How orange is my Fungi

 

Froth me up!

 

A Baby ate a Curry and This Happened

 

My new kitchen wall colour. Not up for negotiation and no compromise.

Thank you Peepah, for everything.

Bookshelves at Knicker Drawer Note Books

 

 

 

Here. With fakery, truth, madness, revenge, joy, curiosity, mortality, despair, love, forgiveness, brutality, revenge, bravery, honesty, humanity, resentment, kindness, determination, wonder, graciousness, resolution, thoughtfulness, steadfastness, memory, sacrifice, poison. It's a life.

Salvage from the local skip

 

Another freakin' makeover

Mezzanine floor, supported by scaffolding (expensive) and original Victorian cast iron drain pipes (cheap, from the scrap yard).

Copper tank, thank you Peepah!

Column, painted up, waiting for the place of its abode (watch that space, literally, in the pit).

Beautiful little window on the upper floor, with shutter, overdesigned in Steampunk style. 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.)

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. 

Still to come: more painting, table, sink, suspended bed, suspended sofa, swing (possibly), toilet, Belfast sink (thank you Freecycle), copper tank table, shower, lighting, solar heated water store, stove, outdoor dining area...
 

From dump space to work shop

I want to be in a place which tells me what it is to be human. A place which is made up, unique, bolted together; a place which shows its resourcefulness, wit and craft. 

I want to feel a playfulness at every point. I want to be invited to linger here, to touch, be curious, laugh. Flick a switch and see what happens. I want a space which is for ever a wondering space. What is this for? What could be?

I need a place which is honest, true to itself, unashamed of rough edges, scars, slips of the saw and wobbly location of the drill. I need to track the bone structure and neural pathway; I want to know how one thing connects to another along textures, threads, lengths, lines of light.

I want to reject the fancy layers that conceal and deceive. I need to know how my place does not disguise how it is held together. I want to see it revealed, straightforward in its declaration of itself, unconcerned with superficial coverings of smooth walls and oh-so-very nice floors.

I want a place that uses what we have, the material objects buried in the ground, scavenged and scrounged. The chains pulled from the earth and the metal walkway discarded in a pile of scrap; the door thrown away and the wood salvaged from the tip.

I want a place which uses all of itself, from top to bottom, side to side. Let no place be hidden from exploration. Let no corner be a place that we hurry from, or neglect, or draw over a curtain and shudder. I want to see it all.

I want a space for day and night to come to play. Where the light arrives, suddenly, strongly and sharply. But departs in a snap. You wonder what happened to fade and shadow. You can find those curving shapes in grey tones and slips of drawn grey, but then you'll be startled with the black and white, sharp and bright, so you'll need to keep your curiosity alive as you examine every part.

I want a place that stitches together our connections to the past to the present-day maker's marks filled with thoughts of the future. People made this place happen before, using hard tools and rough hands and steady thought; their respect and care for the day's work and what could be made in the future. And we make it happen, each day we pick up a sanding block, a power tool, a cloth rag to wipe away the dust.

And this space must be raw-edged, but warm: I want the cold wind to shoot through, but I want heavy fabric drapes and rough, warm textures too. I want the tingling chill of cold water and the luxury of hot water at the dip of your toes.

We're keeping those design values as we go. And slowly, bit by bit, day by day, it's taking shape.

Best memories

 

My first thought is to serve a legal notice

I'm clearing out the garage.

From a heavy lump of metal I peel back layers of a newspaper. The Evening Standard, Wednesday, 8 March 1972.

On Page 10 is the article for London News. A rap for both the boss and secretary

Britains's secretaries are given a rap across the knuckles today for a decline in the standard of their work.

But their bosses come in for a few criticisms as well, from a man who should know what he's talking about - Mr Lance Secretan, managing director of Manpower, which supplies more than 10,000 office workers to firms throughout the country.

[...] Mr Secretan has written a book called How to be an Effective Secretary, to be published on Friday.

[...] The traditional pitfall for a secretary, the amorous pass from the boss, produces 'few complaints' coming back to Manpower from its girls.

'The intelligent ones deal with it and stay in their jobs. The unintelligent ones resign, or something.' said Mr Secretan.

But his book warns secretaries not to get involved in the boss's private life unless 'you are sure it is in both his and the company's best interests.'

The rummage continues

Memories of Seahouses 2010

Lush

That's what happened to the garden, then.

The Border Force know where I live

My left knee is bigger than my right knee.

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.

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.

My only reply was that I also carry a Best Before date so I had better get moving.

Maybe my tribe could mark my death date with reminiscences of that time Mother threw back the front door, shouting, I'm going to France. Don't ask me where, but I'll be back in about a month. Please water the lobelia.

Anyway, I have returned home. I have had a jolly good time and the Border Force know where I live.

Also, Knicker Drawers is getting back to business.

Glue

 

Rummaging through the old photo cards.

Old tank gets trashed

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.

Good riddance you bastard and I hope you get crushed and beaten up before being made into something more useful to society.

Got that off my chest. Can get on with building an artist's studio now.