bobble hats at the ready

It's getting cold around these here parts, but I've got a good layer of fat on me these days so bring it on, bitch.

Because I love... 

...sparkling frost, sky so blue it's in technicolour, red berries, fat robins, chai tea lattes, knee-length socks, starry nights, trees dressed up in red, orange and yellow, fairy lights, red noses, conkers, thinking about surprises, hoping for snow, warm feet by the fire, mulled wine, dressing up, sequins and glitter and bright red lippy, writing lists, making plans, time to dream, big fluffy jumpers and fingerless gloves, that warm glow, the ones you love all under the same blanket eating popcorn and watching films, breath you can see, long hot baths, books to read, chocolate to drink, hot water bottles, the best oranges, writing letters, magic, shopping bags filled with treats...

...yep, we're well into Autumnal territory and there's Winter on the horizon looking all sparkly and cosy. 'You-hoo, Winter! I've got my thermals ready, see you sooooon!'

the white and grey gorilla coat

The white and grey gorilla coat was a matted, extremely hairy, '60s zip up number that I picked up in a vintage shop in the '90s. When I say 'vintage shop' I mean a place that had fold up shutters at the front instead of an actual wall and which was stuffed full of smelly junk. For some reason, even though it made me look like the Dulux Dog's flea-ridden hobo cousin I felt like the epitome of glamour when I wore it. I circled my eyes with lots of black eyeliner to complete the look, and I liked to construct a complicated hair-do that involved lots of back-combing, top-knotting and the pulling loose of lots of little stands of hair to create a 'through a hedge backwards' look. 

This was my '60's phase which I mixed with a healthy dose of the '70s and, looking back, I'd like to give myself a pat on the back for daring to look like a complete nutter on a daily basis. 

I went to London for the weekend with my art college class. My friend and I were expecting to be welcomed into the loving arms of the cosmopolitan London folk but instead confused tourists took photos of us, builders laughed at us, loudly singing 'Do the hippy, hippy, shake' and we generally stood out like sore thumbs. I remember it rained one day and my flares got soaked up to the knees with puddle water and my sodden gorilla coat smelt like it had been bought in a damp junk shop with no front wall. Which it had. Nowadays I forget how much flack kids take for daring to look different ('different', 'hilarious' and 'stupid' are interchangeable in the last statement). 

Back home in Wales were everyone was used to our junk shop sixties/seventies look we convinced ourselves that it was just London that didn't get us. In Cardiff we were fricking awesome. 

I had a pair of shiny satin flares that were the brightest red and had falling autumn leaves on them, which piled up, visually, at the bottom, at the most flarey bit. That's just a little indicator how wrong I got it sometimes. 

But on the other hand, sometimes I looked FAB. It was like going out in fancy dress every day, and having a ball. I wish I had half the guts now that I did back then. 

I'm gutted to say I haven't got many photos of me at that time. We didn't have mobile phones to take pics back then, and we were too busy having fun, making art and getting drunk. There are a few Polaroids about somewhere, and pics from disposable cameras... I shall have to hunt them out.

the middle ground between blah blah blah and nothing

one day I may just write this book

When I don't feel like blogging I don't blog. That's that and unless I start treating this little online space of mine differently it's not going to change. 

I have vague ideas about why I blog, vague plans, vague intentions, and I love to write and share stuff with 'you lot', but when it's down to the nitty gritty and life does the thing that life does and gets in the way of all vague plans and intentions then it's bye-bye blog for as long as it takes for me to find a little space to blog again. And then the words pour out and I wonder why I left it so long in the first place. 

I'm a bit of a fuss-arse when it comes to social media. Love Twitter, hate Facebook (which I was on for about 48 hours years back, before bailing, appalled). I also have mixed feelings about blogging and the stuff we portray in our little patches of the web. In the real world I'm a chronic over-sharer, here, not so much - over-sharing to the stranger behind the till at Sainsburys is one thing, doing it here when god knows who is reading (my brother? my nan? that cow who hates me irrationally for no sodding reason?) is completely another. But then some days the stuff that comes whizzing out of my head is Stuff Not To Be Seen Online so I whizz it out of my head and towards my husband instead (who sits there going 'mmm' every so often helpfully).

But there are, of course, bloggers who never 'whizz out', their blogs are controlled, they are planned, they are base-line, tempered creations that have little to do with the blogger's emotion, state of mind or day to day life. They are works of art. 

I wonder how you combat the tendency to drift away from your blog, how you stop yourself running out of steam every third day. Do you have schedules? Write posts days or weeks in advance? Set aside a certain time each day or week to write? We all have different reasons for blogging but we all do it ultimately for pleasure not duty though, right?

Anyway, enough whizzing out for today. Maybe I'll be back tomorrow, maybe not. 

Happy Floral

My new Vintage Floral print: Happy Floral makes me happy :)

I seem to be drawn towards orange and golden colours these days. And the blue/purple/pinks really make the whole thing 'pop'. 

One for the bedroom I think? We need more art up in our room. This will make me rise a little happier on the upcoming dark mornings. Or maybe not... Probably not... But it will look nice at least. 

first day as a big girl

Edie's first day at school... and the house seems so quiet. But I'm picking her up at 11.30 and we're going for cake!

Hope she has fun.

Hope she makes good friends.

Hope her brain starts filling up with all sorts of marvellous things.

Hope she comes home with paint on her pinafore.

Hope she plays in the yard when the sun is shining and the sky is blue.

Hope she makes beautiful things with tin foil, cotton wool and glitter.

Hope she sings in the choir at Christmas.

Hope she is kind.

Hope that if she gets 'things wrong' it doesn't worry her too much because in the big picture it doesn't matter a hoot.

Hope she tries hard.

Hope she doesn't pick her nose.

Hope she knows how much she is loved.

*proud face*

five years old, hairy, and flipping awesome

Yesterday Lola was five. If I could put into words how much joy and love that little hairy angel has bought into my life over the past 1,828 days I would let you know right here and now, but as- 

1. It would make me look mental

and

2. There are no words

I'll just go so far as to say I BLOODY LOVE THAT DOG.

I know, I know. But really. I bloody do.

Read more about our deep and enduring forever-type love here .
(Is there an emoticon to express 'I'm saying the gospel truth but in a slightly ironic, over-the-top way? Well, that, there.)

I just don't read that stuff anymore

Oh Comely- one of the good guys

I'm a magazine fiend. I love the promise of their glossy covers. I love the smell.

But there are magazines that I don't and won't buy. Those icky, depressing, gleefully nasty mags that put pictures of women with their cellulite surrounded by a big red circle on their covers. The ones that are full of rubbish and nonsense and bitchiness. I'm not saying I've never bought them, because I have, but not for a long time, and now I have a little girl? Hopefully never again.

Those magazines celebrate nothing that is wonderful about womenkind. They glorify the vacuous, the insecure and the image-obsessed scrutinising that holds us all back.  

I really couldn't give a flying fuck about whose armpits have sweated this week, or who has wrinkly knees. Too fat one week, too thin the next; god knows what this kind of crap is doing to today's young girls' self-perception and body image. 

I think reading these magazines is like eating a bowl full of sugar with a desert spoon. It might give you an initial buzz but keep doing it and it can really mess you up on the inside.

Oh Comely issue seven- words Beth Davis, pattern Alyssa Nassner

But there are some wonderful mags out there right now. I'm sure most of you British blogging ladies have read Oh Comely, an inspirational magazine that features people just like you and me, and for all the right reasons, not the wrong ones. This magazine does not stuck you dry of your self-esteem and life force, it reinforces them. It sparks off ideas and rouses your curiosity and encourages you to make plans for things you'd like to do and places you'd like to see. 

Oh Comely issue eleven- Courtney Welch, co-founder of London Rollergirls
words Carleen Peters,  portrait Trent McMinn

This, and a few others, are the magazines that I feel happy to have lying around my home whilst my girl is growing up. Maybe you think differently and see the tacky mags as being just a bit of harmless fun, but as I get older the less I want and need their influence in my life.

Oh Comely issue eleven- imaginary map by illustrator Marisa Seguin

Any thoughts?