Clearing the bank

That weekend my world was one of bearded men with chainsaws and women in pinnies.  The men wielded their tools, the women replenished melamine trays with mugs of tea and home-made rock cakes.  The children, me included, looked on, wide-eyed, from a safe distance.

It all felt very communal.  Everyone getting on in this neighbourly effort to clear the bank, a steeply sloping strip of wild ground opposite our three houses.  Here the trees and brambles, cow parsley, dock and nettles taught us kids their own nature lessons, lessons learned through the experiences of itchy legs, scratched arms, and knees stained chlorophyll green.  It was here that I learned how to produce an impressive whistle through a broad blade of grass by making a split with my fingernail in the top to blow through, and where I learned the names of  birds who gorged on the blackberries amid the thorns.

But that weekend it was all about clearance – some roots had spread into the garden on the other side and were threatening the foundations of the adjacent house.  One of the trees would have to be cut down and The Men of the neighbourhood were going to do it.  Now, I’m not sure that I could truthfully describe any of the three males involved as being hurly-burly, hairy-arsed, lumberjack types – quite the opposite, because they were our Dads, and our Dads were all of scientific and mathematical persuasion and watched 'Tomorrow's World'.   But two out of three sported hairy chins (Dad from No. 3, and mine) so that was a start. 

Not my Dad

Old garments were donned and implements oiled whilst inside each kitchen, the aforementioned rock cakes were baked by The Women, and mixing spoons licked clean by The Kids, before the ominous revving of a chainsaw broke through conversation and work commenced.  Then, every couple of hours, out came the trays of tea and sugary sustenance, the noise of metal teeth on wood subsided and excited chatter resumed.  Wow, look at that huge branch!  How much more to do?  Another cake?

This memory stays with me, not because anything spectacular happened (all human limbs remained intact) but it seemed like an Event.  There was something about the mood, the camaraderie, the collective effort of three families, where all the members were of similar age and had the same aim, that puts me in mind of documentary films I’ve watched about communes and co-operatives around the same time. Although a bit different this was still just so... so early '70s.  I get a special feeling mixed in with these recollections and it’s a nice one.  Picture, if you will, bohemian stoneware mugs, fisherman’s sweaters, bold flowery aprons, macrame wall-hangings and eight children who were free to play and be a little wild outdoors.   As with most things in life, it didn’t last - the family from No. 3 moved away and mine fell apart - but I still bask in the warmth of childhood reminiscences like this.

My Mum planted a large strawberry patch on the newly open ground and that Summer the fruits were abundant.  We shared them with our neighbours, of course - and the blackbirds and robins helped themselves.

The Sweet: Chop Chop (1972)

Bite me!

I've been bitten by the bug.  I wish I meant I'm addicted to an exciting new interest but unfortunately it's more literal than that; this is the culprit:

Oops, wrong pic, it's this one below, but it does feel as if something far more malignant is responsible.

This is the Flower Bug.  A sweet little thing, really, but I have so many painful bites from this insect that I feel more like one big bite with a little bit of unblemished skin attached.  The Flower Bug is only a few millimetres in length and whilst I've never noticed one land on me, they're all around - all around the tiny wildflower patch and the nettles at the end of the garden, all around any plants that attract aphids and other small insects which they eat (they're even used as biological pest control for crop production in some areas; these are the good guys!)   Unfortunately they seem to want to prey on me too and my skin reacts quite badly to their nipping, coming up in big red weals which are intensely itchy and take many days to heal.  There are bites on my arms, my legs, and in a few more unexpected places too (put it this way, I have no idea how one could have got inside my bra...)  Aside from sporting a hazmat suit I've kept as covered up as I can in their presence and yet still they manage to find their way into - under - through? my clothes.  A constellation of pink welts decorates my torso right now - an Ursa Minor of irritation.  Hats off (although probably best to keep them on, with nets attached) to our friends in Scotland who have to cope with the midges.  Anyway, insect repellant has now been bought and I hope I can frolic amid the flowers unbitten in future.

Thinking about the Flower Bug did, however, remind me of a really great song and I can't get it out of my head.  It was one of the first '60s psychy numbers I'd ever heard, some time in the mid '80s, which piqued my interest in the genre and started off a whole other foray into underground freakbeat and psych.  It was like nothing I'd ever really listened to before - oh, remember how that feels?! - the excitement and magic of embarking on a hitherto unknown musical journey.  From hearing songs like this I was opened up to all those obscure records which were given a new lease of life in the ‘80s when labels like Bam Caruso, Big Beat, Psycho and See For Miles mined the rich seam of 1960s psych and beat to present them to a new audience, and it became quite an obsession.  Dare I say, I was bitten by the bug...

Enough of the introduction!  Here's Flower King of Flies by the Nice, the opening track of their 1968 debut album, 'The Thoughts of Emerlist Davjack', all Hammond organ, psychy guitar, speeded up echo effects and trippy lyrics.

Now to coat myself in insect spray.

Ono? Oh yes

The young woman opened her bag and took out an orange with an almost perfectly formed circle of peel missing.  The flesh beneath remained untouched, still encased in its pithy tissue.  The woman took one bite, not of the fruit, but of the peel only, pulling a small section away with her teeth and chewing it, swallowing it.  She then put the orange back in her bag.

It felt as if my afternoon of conceptual art had begun there and then, on the train to London, sitting next to this passenger with her penchant for orange peel.  (I've never seen anyone do that before, have you?)  Following that I was party to one half of a phone conversation in which the caller, seated opposite me, unashamedly declared her admiration for none other than the odious Nigel Farage.  She looked and sounded not unlike Waynetta Slob, and was excited to share her self-proclaimed brilliant and feasible idea that Farage and Starmer could collaborate and "run the country together, as they'd probably get on".  See what I mean - conceptual art, surely?!

But on to the real thing...  I was on that train to London earlier this week to meet my lovely cousin and we'd decided to visit the Yoko Ono exhibition, 'Music Of The Mind', at Tate Modern. 

I knew very little about Yoko Ono's art until now, having only really scratched the surface (the 'Cut Piece' film, the footage of  her and John's honeymoon 'Bed-In', and her vocal improvisations with the Plastic Ono Band) but came away with a mind full of her various playful, political, thought-provoking and dreamlike ideas.  There are lots of interactive elements to this exhibition too - some lovely ways for you to leave your own mark on it, literally (a favourite of mine being Shadow Piece, a white wall onto which a bright light casts your shadow, so you can draw around it with a nice chunk of graphite.  Now several months into the show, the wall is covered in a beautiful tangled mass of curving pencil lines, and it feels special to be one of its many contributors). Or you can hammer a nail into a wall - as long as you're prepared for the trade-off to be a hair from your head.  Why? I hear you ask - ah, so you can be a part of this...

PAINTING TO HAMMER A NAIL

Hammer a nail into a mirror, a piece of

glass, a canvas, wood or metal every

morning.  Also, pick up a hair that came

off when you combed in the morning and

tie it around the hammered nail. The

painting ends when the surface is covered

with nails.

1961 winter

Some might say it's a load of arty-farty bollocks, I know.  I may have done once too.  But when you enter this exhibition, if you keep your mind open, and then maybe stretch it open even further, you can just enjoy a chance to think in a different way for a while.  Yoko Ono's way.   I think this is perhaps no better exemplified than in her 'Instructions' pieces, like the one above.  Simply presented in both typewritten English and  tiny handwritten Japanese characters, to me these really sum up the Conceptual Art movement, where the concept itself is the art, rather than a realisation of it. It kind of messes with my head but - it feels good, like discovering a secret chamber somewhere deep in my mind, I'm sure I might find some treasures in there I didn't know I had.    I found these pieces inspiring, sometimes funny, often philosophical, and I'm sure I'm not alone in wanting to try a few out.  Maybe like this mischievous one? 

CONVERSATION PIECE

Bandage any part of your body.

If people ask about it, make a story

and tell.

If people do not ask about it, remind

them of it and keep telling.

Do not talk about anything else.

1962 summer

Or maybe not...

BLOOD PIECE

Use your blood to paint.

Keep painting until you faint (a)

Keep painting until you die (b)

1960 spring

There are many more moving, serious installations too.  A single gunshot hole in a piece of glass with an invitation to go to the other side and see through it needs no further explanation.  Everything here seemed to have an element of hope about it, though.  It was also great to see some lovely early photos, film, fascinating ephemera, music with various collaborators too (a John Cage piece did wonders for my tinnitus) and even - brace yourself - some 'actual' drawings too, in the form of Yoko's pleasingly delicate pen and ink images, which I really like (apologies for poor quality photos):

Yoko Ono was 91 this year and has been creating and performing for seven decades, how on earth do you cover everything?  I don't know, but I'm glad to have seen this comprehensive selection while she's still around, and a lot of it will stay in my mind for some time, which I wasn't necessarily expecting.  

See more at https://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-modern/yoko-ono/exhibition-guide

Free games for May

Sorry, sorry, sorry!  I've been terribly bad at keeping up with things but I am still here. Just spending fewer prolonged periods in front of a screen these days - and still don't seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do!  I've been on a bit of a creative trip to destinations unknown lately which has only served to confirm my suspicions that I am and always have been very much an analog girl.  In spite of that, blogging remains the source of such interest, pleasure and especially lovely connections that I really don't want to lose it, so I must put some effort in!

While I was out yesterday, my mind joined my feet in an aimless meander and I was reminded of how sometimes in my more prolific blogging moments I enjoyed taking you for a walk with me and I thought, perhaps I can actually get writing about that again? 

Come on, come with me!

We can go down beyond the main thoroughfare of the village and then turn off from the hub-bub of traffic to find ourselves in a quiet lane.  I adore this route, especially at this time of year.  We'll wander past the low roofed chapel now converted into a house, the backs of gardens of a red bricked Victorian terrace and then the human formalities start to give way to wild verges.  I always was a little drawn to the wilder verges of life.  This one would appear to be very attractive to cats too.

Then, well, it's blissful. There are meadows either side and you can smell and hear an English May without even looking; the heady scent of new blossom and cow parsley, an orchestra of insects, a symphony of lusty birdsong.  Wren, blackbird, robin, chiffchaff.  I get a funny (in a good way) feeling when I'm out like this - it must be connected to childhood memories, I'm sure.  I find the timelessness of it incredibly evocative, deep-rooted and uplifting - does it do something to the brain perhaps and induce a dopamine high?  For me it's as intoxicating as any physical substance, and I can still walk in a straight line.

The lane runs alongside a tributary and down to a weir but we won't go that far today, instead just take in the view of the lane and bridge curving around, the shadows of trees striating the road. 

If we were to carry on we could cross a couple of fields of cowpats (probably some cows too) and find one of those WWII pill boxes - this area of East Anglian countryside was one of the most heavily fortified in the country.  Defence lines of pillboxes, anti-tank blocks, deep ditches and barbed wire were drawn across the landscape to obstruct armoured columns which were expected to move inland should they manage to breach the ports and beaches.  I try to imagine how it must have felt living in such a rural and sparsely populated environment then, far removed from the cities, yet with these constant reminders of the possibility of invasion. But being here today it's so peaceful, whatever else is still sadly going on in the world in a similar vein, and I just can't.  Instead I'm lucky - lost in the sensory escapism of nature and my cherry-picked memories of perfect dappled riverbanks and bike rides and buttercups.  

For the return journey we can take a little detour past the allotments.  Say hello to the chickens and some ruddy-cheeked men in checked shirts discussing their cucumbers and on to the Village Hall.  There's a Book Fair here today - £1 to get in - how could you resist?   Mmm, the smell of old books, comics, postcards, maps....the smell of the hall itself, all coffee and floor polish and sunshine on curtains.  The low murmur of people enthusing about their stamp collections and Rupert annuals.  It's all rather lovely, a safe space for us nerdier members of the species.  And I'm drawn to so many items!  I come away with just this one, utterly enticed by its kitschness.

Heading home now we can pass this noble doorstep guardian

this old street grit bin which I really like for some weird reason

and take a couple of photos which I won't show here because instead I'll be sending them to John for his monthly photo challenge post!

Then dive back into the shade of trees and across the wooden footbridge over another part of the tributary which is looking particularly photogenic today.  An older man stops for a chat and talks about how he used to swim in there as a young lad, having lived here all his life. The resident swans will swim down here soon too, with cygnets to follow, hopefully.

At the bottom of the hill there's the young lad I often see with his skateboard. He's never with anyone else but is so obviously into his board and honing his skills on the tarmac path outside the big house.  I've often thought perhaps he's a bit of a loner, a little geeky, a little outside of the mainstream as he's always alone, practising, practising, not looking up.  But this time - oh, he has a girl with him!  A sweet-looking girl with an angelic face and a coy demeanour; he's holding her hand as she tries to keep her balance on the skateboard, gently encouraging her.  He looks over and for the first time he smiles.  I don't even know this lad but, well, I'm feeling all chuffed for him!

Onward up the hill and there's something alien hiding behind this hedge which makes me smile (turns out it's a small digger)

And just in case you need a further boost there are resources at hand a few doors up...

But sometimes I reckon a good walk can give you just the high you need.

"...you'll lose your mind and play

 free games for May..."

7 Teen seconds

I found myself feeling all unexpectedly soppy and fondly reminiscent about something on telly the other day.  I was watching one of those repeats of old Top of the Pops episodes being aired by BBC Four, this particular one being from 7th February 1980.  The line-up encapsulated the period perfectly - an eclectic mixture including The Selecter and The Specials alongside Queen and Cliff Richard, *AC/DC, The Chords and The Tourists.  What a delightful pot-pourri of pop, with a couple of exposed hairy chests, some pork pie hats and a peculiar horsetail (?) head-dress thrown in for good measure (I leave you to work out who wore what), but the act that really did it for me - and I was surprised at the effect they had all these years later - was The Regents, performing '7 Teen'.

Ah... what a time.  It was the year I was going to turn 7teen too, so there was that connection, and I really did like the song - just not quite enough to buy it.  But the thing that really got me on seeing it now was the reminder that it was a time when you could be the lead vocalist in a band and go on-stage on a TV show wearing a non-descript red sweatshirt type top and tape a couple of home-made 'pad' things onto your shoulders.  Like epaulettes.  But stuck on with white gaffer tape.  And your two backing vocalists were fresh-looking and un-self conscious, having the time of their lives, ramping up the silliness with their unpretentious charm, as if they were just playing around in front of a bedroom mirror.  I could imagine going to college with them - I love the thought that we could've been mates and found myself envisioning them rehearsing in the lunch-hour; the  naive, swaying back-and-forth, side-to-side dancing that we all did - getting the giggles.  Oh!  I want to be in The Regents!

You also have to love a song which includes the words "she's a beautiful mutation" (so new wave!) and if they could only have got away with it I wish they could have performed it with its original mention of "a permanent erection".  That was how it was first released in 1979 but (of course) an alternative censored version needed to be issued to ensure its radio play (and subsequent hit status) so we lost the erection to a permanent reaction...  All good, though.  

Anyway, I do like it when you've forgotten or pretty much dismissed something from the past and then it sneaks up and surprises you in the sweetest of ways.  When it takes you back and makes you smile and reminisce affectionately, even though it also reminds you that that particular time is never to return.  And when it makes you just want to watch it and hear it again...

The Regents: 7 Teen

*Special mention must also go to a particular line in AC/DC's 'Touch Too Much' which was shown in this episode:

"She had the face of an angel, smiling with sin, the body of Venus with arms"  With arms.

In and out and in and out

She's here!  With a pretty, pearly red complexion she's only a cheap model but I'm finding my way around her buttons and the slinky way she moves.  All I have to do is to unpop her leather straps and with my fingers in all the right places, give her a good squeeze and, ooh, she makes the sweetest (and loudest!) sounds...  

Oh, I know, everything about a squeezebox screams innuendo and that's just fine by me.  I love her! I love my little concertina. I itch to play, make music and embrace her bellows; oops, there we go again.  But don't you think there is something very sexy about the whole accordion family (in the right hands)?  

The rewarding thing about this new hobby is that it's not hard to make some half-decent noises (dependent on your point of view...) in spite of lack of experience.  Single notes, scales, simple chords too - even on their own those chords can sound delicious.  It's firing up parts of my brain which haven't been in use since primary school when learning to play the theme tune from 'The Wombles' on the recorder with its chewed mouthpiece, the taste of wet wood on my tongue, trying not to dribble.  I think the concertina is actually much more pleasurable to dabble on, even though it's a big challenge to my grey matter in trying to remember (on this one anyway, the Anglo concertina) that you get different notes on moving in and out.  But I definitely want - need! - the mental exercise, and an instrument you can play without smudging your lipstick or getting splinters in your tongue is definitely a bonus too.

Evidence suggests that it can improve cognitive strength, memory, motor skills and co-ordination, reduce stress, etc., plus I was reading an article the other week which mentioned how it can help creativity.

"There is something about enabling yourself to try things and not have expectations about what you will produce," said 2019 Turner Prize winner Helen Cammock, who is now having trumpet lessons.  Anne Ryan, an Irish artist who works in paint, ceramics and sculpture, took up tap dancng for similar reasons and said, "I'm crap at it but I come out glowing and feeling like I have spread a little bit of love..."

I know I'm crap at this too, but the glowing feeling is happening.  After a couple of ten-minute sessions a day with the bedroom door shut (is there no end to this double entendre?)  I feel motivated and de-stressed.  Unfortunately, especially given this modest instrument's quite shocking volume, I doubt the neighbours feel the same (more like distressed) but give it time (sorry, neighbours).  If I can keep it up I'd like to be able to play along to something different, oh I don't know what - Bowie, Clash, Small Faces....obscure '60s psych perhaps?!  Just what the world needs, some bad concertina covers... 

But I'm enjoying it. And if anyone here knows how to play a 20-button Anglo concertina and can share some tips, they'd be most welcome; I'm sure the neighbours would agree.

At Martin's suggestion last time:

The Who: Squeeze Box

(Top photo shows 1920s actress Winifred Westover)

In stitches, part two

Well, it's been a very long time coming but on this dull January day the moment is right for me to bestow upon you some more fine fashion tips from the pile of old knitting magazines which had me oohing and ahhing for all the wrong reasons a few years ago.

If your life is a little short of levity at the moment, I can honestly recommend a quick browse through the pages of some 1960s editions of 'Pins and Needles' for some mindless therapy.  

Of course exercise is also good therapy - one hour of high intensity knitting in an unheated room burns up 174 and a half calories (... don't check that...) -  but it turns out there's an easier way to shed a few post-Christmas pounds (and heat the room at the same time with the flush from your cheeks): try holding embarrassingly awkward poses for a family photoshoot wearing only your newly created woolly sports undies...

You can read whatever you like into this one... (and click to enlarge).  Promises, promises.

And if only life were this simple... hmm... 

"Start something exciting?"  Only as long as you also know how to cast off, as he's looking a bit shifty to me.

There's nothing remotely patronising in the tone of these ads, oh no

But I fear that after a lifetime of knitting for my husband I could end up looking like this...

...much to the horror of everyone else, including Tom Jones (as if giant daffodils weren't scary enough)

But the knitting isn't limited to golf jackets and nightmare dolls - why not crochet a bowl?  Or, to put it more aptly, why crochet a bowl?

Ditto the above...

Happy New Year!

'Tis the season to be arty

Well, it wouldn't be Christmas around these parts without posting some slightly less than conventional Yuletide pictures!

Hoping to improve my concentration levels next year and be a bit more present on the blogs, I've been very neglectful....  In the meantime, here's wishing you a happy, peaceful festive time and thank you for everything.

Artist and designer Erté, 1920s

Fashion illustrator Rene Gruau, 1950s/60s

Marc Chagall, 1930

Andy Warhol

Edward Hopper, 1928

Picasso, 1959

Picasso

Norman Rockwell

Brian Wildsmith

Salvador Dali, 1968

Salvador Dali

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