theoldmortuary has been a blog for about five years. It has evolved into an almost daily event. Pondering on the things that are inspired by my daily life. Often mundane, sometimes repetitive I swerve from hyperlocal activity to big and small thoughts without blinking an eye. I am an artist and writer. My hometown is Plymouth in South West England, part of me will always be connected to London and another part loves to travel.
There isn’t a part of my life that isn’t cluttered. Isn’t life meant to be cluttered? As the festive season ebbs away and seasonal trinkets are packed away there is a definite sensation of decluttering but beyond that I quite like clutter. I believe I have clutter under control rather than the other way around so that seems fine. Good clutter is like good food. Life affirming and positive. Bad clutter just needs to be gone.
The trick with clutter, in my opinion, is to keep it constantly under review and tidy, with regular trips to Charity shops and the tip. The same can be said for mental clutter.
I find clutter inspirational and creative but it needs to be under control. Stringent control. Declutter to reclutter. Out with the negative, always, to allow more positive in
I am drawn to Hares, there is an elegance about a hare that a rabbit simply doesn’t have. The elongated body and oversized ears give them an unmistakable profile on the very rare occasions when they are seen out and about. Hares were a popular subject on Christmas cards that we received this year.
Hares are never a common sight in the UK but I grew up in the flat, rural part of Essex with large arable fields all around my home. Traditionally the best time to see hares is in the Spring, when they are looking for love. The best time near us was late August or early September when the harvest had just been done and hares ran across the fields almost unaware that their hidden paths through crops were now fully exposed.
In all the usual ways but oh so much quicker than ever before.
This Victorian clock is on the Cornish side of a local ferry service. I’ve always thought it was quite an inappropriate theme for passengers who had no choice but to squander time in a queue for a ferry.
As long as I get my time differences right I can ask friends in Australia a question and get a message back immediately. This would have taken more than a hundred days when letters travelled by sea. Probably two weeks using airmail and would once have been very expensive by phone.
Communicating online is fast and as effective as the humans that use it. Since communication is one of our most valuable and essential human skills speeding it up must be a good thing. As long as the communication itself is the very best that we can do.
Communicating by writing was always one of my favourite things to do. Blogging is how I reacquaint myself with slow-form writing. Just stringing some words together every day helps me wake my mind up for the day ahead. I think it makes me a better communicator and I better appreciate all that I love about life. The time spent is not squandered.
I have been very lucky and done some great road trips around the world, but I would argue that the most memorable road trips are the mundane ones that we sometimes do every day of our lives. The repetitive unconscious road trips by public transport, or being driven by someone else. The Public Light Bus Service of Hong Kong are perhaps the scariest I have used regularly. They are ramshackle minibuses that are supposed to be speed regulated, but night journeys are done at high-speed with the over-the-speed limit alarm as the constant accompaniment of the journey. Apart from when the bus speeds to a stop to swiftly drop off passengers and their possessions, before hurtling to the next destination. In complete contrast the Number 3 bus from Crystal Palace to Oxford Street hurtles nowhere. But it follows a fabulous 6 mile route from South London through leafy Dulwich and vibrant Brixton to the historic heart of one of the Worlds most diverse cities.
As luck would have it both these memorable road trips coincide in one photograph. Our grand-daughter driving a Number 3 bus in the Dragon Centre. Sham Shui Po, Hong Kong. Sadly we did not catch the Public Light Bus to get there, but we could have.
January is snack heaven. All the festive season left-overs ease us gently through the long dark month. Early on there are soups and curries to be made but at the mid-point all that is left is cake and cheese. Stilton cheese and Christmas cake is a traditional snack and one that we enjoy from Christmas Day until one or the other runs out. In the giddy yuletide days the traditional drink accompaniment is a glass of Port. Productivity and the need to drive means that the port addition is dropped early on. This is not an every day snack.
I am not a hugely snack driven person but a couple of times a week a small plate of cheese and cake is all it takes to chase the worst of the winter away.
I’m participating in this blogging challenge for the month of January, which supports starting the year on the “write” track. You can find other posts with #bloganuary.
Does anyone dream up a crazy business idea? Surely the idea is dreamed up, fetishised and developed; delivered to the public and then slowly reveals itself to be the crazy idea that it always was and fails. Business has never truly tempted me. There is something missing in my brain that wouldn’t put profit ahead of people. Creatively I could dream up all sorts of wonderful ‘ businesses’ but putting my thoughts into productive, profitable action would be my failure point.
From the age of 14 to 20 I worked for an entrepreneur/ shopkeeping family while I was at school and studying. The family ran several shops and a cafe in two local towns. In 6 years I sold everything from maggots to illegal porn. I ran a fast food cafe for 6 weeks when I could barely fry an egg and worked in a boutique and sports shop where the customers were the beautiful people and my acne embellished face made me want to wear the paper bags we wrapped the purchases in.
I learnt more than I ever imagined was possible about the vivid life of small-town retail. The family were a caricature of family business. There was a matriarch. A diminutive Glaswegian woman with a failing bladder. She ran the business in a fog of cigarette smoke and floral perfumes that failed to completely cover the fragrance of a failing bladder. Her only son was pale and busy, constantly moving and doing everything. He had a large and beautiful wife whose place in the business I never quite fathomed. I rather suspect she was the backbone of the whole thing. Between them they had produced two large and less beautiful daughters who considered themselves to be small town princesses. The companies staff were loyal and libidinous. As an observer and competent member of staff my six years were fascinating and varied. I had worked in every corner of their empire. When it was time to leave and move to London they dangled the carrot of a management training scheme. All graduates got that moment in the office. A few succumbed to the fear of leaving small town life coupled with the anxiety that comes with a useless degree. My head knew it was time to leave the giddy excesses of small town retail. I had learned enough to never dream up a crazy business idea ever!
Researching this blog I discovered that the company existed for 70 years and closed in 2008. Well done to them.
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
My mum was given an old copper preserving pan by my grandparents when I was very young. They had replaced it with a much lighter aluminium version. The copper pan is very heavy duty and almost impossible to lift when full of jam or marmalade. The pan got more use in my parents house for making mulled wine at Christmas.
It has been mine for the thirty years since my parents deaths and had a different life as a plant holder or for a while as an artist’s muse. I am not the artist of this fabulous still-life but my pan, kitchen table and a rug are.
Artist- Stephen Fuller
Yesterday, not realising that I would be writing about it today I moved the pan into the sitting room to hold some of the fragrant candles* that we were gifted over Christmas. What I didn’t do was to give it a good clean. There will be a later image today once I have done that rather grim task.
* On the subject of fragrant candles. Am I alone in enjoying them? I read a list of most unwanted gifts recently and they were listed along with socks and toiletries. How ungrateful.
Oh Bloganuary if only you had asked this question any time in the last 7 days, I would have had a mission. Clearing up after the festive season. But that mission was completed yesterday, although not the taking down of Christmas lights. The days are still short here and long evenings are enhanced and embellished by left over festive twinkle.
This Christmas Star never gets taken down. He twinks year-round in our dining room.
My clothing twinkle has been tidied away. There was a huge opportunity to add to festive stash of garments. The January sales were awash with sparkle and velvet but I resisted their siren-song call to me to buy more shimmer. Not that I wasn’t tempted. Who wouldn’t want a high necked dress with a floor length skirt, slashed to above the knee, in slippery silver sequins?
A lifestyle choice was made, we were incompatible, for many reasons. None of them about fit. The dress could have been tailored for me. Could I have tailored my life to do such a garment justice? Unlikely.
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
As long as there are days like this, the concept of living a very long life sits well with me.
Even on less glorious days I am happy to take whatever life gifts me. The alternative strikes me as unpredictable at best and somewhat dull at the other end of the scale.
Van Morrison sums my thoughts up, good days are to be treasured and if I were to skip off early there would be no more good days. Or days of any calibre for that matter.
Days Like This.
When it’s not always raining there’ll be days like this When there’s no one complaining there’ll be days like this When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch Well my mama told me there’ll be days like this
When you don’t need to worry there’ll be days like this When no one’s in a hurry there’ll be days like this When you don’t get betrayed by that old Judas kiss Oh my mama told me there’ll be days like this
When you don’t need an answer there’ll be days like this When you don’t meet a chancer there’ll be days like this When all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they fit it Then I must remember there’ll be days like this
There’ll be days like this
When everyone is up front and they’re not playing tricks When you don’t have no freeloaders out to get their kicks When it’s nobody’s business the way that you want to live I just have to remember there’ll be days like this
When no one steps on my dreams there’ll be days like this When people understand what I mean there’ll be days like this When you ring out the changes of how everything is Well my mama told me there’ll be days like this
Oh my mama told me There’ll be days like this Oh my mama told me There’ll be days like this Oh my mama told me There’ll be days like this Oh my mama told me There’ll be days like this
Walk into the sunset on a cold and sunny day. There were plans for Saturday but then the sun came out after three or more weeks of rain. Plans changed.
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