croft remain the epitome of cool for my inexperienced eye. Perhaps more significantly, I find it hard to imagine living anywhere flat.

And yet although some weeks I feel fiercely loyal to this small corner of Britain, on others I just need to excape. It is this that draws me towards the big industrial cities of the North; the raw, brutalist architecture and blackened redbrick, that once would have made me come fleeing straight back to Park Street, now have me considering Sheffield, Manchester and Leeds as university choices. The unknown, in all its glory, beckons, and the sheer novelty of being able to go to a kareoke club and still look cool on a recent trip to Newcastle made me reconsider how laid back Bristol really is in comparison.

But I would still want to cling on to that Bristol part of me whereever I end up at university. Because I do think I stand out as being different in the North, perhaps not so much alone, but with fellow Bristolians. Upon entering a cafe in Newcastle, before we'd even said a word, the chirpy waitress asked in a full Geordie accent where we were from, a question I had never been asked straight off in England before. Several times of the weekend my friend and I were asked if we were cousins, sisters or even twins, and although we both have messy brown hair and huge mouths, it was again something we had never been asked before. We decided it was down to a general look of otherness, as most of the local girls had straightened, brushed hair and uncrumpled clothes.

Although I can think of few better places to be brought up than Bristol, I definately feel I am ready to leave. I want to be able to get lost in a city, to turn a corner and comment on how pretty or unusual something is, rather than ignore it through familiarity. After all, there are still 5  bigger English cities to explore. And that's before I've even gotten going overseas...

The Girl Who Sung the Wind

The night the baby was born the wind blew until the jujube trees bent double, and the monkeys folded themselves into each other for comfort, the mothers clinging to their young. The moon was snatched away by plumes of clouds, the rain drove onto the roofs of the huts, and the old woman rocked herself and sang through the screams of the young woman and the wails of the wind in the long grasses. The night the baby was born was followed by the morning the young woman left. It was if she had shed her duty with her little girl and she fled as a line of white appeared over the Himalayan foothills.

And the old woman called her granddaughter Sameera, in the hope that one day she could be as free as the air she was named after.

When Sameera was as tall as the kangan shrub that grew by her grandmother’s door she heard the story of the Princess who sung the wind. She heard it as she lay ill with a fever on her pallet bed in the heat of the summer, and as her grandmother places cool lily leaves across her brow she began to speak.

Many nights ride from here, and many births ago, a princess was born into a land without sorrow. There was no illness, no death, and no wind, and the women never complained of their saris nibbling their ankles in the breeze. And when the Queen saw her baby she felt a pain in her chest, and the gold stitching on her shawl sighed under the pressure as her heart grew with love for her first born child. Yet when the baby began to cry there was a terrible roar from the mountains, and the people of the land felt wind upon their cheeks for the first time. The houses were not built strong enough for wind, and so the Queen summoned three thousand maids to care for the baby, and as the princess grew she never cried for want of anything. Yet the Princess was kinder than the honey bees that make the sweetest of honeys, and in time a baby Prince was born, and brother and sister were happy together. The Princess learnt not to raise her voice and spoke only in a whisper, and the washer women on the banks of the river laughed as the clothes dried in the gentlest of breezes. And when the Princess was happy she sang and the tops of the trees danced in the playful gusts. Yet one day the young Prince and Princess were playing by the lake when the Prince strayed close to the edge, and in panic the beautiful Princess called out to him at the top of her voice.

The old woman hushed as Sameera gasped a small breath of warm, sweet air, gathered up her weaving, and continued to speak.

And so a wall of wind came off the mountains and knocked the young Prince, whom the Princess loved more than anything in the world, into the lake, and he drowned. And the Princess began to weep, and as she wept the winds swept in storm clouds from the East, and round droplets darkened the mourning veils of the people. The Queen was so angry she took the Princess to a tower that rubbed the bellies of the clouds, and locked the door. But as a last gift to her lovely daughter she sewed thousands of tiny mirrors into the red tapestry of the walls, so the Princess would never feel alone. And day after day the Princess sung to her friends in the depths of the mirrors, and wept for her brother, and the people of the land built their houses stronger with the clay from the bottom of the river Ganges.

When the old woman looked down at Sameera she saw she was asleep, and she smiled to herself. And Sameera’s dreams were filled with singing girls with long black hair and big brown eyes, and as she dreamed a light breeze ruffled her boyish hair.

The second time Sameera heard of the Princess who sung the wind was a long, hot day when she could no longer count her age on her hands, and was in the first summer she could reach the lowest mangos of the heavily drooping branches. She wore her only sari, and had blackened it with the ashes from the fire. She was standing at the front of a small, tight ring of mourners, the only child amongst the elderly neighbours, and as the coffin was sat on its dusty pyre the Pandit read aloud from a yellowing scrap of paper:

Sameera. It has been a joy to share these few short years with you. As you know, I am certain destiny has much in store for you, and that you will one day be a great woman, but know this too; to me you will always be the girl who sung the wind.

And those were the last words the old woman ever sent her granddaughter, and as the Himalayas heaved a great sigh that stirred the dust around the pyre, a single tear rolled down Sameera’s cheek and dissolved into the henna-coloured ground. Suddenly, just like that, Sameera understood why her mother had left the village on that blustery night all those years ago. Or at least, she came to closer to understanding the emotions that can make a woman long for freedom and escape.

To be continued…

The room so far...

Still a little way to go, but after all these rainy days I've been doing a lot of painting!

moroccoccocco

 

Am off to spend the week in Fes, the old medieval capital of Morocco. Have never been to Africa, but after this will only have Australasia to go until visited every continent (Apart from Antarctica, which doesn’t really count)! Anyway, I have been instructed by my lovely father to not bring anything short, in case I get arrested. Although I think seeing the inside of a Moroccan cell would be quite an experience, and I would get to learn some Arabic, I think he is probably right, so I went on a search for floaty long legged and sleeved things. I found a few, but we’ll see if it’s enough. The good news, however, is that I am going to use my superduper camera to take lots and lots of photos. So be prepared…

Tuesday on our bikes...

Thanking the Goddess Ariadne for the good weather…

The sun was shining, and it was just one of those really perfect days. We cycled pretty fast, but ate our signature picnic of hummus and bread to give us back our energy! The sort of day that makes me love British weather.

 

 

We fed the fishes, fed the ducks, and fed ourselves.

 

 

 

A cheeky little bit of meditating by the lake was all we needed to relax us…

 

All in all it was a great day to relieve all our exam stress! We have already made plans to go back on the last day of school, and this time with bikinis to jump in. I am excited already… look forward to the photos!

So here is what i'm planning for the Great Bedroom  Revamp now exams are over, or almost over at least. In Oxford at the weekend I went to this amazing old shop selling amazing framed preserved butterflies. I managed to get them to let me take a picture of their back wall, and here it is! Although I only really want one, or it a gets a bit creepy and taxidermist-like, i am now officially on the lookout for one for my bedroom! They are just so pretty...

Am just about to embark on a trip to the local charity to shop run to rummage for old photo frames, as I need to fill up all my white walls! I want small ones for the peg hanging scheme and some big ones to stand on their own. When I FINALLY get round to charging my camera I'll put some photos up!

  

I have been collecting these fantastic old school rulers for ages without any real idea of what I was going to do with them, and finally I have an idea! The hint is I'm going to use them with some old letterpress blocks...

And finally the colour of the month is... dirty yellow! I know what you're thinking, but I have decided it looks amazing and really brightens up a room with an unexpected flash. I decided this after seeing my friends guest-room (whose mum is incidentally a designer)

It was a bit like this one from elle decoration! Airy with little flashes of yellow...

So I have decided to paint a few photo frames and surprising objects around my room this happy colour...
such as Farrow and Ball's Babouche...

Exams.

OK, so exams are really begginning to get to me now. English on Monday, critical thinking Tuesdsay, and then french a couple of weeks after that and then, big sigh of relief, we're done. Finito.
But all these exams got me thinking,a nd the really strange thing is that we have so many to do at all. I mean, what really is the point? Could we not just take a few huge, and undeniably stressful, exams at the end of our whole school life, and then just be done with it? Or couldn't they come up with a more representative way of testing, using coursework and general teacher comments and a few modules? Anything really, just to avoid the general dreaded association every 17 year old has with May and June.

I can still remember when the summer term was long, unbroken, and downright idyllic. Friends would come home for tea, spend hours swinging in the hammock and giggling, and leave at 7, perfectly happy and guilt free at having spent an evening not revising. Lunchtimes would be spent climbing the forbidden trees on the edge of the field, and the final few weeks of term were a blur of school trips, sport days and prize ceremonies. In short, the summer term involved very little work, and was often nearly as good as the holidays that followed, although none of us would ever have dared to admit it.

Maybe the answer is to move to Australia. There, I assume, the exams are in the Winter. Surely that means something? Short of simply going on strike, I don't see what else we could do.

My new project!

Went into Clifton Village today, and visited one of my favourite all-time shops, focus on the past. Found some beautiful old French hooks which I bought… planning to hang them on the wall and hang old dresses and photos etc of them! VERY excited.

 

http://www.focusonthepast.org/about.html

Hope to put some pictures up soon, but for now the camera battery has run out. Typical.

This is about as close to the hooks as I can find… but mine are a rusting green and all metal, including the back, and generally much nicer!

I also have an old chest to paint and an armchair to buy, and am planning to get very busy with my room the moment exams are over! I have so many ideas and things to buy, just need to start earning some proper money again. I can’t wait until my room is completely finished.

childhood myths

Today I picked up a small child from primary school, and took him to the park. Not for free, of course. Passing the ice-cream van he asked why children get chicken pox if they have too much raspberry sauce on their ice-creams. Automatically I desperately began to invent some crazy tale about hormones and red blood cells when I suddenly stopped. Perhaps slightly too abruptly, I simply said:

"I don't know who told you that, small child (I am very conscientiously not revealing his name) but it is wrong. Either they are very misinformed or someone is trying to trick you"

He simply looked a bit dissapointed at my lack of creativity and continued chewing on his Ben 10 (Ben Ten, Ben10, BenTen?) rucksack, but by now I was begginning to feel indignant.

"I don't know why adults continue to lie to kids," I reeled, "I mean, think of all the embarrasment that would never have been felt. It's just an impulse, a laziness and something we should change". I emphasised the "we" and nudged his shoulder in an attempt to stir up some sort of enthuthiasm. Nothing.
But I feel a magnificent-Daisy-list coming on, so:

1) I used to have an irrational disdain (not hatred or anything near, merely a vague feeling of superiority towards Scottish school children). O why, you may ponder.
Becuase for years everytime I asked why the clocks changed the answer was because the Scottish school children want to walk to school in the light.
My response was, of course, the selfish little things. Needing to change the time of the whole of the country for a whole 6 months so they can see the sun when the go to school. Did it ever occur to them to start the schools later in the winter? apparently not. It wasn't untill embarrassingly recently I learnt the truth.

2) Untill I was about nine I really really really wanted to drive to france. Just so I could see the fish through the channel tunnel. Seeing the bottom of a real ocean would easily make up for the overcrowded eurocampsite, and all from the comfort of the car.
(I don't know if anyone actually told me the tunnel was glass, or if I just assumed it)

3) My nursery teacher told my friend off once for picking her nose in the sandpit, and explained she was actually picking her brain and so "forgetting your alphabet". I became so paranoid I made sure I ate every bogey I picked for about a year to keep it in my system. What a pointless lie.

4) My dad said spinach made you strong like popeye. I still secretly get a tiny bit worried every time I eat spinach that I am going to go bald.

5) and finally, because I am getting bored and I'm sure you are, I thought the car indicators showed my mum which way to turn. To be fair, she had pointed at the little arrows and explained seriously that "they show which way you are turning". Easy mistake to make.

So as I trudged beside my charge to the park, I told him that these things weren't true. He seemed slightly bewildered, but it's all for his own good. HE will never be left feeling apprehesive when meeting Scottish cousins or check his hair after every spinach and pasta meal.

Later this afternoon, on the way home, he kicked a car, just like that. I told him the police would see him. He said that his his mum said there aren't prisons for small people. I said wouldnt he feel sad if someone kicked his car? He said he'd have a car kicking party with all his friends if he had a car. He added he wanted a super jet one. He kicked the car again.
Well, I said, that is a super jet car. Actually it's the blue power ranger's car and he has special bullets for anyone who kicks it. "Oh" he said respectfully, and edged away from the car. And that was that.

This is what I feel like when I have a lot of revision
When I get really philosophical (never good, in my experience) and begin to resent all the stupid mundane things in life, like too cold tomatoes and inside out tights and hair sticking to lip gloss and getting apple skin in between my teeth and cutting my nails to short.
I am sick and tired of exams.
I also feel very sorry for any readers, as I should be giving an insight into the life of a teenager. And this is not an accurate representation, I suspect.

Not so perfect memories

I think a touch of humiliation is good for everybody. No one likes arrogance, and everyone loves a bit of self-deprication. And if you hadnt already caught on, I do some pretty embarrassing things sometimes. Seriously, if I met me I'd think I was doing it on purpose, but no. But then as a friend once said to me (who is incidentally going to Durham to do medicine, so I am not going to attempt to argue with her), imagine if noone ever did anything stupid, life would be so much more boring. And although sometimes, whilst picking up tampons and a suspiciously mouldy looking satsuma from the floor of the common room and stuffing them back into my bag, desperately willing my face to turn a more becoming shade than scarlett, I have my doubts, I think overall she is right.
So for your amusement,and my embarrassment, here are some of my not-so-finer moments

Firstly, The Big Issue Man issue. Last week I was walking along in a unprovoked good mood. A really really good mood, for no reason, and so of course when I saw a big issue seller with only one magazine left I had to buy it. Feeling undeservedly charitable (as if I had actually done something that required any sacrifice on my part) I smiled cheerfully and paid for the big issue, and should have left it there. But no, I had to patronisingly add "you can get off home now!". How irritatingly middle-class.
Of course, he replied, with a mixture of irony and resignation (i wonder how often he gets this kind of thing) "That's the point".I looked at him blankly. "I have no home to go to, that's why I stand here seelling these all day" he elaborately, and I smiled politely, apologised and walked off. My ears were burning.



And then there was the time (yesterday, in fact) when I was working at the bakery and asked some customers standing very confusingly behind each other if they were ordering together (two men) and I innocently asked "are you together". And they looked really surprised, and one said "no, we're just friends". Ok, so it was probably a joke, but it was still embarrassing.

And then, of course, there was the day in school PE, SEVERAL years ago, becuase of course I would never do anything so stupid nowadays, when I forgot to put my skirt on. Yes, I just forgot, just like that. And I ambled down quite happily to the netball court with my best friend, WHO DIDNT THINK TO MENTION that my spotty girl boxers were on full show. Only during the high knee warm up did I notice, and byt that stage everyone was laughing. It sounds like an unbelievable story I know, but believe me, I am capable of some unbelievably stupid things sometimes.

Me looking embarrassed on my first day of secondary school

Now I've started humiliating myself, why stop?

Well, I've many more stupid things i've done, many many more, but not today. Simply because I have to have learnt the whole of Russia's history by my A level exam next tuesday. So for now, adieu x

p.s if you have any really embarrassing things you've done, please share them - even if it's just to make me feel better!

Lime Juice and Pansies - Entry for journalism competition

(The theme was women through the ages) When I was twelve years old I discovered the 1930s. I watched Brideshead Revisited, learned what a cocktail shaker was and read Daphne Du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek. And Lady St. Columb, I miss you. Your life seemed so perfect with your games of lawn tennis, the lime juice and gin on the verandah at 6pm prompt, the pleated skirts, the neat drawers of matching gloves, the racket presses, the reliable Hillman. Today's teenage girls no longer lie long-limbed on the lawn making daisy chains and flirting at the cricket club over lemonade. We’re juggling school work, growing responsibility at home and saturday jobs, and then calling Mum at 2.00am the next day because we’ve lost the taxi money. We barely have time to eat with our families as we struggle with the next university prospectus, update our facebook and twitter pages, remember we have history exams, let alone send scented valentines and perfect our croquet. Mothers aren't taking off their floured aprons for a pre-dinner brandy on the veranda at 6pm, they are too busy reading emails while helping with the homework, booking the holiday to France and checking the lasagne hasn’t burnt. Katharine Hepburn had milkmen and free dentists, the trains were clean, the teacakes home-made, the GPs came round to your house, men proposed after they'd kissed you in the car, a home was affordable and families ate together. No wonder we all secretly hanker after the simplicity of Brief Encounter, the idea of bridge parties in the afternoon, planting pansies in the borders and eating tea in the conservatory. But was it ever really like that? Your average 16 year old would be pining after freedom over a half completed cross-stitch, torn between the domestic bliss of emerging icons such as Hepburn and the first opportunity to become a respectable woman with a career. I would have been helping mother polish the fish knives, scrape the marmalade off the table cloth and do the hospital corners before elevenses. In Daddy's Gone A-Hunting, a 1950s novel by Penelope Mortimer, "the wives conform to a certain standard of dress, they run their houses along the same lines, bring up their children in the same way, all prefer coffee to tea, play bridge and own at least one valuable piece of jewellery." The heroine, Ruth, is going mad. Or as Pink Floyd put it in The Dark Side of the Moon, "Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way." Sixty years is a long time, women have forgotten how restricted and predictable many women's lives once were. Our's now seem so chaotic and complicated and we have so many choices that we think we are worse off. We've become so exhausted by doing everything, we crave boredom again. Women are giving up on work, they've forgotten the point of it. They don't need to prove themselves in a meeting, it's more relaxing to go for a skinny latte on the way home from dropping off the kids, before contemplating a quick trip to the gym and logging on to Mumsnet to share a joke. Child-care costs are so high that there is little financial incentive to continue a career and women are constantly being told that their children will suffer without them. And us youngsters are afraid for the future, with the ever more competitive job market and the possibilty of lifelong, crippling debts. Our lives are uncertain, and for us there is little chance of a proposal outside a golf club in a fashionable Rolls-Royce. We face years of cramming, bedsits and a range of rollercoaster relationships. But we do have what Lady St. Columb never had - the freedom to choose.

Daffodils

There is a pot of yellow daffodils on my window sill.

The edges are turning brown, and curling, and beginning to flake and

crack, like snakeskin.

But they stand tall and proud on my window sill, bringing a slice of spring

inside.

The middle of the petals are a creamy yellow,

a dreamy yellow.

and when I wake from my cocoon,

my crysalis of quilt, and the sun is mumuring,

humming round the heavy hanging curtains,

I see the crisp cracks of the edges of the yellow daffodils

on the window sill.

And last night, as I shed my clothes

like a lizard shedding old skin,

I see the daffodils are gone, and all that is left

is a ring on the wood

of my window sill.

But look closer, and there is a pile

of nutmeg coloured dust on the swept floor.

And I smile, and I know

in two years I will leave the cocoon of Bristol

and my life here.

And I too will be taken away and start again

with a new skin.

But I will leave a ring from many mugs of tea on my bedside table

beside the window sill.

summer fetival anticipation...

looking through some pictures I took at Womad at last year... its making me so excited for this summer!

three sets of hoolahoops

some mini festival goers

my fairy friends...

where's wally?