Thought I’d better get some frock time in for myself before the big push for Christmas and the galloping rush of client frockage takes over (not to mention the small matter of a couple of armchairs to cover…).
The petrol blue wool has a smidgin of lycra and hangs beautifully. I had some yellow ochre silk lining to hand which flashes colour like the wings of a bird. And shall be making the grey dress again and again and again….inky blue fine wool crepe next….
Decision made. Credit card flexed. Easy.
The once fuschia pink armchairs which have faded to dust are to be reincarnated in Bute Fabrics‘s Ramshead, a glorious wool designed in collaboration with Glasgow’s Timorous Beasties. Teal blue. Or burnt orange…or that lovely purpley grey? No. It’s teal…(and the colours are more vibrant than these photographs might suggest).
It’s a tricky one to track down but I found it lurking on Liberty’s 4th floor, an unassuming, small book amongst the brash and the embroidered and the glorious, all elbowing for attention. Just there. Quiet. And every colour subtle, perfectly judged, enticing.
There is something deeply comforting about teal blue and petrol and Prussian and cobalt: they are colours which remind me of Arts and Crafts houses, of carefully crafted interiors. They are the sort of house which appears solidly settled in the earth, dependable and constant, an antidote to the boiling repetitive relentlessness of the daily grind, of excess and plate glass.
And fitting then that I shall be making them myself, although for a 1960’s concrete house.
Thanks to Bute Fabrics website for the swatch photographs.
So. A giant eyeball washed up on a Miami beach.
Just imagine that….
Are you still in there?
In the deepest ink of the sea,
and screaming peels of high pain
into unlit nothing.
Or are you dead
and heavy sunk to the
limp tentacles moving in the swell,
one eyed head cleaved back,
vacant rotting flesh socket
swarming with small life.
It’s Poetry Day!
I’ve just a few read out loud in the garden. Impromptu gig. It’s surprising how difficult it is, reading aloud to the geraniums and the few neighbours who are in and curtain twitching and wondering what the hell I’m up to….
The snails hung around for it though, but then they’re not fast movers…..
We had Elizabeth Bishop’s ‘The Fish’ and Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘Mrs Quasimodo’.
Can’t wait for next year…….