Little old wagon

I made this jolly little painted cardboard wagon twenty years ago. It was a summer 'homework' project before starting my graphic design degree - you wouldn't think to look at it, that I was in the throes of the loneliest, most miserable part of my life and waking up with tears on my cheeks.

With two decades since of hindsight, I might have been unconsciously wishing an escape vehicle to a happier place. But I did enjoy making it and it took my mind off Other Things. Under the bonnet...

...there is a rather unique full working engine.

It has become more battered over the years and I almost binned it in a studio tidy-up.

But I couldn't bear to. I'm glad I didn't, beaten up and wonky as it is.

The best surprise ever

A few weeks ago I noticed that Hercules, my faithful rust bucket bike, was missing from his home outside the rubbish bin. He really was on his last wheels; nonetheless, he was my freedom ticket out of the village, not being a car driver or owner. And now someone had pinched him. I don't know what goes through a thief's head at the best of times, but surely it's obvious that a bike like this is owned by someone who can't afford a better one? Apparently not. A week later I found him dumped by the bike rack outside the village Post Office, wrecked. I gave a strangled shout of 'Hercules' and rushed home to cry in Andy's arms. To some people it may seem silly to get worked up over *just a bike*. But he was more than that - he was 12 years of happy memories. A kind of diary on wheels.

Happier days

Andy collected the poor old boy and after taking him apart announced that it would be too expensive to repair him, considering his age and condition. Apart from still feeling rubbish from my prolonged cold and exhaustion, this was the last straw - but I didn't realise just how miserable I was without a bike. Life went on and last Thursday we took a little picnic out to nearby Farmington, on a glorious sunny day.

On the way home, we picked up a carton of local/freerange/Fairtrade/allroundgoodstuff ice cream from the Cotswold Ice cream Company. I felt a lot better and we tootled home, me clutching the tub of rapidly melting ice cream. When we arrived, there was a large, flattish box waiting in the outhouse. I wondered what it was. "It's your surprise bike" answered Andy, grinning. He had noticed how miserable I was without one.

To say I was lost for words would not even touch the tip of the iceberg of my surprise. I cried again - for different reasons. I've never had a new bike before and this was not just any old bike, this was a Dawes. In a slight stage of shock I remembered the liquifying nicebutveryexpensive ice cream and dolloped it out into suitably posh bowls.




The cappuccino ice cream was gorgeous and my swanky new bike - in British Racing Green - was assembled in our untidy back garden. (Excuse the washing).

And there she was, a shiny green Goddess of a bicycle; I could barely believe that she was mine. The observant will notice that she's a man's bike - I always ride a man's bike, just another one of my many unfeminine traits, along with the tattoos and army boots. (Sorry if that has destroyed my dainty image for anyone).

Being a Dawes bike, she had to be called Marjorie, after the nursery rhyme. She is the first bike that fits my 6ft properly and she is a tall girl: I can just about scramble up on her. We sailed off - wobbling slightly - on our maiden voyage round the lanes, my heart bursting with joy at having pedals again. And freedom.

Unlike dear old Hercules, she lives in the backyard under a cover, where nasty bike thieves will have to trample through the cottage over my cold, dead body before they get their grubby paws on her. As for Hercules - we have stored his frame and he is having a well earned rest. One day - we will rebuild him.

A bit rubbish but fun

So last Sunday was a beautifully hot day and I strode forth laden with art equipment. Trip-trap, trip-trap across the troll bridge, plonking myself down near a favourite line of horse chestnuts.

I soon realised that having done naff all observational work for twenty odd years, I was, to put it mildly, out of practise.

But it was fun - and that was the point. I learned about what I was bad at and what I didn't know, which I will use next time.

After my first fumbling effort I bravely sought another sketching spot, walking a mile or so across the fields and up to the oak trees which straddle the top of this hill.

I had a messy little picnic of three boiled eggs, a somewhat melted chocolate bar and orange squash, then did some more scribbling. The sun had gone in and the colours flattened. I was even less impressed with my second attempt.

But, you know, I was out in the sun and air on my own for nearly five hours, walked over five miles round and round about, exercised artistic muscles which haven't been flexed for a long time and had a jolly good time doing it. I've also been incredibly touched and soothed by so many lovely, kind comments on my last post; thank you for making me feel a lot better than I did.

Up, up and up!

Well, hello! What a strange few weeks it's been. My final deadline has been vanquished and handed in. I promptly collapsed with a cold and complete exhaustion and am only just feeling like myself again. For a few weeks I pottered about the cottage like a rather substantial ghost; feeling empty and devoid of any creativity. I've never been that burned out and grey-feeling before, and I hope I never am again.

I'm very, very excited about what's going to be happening next year, when *things* go live, but glad I don't have the horrid clashing timelines anymore. I've just washed up eleven months worth of paint pallettes and restored the cottage with a housework blitz. Now that my time is almost my own for a while, I hope to get out and use these; I've been meaning to try my hand at landscapes for ages and it would be nice to do some art just for the sheer pleasure of it.

As a little reward for getting my jobs finished, I treated us to these gorgeous slipware mugs by Matt Grimmit, a Cotswold potter working from Evesham. I bought mine from Cheltenham Museum, but he also has an Etsy shop. (I wanted to have the humbuggy striped one, but Andy fell in love with it, so I've got the Mediaeval green one instead).



Andy was a bit nervous about using them every day; we've killed quite a lot of china on the cottage's stone floor. But the nice thing about buying modern ceramics from a living artist is that even if the worst happens, you can still replace them. That's the theory anyway.

If only life were as easy. I had a rather nasty encounter with a relation today, a sharp reminder of why I don't *do* family (in my case they are either ineffectual or downright bad news). It's one reason why I keep myself hidden away in this quiet life, as it brought back latent feelings of anxiety and stress which I've worked for years to dispel. It quite shook me up, but it also galvanized me into getting on with things and resurfacing - just in case anyone had missed me.

Backyard allotment

Back in January, our backyard was not fit to be seen. It looked like this. Then Andy put the polytunnel up and had a good tidy. We planted potatoes very early in March, all down the right hand side. It looked rather bare.

Later that month, he built a raised bed inside and made it all nice -

By April the main beds were being dug over -

Now, three months on, it all looks like this - click on for a larger look.

The small bed in front of the polytunnel holds broad beans on the left, peas in the middle, salad on the right and two lots of French beans just behind. We can barely get in the tunnel itself for the towering tomato plants and sprawling courgettes (that's zucchini to my US friends). On the left of the garden grow four types of potato, all the way up to the compost bin. And strawberries run riot, growing wherever we let them. We are not big believers in rigid lines.

Sow it close, pack it in, feed it well, water often. Stake when necessary.

Courgettes in pots -

- and courgettes in the raised bed under the tomatoes. They are attempting to escape the tunnel and have to be carefully stuffed back when we zip them in for the night.

Four types of tomatoes, in tubs and the raised bed jostle for space. I think we may have planted too many. We have big beefsteak Brandywine (courtesy of Janet), bog standard cherries, German Strawberry and Principe Borghese plum tomatoes for sauces.

A little army of frogs and toads police the slugs and snails; they love the polytunnel, safe from cats and moistly warm.

Dwarf beans in a tub -

- and at the back, more climbing beans, roses and a couple of types of squash - butternut and a heritage American type called 'Boston Marrow' given to me by a certain LB - if she is by any chance reading this, thank you! They are turning into triffids.

Last night after work I taught Andy how to pollinate the female squash flowers.

He has even looked after my precious herb and flower pots which annoy him so much when he trips over them.

In fact, I have been so swamped with work this year that it is safe to say there would not be a garden if it were not for Andy's diligent and careful tending. Without his constant husbandry, our little back yard would be an untidy weedpatch. So I am awarding him this medal. You've earned your stripes, garden soldier.

Wayzgoose 2010 - snippets

Decorative papers from John Purcell Paper

Stamps and assorted eclectic ephemera from Alan Brignull's Adanaland and the Hedgehog Press.

The Flagstone Press.

Type for sale.

Antique desktop printing press.

Blocks for sale.

Type set up on a proof press

First Folio Cards

The Incline Press

Wayzgoose 2010 organised by Oxford Guild of Printers