tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16864676863354848262024-03-13T06:44:55.511-07:00grit's dayhome educator, now idler
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2818125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-37225766418227892512024-01-01T11:35:00.000-08:002024-01-01T11:35:35.208-08:00Maybe it's Narnia<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwboVK-DoNV5yIkGXE_5evfOGqWNIh28VFC-4Hu_3JoA_GvQb87rpOxOfH8XN-QIinjxA8jJzKb5MgxnzNZXbUY0qdPSKAhlvo25ZwKF1_dTpW-E0s035onANSKb0tO9GbdboHwawS5R4BrptQ3SISlM-MvPZwWLi4vO70c9cHjm_gqiMJndaAuOA/s1600/IMG-20231125-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwboVK-DoNV5yIkGXE_5evfOGqWNIh28VFC-4Hu_3JoA_GvQb87rpOxOfH8XN-QIinjxA8jJzKb5MgxnzNZXbUY0qdPSKAhlvo25ZwKF1_dTpW-E0s035onANSKb0tO9GbdboHwawS5R4BrptQ3SISlM-MvPZwWLi4vO70c9cHjm_gqiMJndaAuOA/s320/IMG-20231125-WA0000.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-78384578262088912362023-09-11T01:00:00.000-07:002023-09-11T01:00:03.546-07:00Well that was awful<p>I went on a 'Journaling Writing Masterclass' It was a birthday present to myself. Pft, it was awful. I left before it ended. </p><p>I'd like to say, I stood up and made a Manifesto Declaration of Journaling Creativity. Then I left dramatically, slamming the door behind me.</p><p>It wasn't like that. More like the rest of the classroom (I use that word deliberately) wished I'd get the hell out, so they could carry on, in peace, looking at commas. And the tense. </p><p>Tenses are important. Because, are you journaling using the present tense or the past tense? And don't forget to use descriptive language. This is also important, apparently.</p><p>Then not so much about Journaling. The way I understand journaling? That free-spirited, powerful, unaccountable, rush of creativity - do what moves you right there and then - this wonderful powerful surge of Here I Am, Making My Mark. This is the language for bereavement, betrayal, terror, desire, human urges that have gutteral sounds.<br /></p><p>No! Not this type of Journaling! This course is about<i> Literary </i>Journaling, Grit. Don't you understand What Journaling Means? It means getting your tenses in order in preparation for publication.</p><p>Well, my journaling fails, right here and now. My tenses are all over the fecking page, splattered and splattering, splatting and splinging. </p><p>The course, of course, was really about <i>writing for your writing improvement</i>. With all the implicit (and sometimes explicit) judgement that comes with that intent. Could do better. Improve it. Here are techniques the <i>best </i>writers use.<br /></p><p>In the end, they make the writing dead. Publishable, probably. But dead. Slabbed out on paper like lettering on a tombstone.</p><p>I'm still working out why I went! I think the word <i>Journaling </i>twinkled at me. And the promo, which used the type of phrases that I believe do exist in real life, emerging from writing your own thing: <i>life transforming, unique, original</i>. <br /></p><p>Well, those promises weren't delivered. The class was derivative, exclusive, unimaginative,
restrictive. With a sub-current of resentment that writing exists outside of tenses
(unless you are one of the chosen ones who are selected to validate the
whole). It demonstrated the worst of the Lit Heritage Establishment. Ignorant of life outside. <br /></p><p>Will they change? Probably not. I expect to see the same writing masterclass hooked onto any other literary form that the institution decides to promote. 'Biography Writing Masterclass'. 'Short Story Writing Masterclass'. 'Non-Fiction Writing Masterclass'. </p><p>You'll get exactly the same writing exercises that I did. And if you try and say the opposite, no matter how cack-handedly, awkwardly, socially inappropriate, like me, you'll be made so unwelcome you'll think, well I may as well go home. </p><p>Save your money, the hours, and waiting in the thunderstorm for the bus replacement service. </p><p>Journal at home.</p><p>Ironically, after I'd left (or been booted out, depending on your point
of view), I re-read the blurb, which promised an 'enthusiastic inclusive
environment'. At least that made me laugh. </p><p>And laughter - as any old reader of <i>Grit's Day</i> will know - is good. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-80836436112709275372023-05-05T01:25:00.001-07:002023-05-05T01:25:30.339-07:00ha ha ha ha ha ha <p>Oh! The contradictions, knots, twists, torturous reasonings! 'He's a man for the public.' 'He's a private man.' 'He's a king dedicated to serve.' 'He's his own man.' Whatever you want, you can project it on to Charles Windsor.</p><p>I'll have a go as well, then. </p><p>He's the head of a large, opaque, unaccountable, profitable corporation. </p><p>The aim of the business, apart from to reap a large amount of cash, is to protect the unequal contract made by the super-privileged, and imposed on everybody else. </p><p>The trick is, get me to agree to it. Create an abusive relationship where I can't leave and end up asking it for support. Throw me a kind word and I'll weep in gratitude.</p><p>Except I like to put my money where my mouth is. I already gave my silver coin to <a href="https://www.republic.org.uk/" target="_blank">Republic</a>. <br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-73198317192053928462023-03-30T02:05:00.002-07:002023-03-30T02:05:35.339-07:00Gates. Simple.<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk__HLZeRzxpLmS4ufBwKTnYM3lwywt30oVztwYXJnNRz9MUTd1UIeUdwOOitFEHAJPJVNK5ksJJAdnLwK3i-Te3phnd4-W5-CPQkL4JxYaeDQ43pcfuJvImDR3nn4xuUy9ivwMYR9A5SVxgbhIxLRTDz-IxaPtk814-obWL2I10CSVFbnwjm6nQ/s1600/IMG_20230329_181909365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk__HLZeRzxpLmS4ufBwKTnYM3lwywt30oVztwYXJnNRz9MUTd1UIeUdwOOitFEHAJPJVNK5ksJJAdnLwK3i-Te3phnd4-W5-CPQkL4JxYaeDQ43pcfuJvImDR3nn4xuUy9ivwMYR9A5SVxgbhIxLRTDz-IxaPtk814-obWL2I10CSVFbnwjm6nQ/s320/IMG_20230329_181909365.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>A pair of ordinary metal gates. If I could have gates this simple! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LWO1xAkjctWet6vcecaR1O3TaZ4DD-5FxmXdlTGGjQdh7oBPx3ddXPglBspBxkicMo5p4Vu7Kumvjsxe5hjmSTHbbWhju3RdsMjU5ZiSd1eoy_vvbh2m6QqC9x3Doty1MvvTNUeARBrE1EopDIdEeG1235G_XA_YUshqThAJDAFS-3QN4Mo6uQ/s1600/IMG_20230329_181921250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LWO1xAkjctWet6vcecaR1O3TaZ4DD-5FxmXdlTGGjQdh7oBPx3ddXPglBspBxkicMo5p4Vu7Kumvjsxe5hjmSTHbbWhju3RdsMjU5ZiSd1eoy_vvbh2m6QqC9x3Doty1MvvTNUeARBrE1EopDIdEeG1235G_XA_YUshqThAJDAFS-3QN4Mo6uQ/s320/IMG_20230329_181921250.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Perfectly suited to an industrial Victorian setting. Exactly the design style needed here.</p><p>The other day I popped in to the back of the Escape Room and asked if I could buy one. Just one of their gates. One would probably do the total gap of about 10 foot.</p><p>It would be smart to have two gates, so we could open them in the middle. </p><p>I guess those perfect metal gates would measure 150cm each side, if they're on two metal holding columns, one on either side (but I'm holding a floppy tape measure, so all my measures needs double-checking).</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjhAR-AwPp56cnfUKhxANPh3c2Q_WHiBTqAYFThcAUy9MnduFGI8ZSevunCQ9X1ipvGVt4vZQWTcevVXfpLU3xCgLknk24g-lfM64tA-3pkljLG-JgLDedcgEKzgVMQPzbo5cfqQftTnSbc-7WpQsRxsyfZDGn37SmA7ZY9rjKx3VIaFmgeoATg/s1600/IMG_20230329_181930718.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjhAR-AwPp56cnfUKhxANPh3c2Q_WHiBTqAYFThcAUy9MnduFGI8ZSevunCQ9X1ipvGVt4vZQWTcevVXfpLU3xCgLknk24g-lfM64tA-3pkljLG-JgLDedcgEKzgVMQPzbo5cfqQftTnSbc-7WpQsRxsyfZDGn37SmA7ZY9rjKx3VIaFmgeoATg/s320/IMG_20230329_181930718.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p>We don't need the letter box. I just like the brass-black combo. I like the handle too. And the rivets. I like those a lot.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnkOS9JYEN6OU0_8gzi7okFtg7pj-aShLH3GmitJc2JuAfzvbCX3H9972WZEDGoglUcziO3qc5HMQQPWRX6CDBYfxZ7furatXNTOYVyL1B-VctJ27esCBV9wO8vWZitAD1g8yJIbErvKmPuwXok8gLNno-uOXZ85K05IsWq1slym50mEHFTcxzA/s4096/IMG_20230329_181937831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4096" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnkOS9JYEN6OU0_8gzi7okFtg7pj-aShLH3GmitJc2JuAfzvbCX3H9972WZEDGoglUcziO3qc5HMQQPWRX6CDBYfxZ7furatXNTOYVyL1B-VctJ27esCBV9wO8vWZitAD1g8yJIbErvKmPuwXok8gLNno-uOXZ85K05IsWq1slym50mEHFTcxzA/s320/IMG_20230329_181937831.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Yes, it's this simple. We lift up the central bar and open the gates. Sigh. If only gates could be this simple!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Q0FjXQ3obrfnSuONmFmt6t9GnFc5lOolxet2KNkHLOU_7l3QsCcPMscUPQTz-ATdVEiTEn15v6lm7neB2OdpiNxwnv4fEHaFjNbJXyv33wuOedDegNVaRJA6tIQxEMIZhSeO87c60c7EhJuV44JqBkoWGKtejnVGOavR2CQX-uDd8PY0PGkNkA/s1600/IMG_20230329_182001318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Q0FjXQ3obrfnSuONmFmt6t9GnFc5lOolxet2KNkHLOU_7l3QsCcPMscUPQTz-ATdVEiTEn15v6lm7neB2OdpiNxwnv4fEHaFjNbJXyv33wuOedDegNVaRJA6tIQxEMIZhSeO87c60c7EhJuV44JqBkoWGKtejnVGOavR2CQX-uDd8PY0PGkNkA/s320/IMG_20230329_182001318.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>A column, one left, one right, holds them up. I'll measure those columns, when no-one's looking. I guess they're about 10cm. The gates hanging from them are lightweight. The sort of everyday, commercial style gates we see everywhere. </p><p>I can't seem to get hold of them though.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSaiLhJflHVqdbJOgn-j09WGqQxT8mHVbdPr7BH430kTPAVmpL7jZv3md_2wCGY-l64QCRG0pNrt2c-oOsQYuK18CwqxOFaV8q4u0KD6szjn5aejdQlm8xRXlegvI7wUyjZRhST3lnBZAxn0YTexzF_V0A8UXEn7MDUfjRrwqiRYPYc2HdnKgbA/s1600/IMG_20230329_182013072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSaiLhJflHVqdbJOgn-j09WGqQxT8mHVbdPr7BH430kTPAVmpL7jZv3md_2wCGY-l64QCRG0pNrt2c-oOsQYuK18CwqxOFaV8q4u0KD6szjn5aejdQlm8xRXlegvI7wUyjZRhST3lnBZAxn0YTexzF_V0A8UXEn7MDUfjRrwqiRYPYc2HdnKgbA/s320/IMG_20230329_182013072.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I agree these ordinary, metal, non-see-through gates look like this, normally. (Huh, Asee, or whatever that tag reads.)</p><p>The gates I've considered lifting from the Escape Room Car Park are painted black. That's all. </p><p> Ahhh. It all seems so simple. </p><p><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-81635445839695964222022-11-18T04:56:00.002-08:002022-11-18T04:56:52.474-08:00Come and See me... Knicker Drawer Note Books <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7qCKIjmV2eUQYZMdafMj6yzIWfyGdSqqJGSS5DvGnGQe0E5EZzgm2l24M9aqRtAN0pOR006jl-lifumS5EMbq-3DQ2Wos3VTYU0FTMaTUDtrertNsPCaFLURVGPseeyG-Zkx1sdYoQChpwyhamqIPE9D2sBgYMgLmyVSaj4DXBw1plwhaJuK1w/s4896/P1240035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7qCKIjmV2eUQYZMdafMj6yzIWfyGdSqqJGSS5DvGnGQe0E5EZzgm2l24M9aqRtAN0pOR006jl-lifumS5EMbq-3DQ2Wos3VTYU0FTMaTUDtrertNsPCaFLURVGPseeyG-Zkx1sdYoQChpwyhamqIPE9D2sBgYMgLmyVSaj4DXBw1plwhaJuK1w/s320/P1240035.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AZvND-U9gdfo-WRtAX1tyuPnUdmDqFxLho5sMtRYRaK_6VmTC0MTAmj_Vg5eUdBlJrMPhxgDRlNYhM9fOi0S4j4NmunabyUBxIco3cw2n0x_zvnKEVK3H4t_WXr6A03-H_VF8lB_yPHhv8fkDCM1xwJ56OhhuABXqMKzMuLAqXYxatz1m4FnyQ/s4896/P1240034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PQLtX6m6CvbO3F95UWd09Tj3vIAMyLORfV4fyrC1s4zjB_bNg_Zreh8wmOuO_Fz4P-adyhgB-13q0eXvJJy66wm3_dSXrQuKnULkFgZ0745Jml5mbBT1jdhG5PwZlfCgSBbjLw6gsksJeP5xr9WYe3SV2YjPt-hmH13DXR0vsV16zauWgWwTaQ/s4896/P1240025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PQLtX6m6CvbO3F95UWd09Tj3vIAMyLORfV4fyrC1s4zjB_bNg_Zreh8wmOuO_Fz4P-adyhgB-13q0eXvJJy66wm3_dSXrQuKnULkFgZ0745Jml5mbBT1jdhG5PwZlfCgSBbjLw6gsksJeP5xr9WYe3SV2YjPt-hmH13DXR0vsV16zauWgWwTaQ/s320/P1240025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">Knicker Drawer Note Books is at the Christmas Craft Fair,
Village Hall, Cosgrove MK19 7J. This Saturday and Sunday 19th/20th
November 2022, 10.00am - 4.00pm. Love xx</span></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-28844742938781298502022-04-26T10:37:00.002-07:002022-10-13T10:47:52.694-07:00Big Old Bad Bruiser Gets Haircut<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBmEVmYAeTnhgoqUZq9Js_3bNYJnKuQzBxIV5vtfl09o7QJtZCx2hvKzUM_N3h9xwCjTchNOW2EFSOSrDITsWoS7gY9AbNxDFoXMzgjh3WNrN3gUl3-qlHns088HQvxPY4RIL8QlKPGMOaoV8ojn5vlDdJXT39om1xq4Xk2l6wN_uY0UfH9Blvw/s4896/P1230798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBmEVmYAeTnhgoqUZq9Js_3bNYJnKuQzBxIV5vtfl09o7QJtZCx2hvKzUM_N3h9xwCjTchNOW2EFSOSrDITsWoS7gY9AbNxDFoXMzgjh3WNrN3gUl3-qlHns088HQvxPY4RIL8QlKPGMOaoV8ojn5vlDdJXT39om1xq4Xk2l6wN_uY0UfH9Blvw/s320/P1230798.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Tough decision, to sever someone in their prime... but at least they're less likely to come smashing through the roof, come next storm.<br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-81167840563240543992022-02-13T02:21:00.003-08:002022-11-26T10:03:43.698-08:00Alternative Valentines<p>The people I've loved most, I've usually wanted to push them off a cliff. </p><p>The ones who rouse my murderous id - they're the ones who get properly under a skin, electrically wired down to my fingerend nerve endings, pulsing into the emotional heartbeat to a life. </p><p>They're the voice in the head and the drum beat telling me daybreak is here.</p><p>With them I laugh more than anyone else in the world; I listen to them, argue with them, tell them to shut up for a blasted minute while I'll defend their nonsense, their bizarre behaviour and their right to be bonkers, down to my last breath. </p><p>I'll restore them, rebel against them, and turn my red blood into revenge for them.<br /></p><p>It's contradictory, love, and on my Valentine's Day, unicorns don't appear. Neither do fairies, lovehearts, cute fluffy things with big eyes, and all the rest of the diamond sparkle spinning in the star-lit skies blah blah blah.</p><p>Love. In my world it's blood, guts, viscera. This had to be.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihrtLUsQqQmSsPiDW9YGCN4L1PNGwrAbfJE5EvCdxbv1a8JOsDAPJSLrQkDkxjZmM0IsKDllxUSaD2Pabfn8vzrnZ7uV48ffvsvvGUIZ0t7KKhhyoYmndHhoZr5K_dQSnEeRM-VLsdMhK5p9oQWBw7if0R0Tvzo2e1XoghlpRI4nfCgCTCDLY7Rw=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihrtLUsQqQmSsPiDW9YGCN4L1PNGwrAbfJE5EvCdxbv1a8JOsDAPJSLrQkDkxjZmM0IsKDllxUSaD2Pabfn8vzrnZ7uV48ffvsvvGUIZ0t7KKhhyoYmndHhoZr5K_dQSnEeRM-VLsdMhK5p9oQWBw7if0R0Tvzo2e1XoghlpRI4nfCgCTCDLY7Rw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8KyyyysSIkYNlMN3992-8NNwmnLnK-7H0b8V9HEiVr8pvzo9ZkYBE8KXCOUkVrj_ByKi5K-oLwH_yzXPh8Fstp_p6i2JZzuu1ZGTbu_r_W6Baeg1PTqJyVP29NCa0eWAe_NLt-6GsrvWor76xQ00jqc5qiOnKdnA1SN8ZLoNyZ9C8iYYCYhhCEQ=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0ToN6Cg8GYuDOAbcjcxP6r8w0DYK2bmkUy2W4vlRwr14g1opVntpkUbHKai04pDgOnofJuuAl6DrB1My-Axc7B_PMexd9P1AjFgvbGY-_pDEg5zX1CWXsc0W3CtmMK6Mjx8wrEUYdqdbrxFb8MSpuXtWzmjKQA7brDQahs6zT7nq_Ann3mt0jXw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7M7F0KWu8nWE4q6lmiZ3k4ZRAJKbcO-IW4kVsjT8LIWHGy98xMtvAc8_mDVZjSP7H8db07a0KRL7VL7oCgPKdq4-Le0RN8tEKrW7VVlDFpLf5Y5hRBE7UCTb2GtbRvT4Ui5msEcRnfo-9NLrwzeoezm_43uUxS5DIGSLs27h4nXomGvuyl2_5Dg=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7M7F0KWu8nWE4q6lmiZ3k4ZRAJKbcO-IW4kVsjT8LIWHGy98xMtvAc8_mDVZjSP7H8db07a0KRL7VL7oCgPKdq4-Le0RN8tEKrW7VVlDFpLf5Y5hRBE7UCTb2GtbRvT4Ui5msEcRnfo-9NLrwzeoezm_43uUxS5DIGSLs27h4nXomGvuyl2_5Dg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-26088899121078928842021-12-08T02:30:00.003-08:002022-11-26T10:04:32.142-08:00Liars, mocking the values we live by<p>Values? Just boring stuff, like decency, honesty, fair dealing. Not creeping around, lying, deceiving, saying <i>cat </i>when you really mean <i>dog</i>. </p><p>But I suppose feeling in charge of the language you use makes you feel superior. Maybe we could all join them, yes? We could each be in charge of the interpretation of the words we use. We could say <i>Yes </i>when we mean <i>No</i>. We could say, <i>I love you</i> when we mean <i>I don't love you</i>, and we could say <i>I care</i> when we mean <i>I don't care</i>. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBdvRmr_6-kVlXEPDNS8znSZn5wtv0QTKnrknmK9CdWQzieFV7oFCMp9C9duct0jye1equ6rojBjoU8t8Gy_wN5ajTwsJ4WBLaHUtOxSuia-uYsKGvvcQ5eW_fJttHMygwTXS3lYHqs2F_4-uyMYoJ4ztoMKllrMkJWCNsN0hCIedn-FWZmB-X_Q=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBdvRmr_6-kVlXEPDNS8znSZn5wtv0QTKnrknmK9CdWQzieFV7oFCMp9C9duct0jye1equ6rojBjoU8t8Gy_wN5ajTwsJ4WBLaHUtOxSuia-uYsKGvvcQ5eW_fJttHMygwTXS3lYHqs2F_4-uyMYoJ4ztoMKllrMkJWCNsN0hCIedn-FWZmB-X_Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>If we did that, then we could laugh, too. We could laugh at our superior ability to trick, deceive, mock and belittle.<br /></p><p>I'm not sure I want to join that tribe. To be honest, I want to find more constant values. I want to believe those values I find are shared by others. I don't want to join the smirking faces whose words you can never trust.</p><p>Johnson and each one of his tribe, I want to be honest to my response. I want to say to each of you, <i>You're an absolute little shit</i>. </p><p>You do not represent the values I live by. Your deceit is not my shame. The shame is yours.<br /></p><p><br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-53476879957783159482021-11-19T11:32:00.005-08:002022-09-15T02:13:14.621-07:00Knicker Notes Goes Exploring<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheiBWAMfvz5uw449sZle_tfWxXzxkS5Ok0vJz8z3QvTHrPj0fCOg3qRl4Hw0nUOEBi0FGPyEUN-rIA3yBB6U0z4AjmkK6Je6U-yf4NRb4KMiv7XD7F8lWE21DcCE0igWMlM6cwB_c0IvbdHqPwq-Ezilytb-7fUWpEefh_JkpedUO9twd8kO4h1g=s1948" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1948" data-original-width="1294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheiBWAMfvz5uw449sZle_tfWxXzxkS5Ok0vJz8z3QvTHrPj0fCOg3qRl4Hw0nUOEBi0FGPyEUN-rIA3yBB6U0z4AjmkK6Je6U-yf4NRb4KMiv7XD7F8lWE21DcCE0igWMlM6cwB_c0IvbdHqPwq-Ezilytb-7fUWpEefh_JkpedUO9twd8kO4h1g=s320" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><p>A splendid Steampunk Convivial at Gloucester, where a lovely time was had by all. </p>I
showed great self-restraint and didn't come home with a portrait of
myself as a spirit guide in the Netherworlds. (Maybe next time.)grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-41010223857865349182021-05-21T02:48:00.003-07:002022-11-26T10:04:15.767-08:00How orange is my Fungi<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Io8sR3oUrc/YKeB3-6eMAI/AAAAAAAAAes/gJ-Y4BTePHE3_zhxWrH4iAK1BYj1Pi4xgCLcBGAsYHQ/s4896/P1220524.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Io8sR3oUrc/YKeB3-6eMAI/AAAAAAAAAes/gJ-Y4BTePHE3_zhxWrH4iAK1BYj1Pi4xgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1220524.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-83853873091992107392021-04-29T09:40:00.003-07:002022-11-26T10:04:54.428-08:00A Baby ate a Curry and This Happened<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e1uerqOKejw/YIrf9ChGiuI/AAAAAAAAAdU/Dzr87BOKhccXYn1hFi22Dkf0hzrZ2sxfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s4896/P1220303.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e1uerqOKejw/YIrf9ChGiuI/AAAAAAAAAdU/Dzr87BOKhccXYn1hFi22Dkf0hzrZ2sxfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1220303.JPG" /></a></div> <p></p><p>My new kitchen wall colour. Not up for negotiation and no compromise.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H2nu54xCGCc/YIrgE8jl79I/AAAAAAAAAdc/cTom-_6QLdM7oLGrO8Haa3xumSSEBGmHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4896/P1220304.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H2nu54xCGCc/YIrgE8jl79I/AAAAAAAAAdc/cTom-_6QLdM7oLGrO8Haa3xumSSEBGmHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1220304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nsqxDR8CldE/YIrgBpv3kJI/AAAAAAAAAdY/bsG130hUXEU8vONSC6qbriMPY1oUYEzfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s4896/P1220302.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nsqxDR8CldE/YIrgBpv3kJI/AAAAAAAAAdY/bsG130hUXEU8vONSC6qbriMPY1oUYEzfwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1220302.JPG" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Thank you Peepah, for <i>everything</i>.<br /></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-37906412443116324902020-10-23T11:13:00.002-07:002020-10-23T11:13:51.180-07:00Salvage from the local skip<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SO9yYG3wHgc/X5MdQURRfyI/AAAAAAAAWfg/N8YsxM_YW8Y_hd4LtowSZvNgS02igGIAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s4896/P1210835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SO9yYG3wHgc/X5MdQURRfyI/AAAAAAAAWfg/N8YsxM_YW8Y_hd4LtowSZvNgS02igGIAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210835.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-83986910200907426852020-10-14T10:46:00.020-07:002023-09-11T01:18:32.526-07:00Another freakin' makeover<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-19bJ4bwnOsU/X4c2ZBGuVEI/AAAAAAAAATs/kxDqc7Qeuv8xAiujEsNx6ZLWGTm0Yil9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/P1210787-400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-19bJ4bwnOsU/X4c2ZBGuVEI/AAAAAAAAATs/kxDqc7Qeuv8xAiujEsNx6ZLWGTm0Yil9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210787-400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Welcome to my Steampunk Workshop. Making it up, by ourselves. In progress. Mezzanine floor, supported by scaffolding (expensive) and original Victorian cast iron drain pipes (cheap, from the scrap yard).</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsEBPqdi8RQ/X4c2eYM9cUI/AAAAAAAAATw/LguqvuLwfs0DB3ka0qQmrnQqe7Y262QqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/P1210800-400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsEBPqdi8RQ/X4c2eYM9cUI/AAAAAAAAATw/LguqvuLwfs0DB3ka0qQmrnQqe7Y262QqQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210800-400.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p>Copper tank to be dining table. Thank you Peepah!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXTi_fgMAe4/X4c2iPyQsHI/AAAAAAAAAT0/4MMggfWZemQ9CYoS5H4na0qVyFWitqImgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/P1210801-400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wXTi_fgMAe4/X4c2iPyQsHI/AAAAAAAAAT0/4MMggfWZemQ9CYoS5H4na0qVyFWitqImgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210801-400.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Column, painted up, waiting to be a shower. It's going into the inspection pit.<br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eb7ciljweio/X4c2mP0s66I/AAAAAAAAAT4/-_DbqfQW3NcnWOQzyTA-rc6CNjSjSDLmACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/P1210805-400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eb7ciljweio/X4c2mP0s66I/AAAAAAAAAT4/-_DbqfQW3NcnWOQzyTA-rc6CNjSjSDLmACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210805-400.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Beautiful little window on the upper floor, with shutter, overdesigned. Metal framed window rescued from a pile destined for the tip. Little lock works beautifully. I'm told it came from an outhouse. (Freecycle at its best, I'd say.)</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5ROUZz28RQ/X4c2oAV0fRI/AAAAAAAAAT8/LyvcycViWacXruIe-mnGcMLh8LxDDOA0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/P1210796-400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5ROUZz28RQ/X4c2oAV0fRI/AAAAAAAAAT8/LyvcycViWacXruIe-mnGcMLh8LxDDOA0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/P1210796-400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Rrrraaahhh! With many thanks to Mr M and Mr R for sharing ideas, creative processes, thoughts, whimsies, and everyday laughter. I've not taken a welding course and have not yet had a go with the angle grinder, so much yet to learn. </p><p></p><p>Still to come: more painting, table, sink, suspended bed, sofa, swing, toilet, Belfast sink (thank you Freecycle), kitchen table, shower, lighting, solar heated water store, outdoor dining area...<br /> </p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-54289764898692962132020-09-23T05:26:00.003-07:002022-11-26T10:07:17.948-08:00Best memories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G9bFVHd00eA/YIv35f0Vx6I/AAAAAAAAAds/KFhAvCT5Q-oFUHMCmY2_trn_Lxb0E1E8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s762/2015-09-17-1537_received_1655406568026783.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="762" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G9bFVHd00eA/YIv35f0Vx6I/AAAAAAAAAds/KFhAvCT5Q-oFUHMCmY2_trn_Lxb0E1E8QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2015-09-17-1537_received_1655406568026783.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-68446461978063800692020-07-22T07:14:00.001-07:002022-11-26T10:05:23.708-08:00The Border Force know where I liveMy left knee is bigger than my right knee.<br />
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My left knee is bigger than my right knee after I fell off a mountain bike in the French Alps, having run away in June at the first sniff of a lifted-lockdown travel restriction, (I just said it was to join the circus) but definitely in the company of Mr X whom I met (before lockdown) at a comedy club.<br />
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I know it sounds unlikely. Tiger pointed out (quite rightly) I had known Mr X for less time than she had known a bag of lentils.<br />
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My only reply was that I also carry a Best Before date so I had better get moving.<br />
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Maybe my tribe could mark my death date with reminiscences of that time Mother threw back the front door, shouting, <i>I'm going to France. Don't ask me where, but I'll be back in about a month. Please water the lobelia</i>.<br />
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Anyway, I have returned home. I have had a jolly good time and the Border Force know where I live.<br />
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Also, Knicker Drawers is getting back to business.<br />
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<br />grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-29717821374868287712020-06-04T12:58:00.003-07:002020-06-04T12:58:55.152-07:00Old tank gets trashed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A day from which all other days can flow; the 6x4x2 tank in the garage, which has been an eyesore, impediment and a hated old lump of metal just asking for a recycling centre, finally gets lifted up by a crane and taken out of my house.<br />
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Good riddance you bastard and I hope you get crushed and beaten up before being made into something more useful to society.<br />
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Got that off my chest. Can get on with building an artist's studio now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-1999201549233120622020-06-02T13:17:00.003-07:002020-06-02T13:17:34.827-07:00Nice Arse, Aunt Fanny and Lovely JugsI don't know about all you single people out there, but Grit is not doing so well in these times of LOOK DON'T TOUCH. <br /><br />I sorely miss all the hugging and handing of my normal days, when connecting with friends through welcome clasps with kisses, hello and goodbye, was happily normal. <br /><br />And that's before I get onto the subject of missing out on the Pensioner Sex.* <br /><br />I can't wait for this horrible LOOK DON'T TOUCH phase of lockup to be over. <br /><br />But the British are supposed to be so repressed about touch and intimacy, aren't we, that maybe we're accustomed to this new lockdown code, LOOK DON'T TOUCH.<br />
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Hmm. Right now I wish I could be Dutch. I read how one of their lockdown rights was a Bedroom Buddy. Imagine!<br /><br />Yet of course we have a silver lining to this traditionally repressed British state. We are absolutely bloody brilliant pioneers in the language of <i>nudge nudge wink wink</i>.<br /><br />In which spirit, I am delighted to launch my soon to be (unsuccessful) business line for this new phase of LOOK DON'T TOUCH lockdown. Where we single folks can regard a nice arse from a distance, no touching allowed.<br /><br />My <i>Nice Arse</i>, <i>Aunt Fanny</i> and <i>Lovely Jugs</i>.<br />
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Suitably British LOOK DON'T TOUCH naughty words and thoughts with traditional lead print to stamp into your Knicker Drawer Note Book.<br />
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Or just hang it from your doorknob. It's up to you. The police aren't watching on this one.<br />
<br />
On sale soon at the Knicker Drawer stand in Vintage Number 38, if you're local. And if you aren't, you'll have to make your own.<br /><br />(Nice bum, by the way. I've been regarding it for quite a while and I just thought I'd mention it.)<br />
<br />
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sure to increase the blog statcounter by a few hundred readers, every one of
them to be quickly disappointed.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-44861365251007077022020-05-23T05:27:00.001-07:002023-09-11T01:19:05.749-07:00Satisfying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It became very important to do this today: put some battery-operated fairy lights in a metal cage and find the best space to perch it. Two hours of amusement for which I probably need to thank lockdown.grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-55812872359200937142020-05-19T12:52:00.006-07:002023-09-11T01:21:28.360-07:00To the Post Office, which is not the pointWalked to the post office today.<br />
<br />
I feel I should record it.<br />
<br />
It's either 'Walked to the post office today', or 'I have consumed eight packets of chocolate biscuits during lockdown, which I am declaring is my contribution to the national economy in a time of crisis and you can send me a letter of thanks anytime from now, Boris'. That would do also.<br />
<br />
But I prefer the diary update to be about the post office.<br />
<br />
Thinking about it, it wasn't really the walk to the post office.<br />
<br />
It is that my knowledge about social judgement has become a bit dimmed. I think this is largely because there is no social.<br />
<br />
I set off down the street wearing the leggings I have slept in for two nights and worn for three days. They got a bit hot to wear, so rather than take them off - they are comfortable - this morning I took a pair of scissors and cut them off to the knee.<br />
<br />
The tee-shirt I am wearing in no way complements the leggings colour, but even in bright purple it is serviceable, with its oil stain and some toothpaste dribble over one bosom.<br />
<br />
The shoes, I changed. This year I found an old pair of flatties while clearing a cupboard. But the velcro fastenings were non-functional; the leather has stretched. The top and bottom velcro patches no longer meet. I cut the leather, shortened it, got it under the sewing machine and voila! My velcro sticks! Add <i>shoe repair </i>to my list of talents!<br />
<br />
The straw summer hat is essential, because I am sure it is the sun and not my kissing distance to 60 years that has wrinkled me (albeit attractively). As I leave the house in my bed and tee-shirt attire with my upcycled flatties, Squirrel casually says, 'You have a safety pin in your hat'.<br />
<br />
Safety pins can come in useful, I tell her. You never can find one when you want one, so I keep one in my hat just in case.<br />
<br />
Regarding all other social niceties somehow expected of women - make up, smooth legs, fragrance of scents and perfumes, knickers, a functioning bra - I never thought about those at all until I got home.<br />
<br />
I just set off with my set of brass rods wrapped in brown paper.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if I care if the look of me is in any way socially agreeable - perhaps lockdown relieved me of those responsibilities. Maybe we can all change completely the presence of ourselves on the High Street, if we ever take to it again.<br />
<br />
I think I might re-emerge, when it is all done, wearing my favourite goth corset and super-comfy Fly London boots.* And my black top hat, on which I have wound ribbons that flutter in the breeze. I rock that look. In my opinion. It will feel, just fantastic.<br />
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* <span style="font-size: x-small;">Not a sponsored post. They're just my favourite boots.</span><br />
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<br />grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-36466285272146970832020-05-17T05:29:00.003-07:002022-11-26T10:07:06.150-08:00Crap memories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ouO0HUTIgnE/YIv4VNUEYfI/AAAAAAAAAd0/N_FcHpjcIvI1D1tKXnYu1i_SArzlfME7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/2016-03-28-1023_P1100692-1200.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ouO0HUTIgnE/YIv4VNUEYfI/AAAAAAAAAd0/N_FcHpjcIvI1D1tKXnYu1i_SArzlfME7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/2016-03-28-1023_P1100692-1200.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-68809630174554185412020-05-11T05:44:00.002-07:002022-11-26T10:07:46.235-08:00Now, you only get to see the ceilingThis diary entry is for those people who stared inside our office 2010 to 2019.<br />
<br />
Recall a dishevelled-looking bloke? He was maybe wearing his pants like men do in their sheds, with a barely buttoned shirt, pre-dribbled, topped by an old cardigan. The glass doors behind him? Faked on a green screen. In reality, one was smashed.<br />
<br />
I loved my husband dearly, despite what you might have suspected (or been told), and certainly if you saw inside our office and came to a very definite conclusion - here was a sad man abandoned!<br />
<br />
Nope. He was loved! Utterly. The landfill he made of the office was not loved.<br />
<br />
Think yourself fortunate. You saw this chaos from your safe side of a plastic screen. There you could sigh and tut and do whatever before slipping back to your normality. I bet you felt sorry for him. Hmm. Misplaced sympathies. I lived with this state, powerless to do anything about it, too respectful of, 'don't touch my stuff'.<br />
<br />
'It's my stuff!' covered the hole in the ceiling, piles of ancient papers, collections of magazines and manuscripts from 1974, a cellar full of computer equipment from the 1980s, peeling paint, 100kg of cabling, cassettes, floppy disks, piles of gadgets and a variety of indescribable items whose only redeeming feature was that they didn't have real hair.<br />
<br />
And the smell. Let's call a spade a bloody shovel. If you have lived with a teenager who locks their bedroom door, closes the windows and draws the curtains, then you can imagine the smell coming from the office. It was very similar.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that time my office colleague absent-mindedly threw a dead bird in the bin? That is not endearing. That is a health hazard.<br />
<br />
Anyway, those days are gone! I no longer feel the need to put a bag over my head when I realise someone saw the office.<br />
<br />
These days, my office / flat / rooms of elegance / hand-made kitchen is now transformed. And it is fecking amazing.<br />
<br />
I threw open the doors and windows, scrubbed the carpet, hired the roofers, painted surfaces, dumped furniture, offered a ton of stuff to happy hands on freecycle, sent 50 metres of books to the charity shop, dismantled shelves, installed a Victorian overmantle above the fireplace previously blocked by a bookcase and seven blankets, enjoyed my repaired glass door and sold anything of value on ebay.<br />
<br />
I'm happy to say - if you are one of many previous guests invited via video link to this office - you'll never see this wonderful space. Maybe you can look at the ceiling - the old office is transformed to my new rooms.<br />
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Enjoy your happy memories.grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-32987705005101696622020-05-07T06:37:00.003-07:002022-11-26T10:09:52.414-08:00Think of the good things...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
There are some positives about lockdown, huh?<br />
<br />
Not the awful consequences of this horrendous virus; I can't go there without fear of being quickly overwhelmed into numbed silence.<br />
<br />
Nor the daily challenge of frugal living thanks to a diminishing income. Not that either. Anyway, frugality is normal.<br />
<br />
Nor the way I get to experiment with the limits of my personal hygiene! Although it has advantages. Three weeks and no shower! (And no running water in my little bolt-hole flat because I can't afford it).<br />
<br />
And not being able to go out to find human company of my own interests and dispositions. That is Not Good. That is The Worst Thing Ever about lockdown.<br />
<br />
But here is to count the good things!<br />
<br />
Clear, clean air. Air that does not get in the way. Precisions of colours and shapes I can observe from my laying down flat-out position by the hedge where no-one can see me.<br />
<br />
The garden robin, who is running a mealy worm protection racket. (I have seen <i>The Birds.</i>)<br />
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<br />
Time, that I cannot avoid, to do things I have long put off. Clean the hob, paint the ceiling, clear out the garage, scour the fridge, put up shelves, hoist out the overmantle etc etc.<br />
<br />
Zoom, which I have used, once in terror and with the growing, horrible realisation that people can actually see me in my private space, so next time better tidy up a bit and put on a bra. But I am counting it as good (and not bad) because it is engaging me with the 21st century!<br />
<br />
Reading, more consistently, for longer, and not just to page 11.<br />
<br />
Making things, and not just a mess, but things with wire and glass and ribbons and hooks and bits you find at the backs of drawers to hold up and wonder, 'Can I use this instead?'<br />
<br />
Taking longer to do anything and everything.<br />
<br />
If I am going to hold onto one positive outcome from lockdown, it is this. To consciously think and interact and shape my environment in more deliberate ways; slower, with greater thought for ahead, than behind.<br />
<br />
grithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16226694611852295676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-52305902044599196102020-05-06T10:04:00.001-07:002020-05-10T10:19:58.144-07:00Let the Burning Begin!In the national spirit of flagellation I'd like to confess my crimes regarding<i> flaunting the lock down rules</i>!<br />
<br />
This is entirely in consideration of the fact that soon we open our doors, windows, garden gates to let all the grudges go free.<br />
<br />
Then we can stare at the neighbours properly for the first time in weeks. No longer will we be forced to peer at each other from behind net curtains, clutching a pen and logging down their crimes in a Lockdown Grudge Book.*<br />
<br />
Huh, I am Grit. I want to get in first before the neighbours grass me up.<br />
<br />
Read my charge sheet and <i>gasp</i>.<br />
<br />
1. Visiting another household with <i>a birthday card</i>.<br />
Prepare the bundles of wood for the fire. I am guilty. In mitigation, the birthday card was to celebrate an 18th, after the father of the tribe left the family for another woman in the same fortnight his wife faced a diagnosis of breast cancer while her mother was diagnosed with dementia. (I couldn't make this up.) On balance, propping up a home-made birthday card on the drive while dancing and blowing kisses seemed like the smallest thing I could do. I accept, in the eyes of any particularly scrutinising neighbour, it remains possibly the biggest crime of all.<br />
<br />
2. Furtively sloping off to <i>Lidl</i>, late at night, to stock up on Vermouth, crisps and chocolate biscuits. (I wish I could say this was only once.) Definitely guilty. No mitigating circumstances. Set light to the wood torches.<br />
<br />
3. Driving to <i>another household</i> to drop a black bin liner at the front door. But this is not the actual crime! The other household got out garden chairs so we could sit 6 foot apart in the drive in full view of the neighbours! PS. The black bin liner contained stuff from an office clear out. Non-essential. (Unless you value the turn-out from an office.)<br />
<br />
4. Returning to <i>the scene of the crime</i> to pick up CAKE. The Nation Your Honour, this was more than my anticipated reward for a load of old paper from an office clear-out. But what could I do? I was offered CAKE for feck's sake. Let the processional train of witch-burners begin the sorry journey to the pyre.<br />
<br />
5. Accepting a visit from Mr M. (who is a proper artist), who had cleared out his workshop and wanted to shove a load of glass our way. I have nothing to offer in mitigation but weakness motivated by my own greed and the overwhelming desire to see if I can melt glass in a barbecue. We talked about, among other things, my home-made bike shed which was an unavoidable participant in the conversation since we had to sit on either side of it.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">My bike shed what I built at the bottom of the garden. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Lock down Project Number 8.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Mr M was kind enough to say that my bike shed resembles Caribbean architecture circa 1980. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">He also suggested that with a few pots and pans I could try living in it.</span></div>
<br />
The Nation Your Honour, here are my ugly truths laid bare. I accept my fate. As the Chief Burners pop to Lidl to buy a box of matches, I would like to add, if we are to be released to judge each other remorselessly without let or hindrance, then, in my opinion, as a motivating factor to flaunt lockdown, adultery is morally worse than effecting an 18th birthday surprise.<br />
<br />
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">Of course I can sell you a book for your Lock down Grudges!</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-1895897552321299932020-05-05T10:32:00.000-07:002020-05-06T10:33:12.024-07:00Anything is possible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here's an illustration of a chicken. Just as a memo to myself that there is no subject out of bounds, especially in a note book, and I will rise to any challenge.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1686467686335484826.post-29840313867378757932020-05-04T10:23:00.000-07:002020-05-06T10:24:06.049-07:00Kitchen JournalSometimes I make a note book and I just want to keep on going, playing with it, dressing it up, shoving things between the pages, seeing how much it can hold and building it up to see when it bursts.<br />
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Then I remember. It's not my book.<br />
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What I really hope I've stitched into that book is the spirit of play.<br />
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I want you all to have that spirit with your notebooks. Just throw your cautions to the winds and enjoy yourself with crayons. It will do you good, believe me.<br />
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Drink a cup of tea and splatter your pages with the tea bag. Crush your
pages together while they hold sprays of fresh flowers or leaves you
collected from the walk. Add post-it notes and scribble and doodle and torn bits of magazines - see how the colours and shapes change your book.<br />
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Don't come to me and say, 'Wah! It's too nice to write in.' PAH. You can make it a lot nicer. You can make it <i>Yours</i>. Go on, claim it for your own.<br />
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Consider the notebooks a piece of collaborative art. I make the frame and you do the pictures. I offer you the format for your poem and you find the words. I give up the baking tray and you pour in the cake mix. You get the idea. Just give it a go. You can only make your note book more beautiful, because you're making it expressive of You and what could be more beautiful than that?<br />
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