Butterfly confusion and the Mandela Effect

Have you ever heard of the Mandela Effect’? It’s a bit brain-twisty, but it’s one of my favourite conspiracy theories. Alternate universe kind of thing, worth looking up if you’re interested. Anyhow, last year, I discovered that the butterfly I’d always thought of as a Red Admiral, was actually a Painted Lady and that the Painted Lady was a Red Admiral. And I’d believed this ever since I was old enough to learn butterfly species, so really, most of my life. Or several decades.

How I managed this, as a self proclaimed nature lover,  I really don’t know, and to be honest, it’s so ingrained in me that I still think of these pretties as Red Admirals. Although since posting them to my Instagram feed and proudly declaring them to be Painted Ladies, a kind friend who really is an expert in these things told me (gently) that they were, in fact, Small Tortoiseshells. Anyway, these two butterfly things were happily suckling away on the thyme flowers this morning, and I crept up to quietly capture them in the best possible way. 

As for my life long mis-identification of Red Admirals etc, I am partially convinced that there has been some kind of Mandela Effect thing going on, and once upon a time I was correct in my belief,  before we slipped into what is our present day universe. I am, in a nutshell, slightly confused - but these are not Red Admirals. Or Painted Ladies.

Jam on a grey day

A grey day, brightened only by the red rambling rose scrambling over the fence. The much needed rain has finally arrived. Time to find a favourite book.

Somewhere in the freezer, last summer's gooseberries.

Deep in the depths of a store cupboard, rather old jam sugar, solidified into blocks.

Some gentle rolling.

 Looking alarmingly like a pan full of small frogs.

At last, after much boiling, it comes together. Somewhat runny, but with a tart sweetness.

Lumpy, bumpy rolls, soft and floury.

Breakfast.

Waking to rain

I wake to rain, the first we have had for weeks. The early morning light is pale and dull, falling like soft ash across the plaster walls of our bedroom, merging the old exposed paint layers into a pearlescent map, a mysterious, unexplored land of mists and grey seas.

The rain outside falls softly and steadily. A faint aroma of iron drifts through the thin, worn curtains, a metallic top note underlaid with the verdant aromas of parched vegetation drinking greedily, the wet fruitiness of dry earth swelling into a dark, moist cake.

Beyond the soft sound layer of muted splashing, there is faint, rhythmic clattering from the machinery of a mechanical farm beast working the fields, peppered with the piercing cries of small hedgerow birds. The silver lace of a blackbird’s song threads through, holding all together with a crescendo knot of joy.

Far distant, the bustling roar of a train rises and fades, disappearing to Beyond.

Bean pyramid

Another mysterious arrival appeared on the doorstep several days ago - or was it longer? I am honestly sinking into an even bigger time sink than normal, which is saying something. Again, I have no idea of who the sender is, but if they are reading this, we are both very touched and send many thanks. Joe looked a little worried as he counted twenty four cans of beans, until I told him that at the moment we are getting through five or six cans a week. I've even put them in a lasagna. 

Talking of pasta, we were also gifted a very generous box of it by a kind friend (whom I won't embarrass by naming, but they know who they are). I celebrated by making one of my favourite comfort foods - spaghetti and cheese. This can be as posh or not-posh as you like, depending on what you have available, which in this case was cheddar cheese, the last drizzle of olive oil, sea salt and ground black pepper, with a sprinkling of Worcestershire sauce. It's also nice with butter, but olive oil is my preference. In the distant past I've had it with just  standard margarine and soy sauce, which I ate nearly every day (and with pasta as well as spaghetti) when I've been hard up.  Things aren't that bad, by the way, but I still love this plain and comforting dish. (Don't tell any Italian food purists, but I have been known to put brown sauce on it too).

 

Since my last post, I have had a good hard think about how I am going to move my tiny business forward without access to the postal service, and the only credible option is to create PDF patterns. They are quite labour intensive, if done properly, however they have the advantage of being available to everyone, worldwide and without postal charges too. My photo area is pretty basic, but it's worked for me for many years. As you may be able to see, I've been designing a little cat. After a week of photographing the steps, I'm about to ensconce myself in front the computer and plod through the task of making the PDF. Fueled with beans, pasta and of course, rice; thank you kind friends!

Vintage trifle and brand new rice

After our UK lockdown was officially announced and we were still slightly in shock (even though we had been expecting it), I decided to make a comforting treat of trifle. I was sure I had the basic ingredients, including some stale home made fruit cake leftover from Joe's packed lunches which I'd saved 'just in case'. 

I rifled the shelf where my baking ingredients are and unearthed a packet of blackcurrant jelly, use by date 2007 and some (in date) packet instant custard. Also a tin of mangoes; it was going to be an odd combination, but trifle is, I thought, always nice.It just needed some 'hundreds and thousands', which I eventually found in a box of old cake decorating stuff.

Joe was in the kitchen as I was scattering them over the rather beige looking trifle. He'd been a bit concerned about the 2007 jelly, but I reassured him that it was only jelly, and what could possibly go wrong? Then I looked at the date on the lid. And even I was slightly shocked.

We worked out that if the 'best before' date was 1999, then they were probably bought a couple of years beforehand. This meant that these 20th century sprinkles pre-dated my blog by a good seven or eight years. Andy and I hadn't even moved to our little cottage in the Cotswolds then. These sprinkles were not only vintage, but a piece of history, and I had just flung a handful over my 'make do and mend' trifle. It was a frugality too far for Joe.

Strangely, at the end of our evening meals over the next few days, he was mysteriously 'full and couldn't eat another thing', so it was left to me to consume the beast. The last soggy helping was finished a few days ago. Served in a nice bowl, to make up for what I have to admit was a pretty unappealing dessert. I have not, as yet, suffered any side effects from consuming over two decades old sprinkles.  

Speaking of food, just before I sat down to share this tale of culinary delight, a large and heavy parcel arrived. I hadn't ordered anything, so it was a complete mystery, which revealed itself to be a whopping 10kg of jasmine rice! There was no accompanying note, and I am completely in the dark as to the thoughtful and generous sender. Rice has been on my 'I wish I could find' list for several weeks now, so you can imagine how welcome this is. On the off chance that the sender is one of my blog readers, I'd like to send a huge and heart felt thank you - every time we eat it, I will be reminded of the kindness of the anonymous 'someone'. And it will definitely be consumed by it's use by date. 

A letter to the Mars dweller

Hello to the citizen of Mars, reading this blog decades in my future. I like to think that blogs and the 'old' internet will prove to be a valuable historical research tool, in the same way that day to day diaries from the past are so fascinating to we Earth dwellers in the 21st century. I keep this blog occasionally updated for you, and for myself, so that my fifteen year old blog story doesn't suddenly end with a mysterious disappearance.

Despite a two month hiatus, for no other reason than I have nothing in particular to write about, I am surfacing again to record my experiences of the uncertain and often frightening period we find ourselves in; by the time you, dear Mars dweller, read this, it will have been given a name and doubtless many books and articles will have been written about it. So for you, my nameless reader, out there on another planet, these are the details of my life at present, inconsequential and trivial as they are. And despite some difficulties, I count my blessings every day.

 WORK

For the time being, my Etsy shop is closed. It's the longest period I've taken it offline and I did it with sadness and some trepidation, as it was a valuable source of  income, albeit a modest one. However it's impossible for me to post any parcels now; before 'lock down' (and not being near a Post Office) I could wait at the post box at the top of the road and hand prepaid parcels to the nice postie who collects the mail, but it's not a risk I'm prepared to take now, for her or myself. 

Joe is a key worker - he has his ID and a covering letter from his company, in case he gets stopped by the police. He has no choice but to go to work, as a mental health support worker. We are minimising his contact with people as much as we can; he gets a taxi to and from his place of work, paying online beforehand (to avoid cash). Previously he kept the cost down by using the 'school bus' in the mornings and evenings when he could, but of course even that stopped two weeks ago. As a key worker, he gets a fare discount, which helps. His company were ahead of the curve with the situation and were already taking stringent measures a week before the government announcement. So he's as safe as he can be, though I am happier when he is at home.  

FOOD

Food is not too bad. Living in the countryside without nearby shops or a car means that I always have at least two weeks worth of store cupboard and freezer food in hand. Almost all of our grocery shopping was, before this, done online. I took delivery of our last order ten days ago; a third of it was missing (and naturally those things were the things I wanted most; flour, pasta, rice etc). As my Etsy shop is shut, it will be the last delivery for sometime, while we haul our belts in. I have had several periods in my life when I was young and fending for myself, when I had little or no food and went hungry for days, living on one small meal or often nothing at all. More recently, Joe and I have been through similarly tough times, and had to ration food in order to pay the mortgage. So living simply is not an issue and I'm grateful for what we have, because there are people in far worse situations than we. 

Joe buys what he can from the 'we sell everything' shop near his workplace, just once a week to minimise contact. As long as we can get milk, bread and baked beans, we will be fine.

(I never thought I'd see the day when pasta become a once a week treat though; I hope that anyone who has stockpiled fifty bags or so actually eats it eventually).

 

 SELF ISOLATING

We live a secluded life as it is and I have never been so thankful to be where we are. Yet even here, in the Shropshire countryside, the normally busy road outside the cottage has been eerily quiet. At any other time this would be a cause for relief, but not under these circumstances. My day to day routine has barely changed; I've been out in public twice in the last five months and barely talk to anyone in 'real life' apart from Joe and the occasional video chat with a best friend. I'm an introvert by nature, but I do, strangely, like the 'chatter' of other people's normal lives going on around me and I miss it. 

There was a day, back in 2013, a few months after Andy died, when I was in the bedroom, on a summery Sunday afternoon, trying to play my guitar. It was silent, save for the odd car passing. I was slowly coming to terms with my loss and finding myself so totally alone, unable to easily get anywhere for human interaction, in a strange county where I knew no-one.  It occurred to me that I could die, there and then, and nobody would realise for at least a week. During that terrible period, I looked loneliness and isolation in the face, trembled and then I stared it down. I slowly accepted that this was how things were and built a life in which I could cope. It's rather bizarre that this limited way of life is temporarily the norm globally, and while I am adjusted to living in my small bubble, I feel for those who need day to day human interaction.

One day, hopefully, this will be over. Our world will return to some kind of normal, though drastically changed and with great sacrifice by so many, especially front line health workers, our modern day heroes. So to you, my future reader from Mars, I send a little wave from the past and to anyone else reading this at present. Stay safe, stay at home if you can and be kind, because without kindness, we really are borked.

(P.S - find me more regularly on my Instagram account)

Little white buttons

While searching through an old sewing basket the other day, I came across these old linen buttons. I've had them for many years and they are not unfamiliar; usually I  simply admire the packaging and place them back, but this day, I took a proper look at them. I'd guess they are Victorian in age, or at the latest, Edwardian. Most of the buttons are still there, unused. They have a robust metal plug in the centre, because after all, they were almost certainly everyday shirt buttons and had to be hard-wearing.

 

  

I looked more closely and realised that they were all neatly blanket stitched around the edge - and such tiny stitches. Although this shouldn't have been a surprise, because the packet does proudly boast 'hand-made' on the cover. But hand made by whom? As an everyday item, they would have been made in their thousands - mass produced, but not by a machine. I have a feeling that whoever made these would have been in much need of the pitifully low wage that would have been paid for the creation of these 'Superior Quality' buttons. 

Those painstaking little stitches have been preying on my mind as I wonder - who made them? I think it's safe to assume that this would have been 'women's work' or even a task for children in those days. Were they paid by the hundred? Per packet? How many of these innocuous buttons would have had to be stitched, in order to earn enough for a loaf of bread? Was anything paid at all? After all, workhouses and homes for 'bad girls' or single mothers were very much a feature for poor people back then, often perceived as feckless and undeserving. Perhaps sewing these was a required unpaid task to stop the 'Devil making work for idle hands'. 

Let's not forget that linen frays quite badly, especially at this size, so careful handling and concentration would have been required.

I think those industrious hands and fingers would have been quite sore at the end of a day's work, whoever was making them. So I put the packet back in the old basket where they live, with mixed feelings and sent a thought out to the anonymous sewer, who stitched these workaday buttons so beautifully, for so little reward.  

Unstitching and restitching

I've been playing around with embellishments for a while now and am very much enjoying adding fancy bits to my work. I'm not sure whether to call it 'darning' or 'weaving' - I think possibly darning, as it is working on top of a surface. Anyhow, one evening this week I spent some time adding some embroidery (or darning) bling to a tail, using a rather lovely tangerine Perle thread. 

It's a bit thicker than the Danish threads I've been using. I don't know whether it was the change in feel, or that I was tired; but it didn't work. I plodded on regardless. Always a mistake when you have that nagging gut feeling that you should stop. Now.

By the time I'd finished,  knew it was wrong. I'd also pulled some dark brown wool fibres up into the darn, muddying the glorious colour. Time to put it down and think about bed. 

Looking at it the next day, I knew what I had to do. Tiny sharp scissors did the job.

The problem wasn't with the darning addition, but with the area I was working on. The tail need to be longer and more rooster like. I set about adding extra tailage. (Not a real word).

Much better. More balance. More working area.

And start again.

*Some time* (two hours) later. I can't think why I didn't do it it like this in the first place.

Untangling the threads

I've been using these threads a lot recently, on some new needle felt work. They are mostly Danish flower cottons. They are harder to get hold of in the UK, but I much prefer them to the thicker, stranded DMC embroidery threads. I've had mine for over twenty years and have always stored them in a vintage 1960s chocolate box, which has become more battered over the years.

The colours are subdued, but have a natural richness to them which I love. However, as you can see, they have become somewhat muddled. Tidying this rainbow melange has been on my 'to-do' list for a very long time. And this year, I finally tackled it. 

Gradually and over several days, I untangled the rats nest of threads, finding it strangely soothing and most satisfying to see the neatly wound pile of card bobbins growing. There are little lessons to be learned, in that brute force will not make a knot disappear. The thread has to be gently coaxed and drawn out softly.

Coincidentally, I have been rummaging through old papers and discovering notes and poetry snippets scribbled out many years ago. One caught my eye. The poem, rather like my tangled threads, needed some rearranging and tidying. I'm not sure why I wrote it, or what I was doing at the time, but it does express some of the quiet comfort to be found in 'doing' with one's hands.

SONG OF SILK

There is darkness around her.

In the darkness, a basket.

She lifts the lid.

The shadows shift.

There is light in her hands.

In her hands, a needle.

The needle flashes.

The darkness retreats.

There is silk in the needle.

In the silk, a song.

The needle flies.

The silk sings.

The day begins.

Starting and finishing

Since losing Andy seven years ago, I find that the New Year doesn't really start until after the anniversary - for want of a better word - of his death. So today marks the finishing of my little batch of cards that I began painting a few weeks ago. It's also the first set of hand made cards I've made since then, intended for a few friends, especially those I don't have much contact with. 

I'm very aware that I have a tendency to drag these things out, so last year, when I had an idea for a design (and knew I wasn't going to do it then), I scribbled it down in a sketchbook.

When I came back to it, I redrew it slightly - just a biro scribble to give me a traceable image.

And an even rougher draft, taking away the loosely shaped 'pond'. I should add that the original plan was to make a lino cut, but the front room, where my press is set up, is unheated and freezing at this time of year.  I decided to hand paint them all.

I had in mind very rich, seasonal colours, but I couldn't make it work. Now I was starting to get myself in a bit of a knot about 'The Card'.

So I lightened the colours up and removed the background. It all went a bit pastel, but that was OK as it was a New Year card after all.

I printed the inner greeting out. In a perfect world I would have letter pressed it, but I couldn't face the cold print room and a need to just get it done led me to my trusty computer printer. Then I made a classic 'me' mistake and painted the first one up on the wrong side. Ho hum.

But  I took a deep breath and carried on. Not just painting, but adding coloured pencil and then not one but two grades of graphite pencil detail. Just to make it more of an effort, because I do have a tendency to make a meal of things.

And now it is the time of year that I dread the most. Some years are better, some worse. But today I have finished my final 2020 card and feel some small sense of achievement. My desk is clear and ready for my own personal New Year. I will make a pie for my lovely Joe and be thankful that I not only survived the worst time of my life, but somehow found the courage to love again. 

From the three 'Fish Kings', Joe and myself, I wish everyone reading this a belated Happy New Year. Here's to all our tomorrows.