Comfort and reliable. Two answers in one. Neither are Fine Dining or by any stretch of anyone’s imagination interesting.
Comfort food=Marmite toast or any spread on top of toast with butter on it. My top 3
Marmite
Marmalade
Ground Black Pepper
In all iterations the butter must be real and salty.
Reliable food has evolved in my life. Good quality shop-bought lasagne if I am feeling reliably fancy. 35 years with a home in the far west of England has taught me that the humble Cornish Pasty made well is a lifesaver.
The Pasty Gold Standard.
Not all pasties are made equal and at their worst they are a pappy meat and potato pie with a faint aroma of human body odour. At their best they are a peppery blend of beef and onions combined with swede/turnip and potato wrapped in perfect golden pasty.
Yesterday was a spreadsheet kind of day. If everything went well there was a twenty minute gap in which to eat a pasty before an art exhibition, Private View and a trip to the Theatre to see Hamilton. The spreadsheet day and the pasty.
As a tick box exercise the spreadsheet day went well. With. 95% success rate. We dropped 5% because the Artist at the Private View made a speech at the beginning. So fine words were heard but not a single brushstroke of paint passed before our eyes.
Hamilton was fabulous and the pasty fed us both before our evening started (warm) and at 11pm (cold) . That is a reliable, even comforting comestible.
It is almost 7 years since I last had a formal interview of any sort. I am completely out of practice of describing myself to others.
Does anyone really listen to, or remember a self-description?
How would you describe yourself to someone?
People are so busy making their own judgements and assessments of the person they see before them.
I care less and less what people make of me as I get older. First and chance encounters are just that. Repeated encounters build a more accurate, nuanced portfolio of my character traits.
I can think of people who have quite the wrong idea of me. But their narrative suits their purpose. Others perhaps know me a little better than I know myself.
I always think people, myself included are a lot like Avocados. Their core values and attributes exist within the enormous seed, but the pulp changes and develops over a lifetime, while the skin just slowly ages but shows evidence of the good times and the harms that shape the whole fruit. The skin of course, is all that is ever seen until a sharp knife is applied. Time to halt the avocado analogy I think.
My Life as an Avocado- the autobiography I will never write.
No nickname ever and so no backstory. The closest I get to a nickname is ‘Bobber’.
As a founder member of a swimming group of just under 20 people including past members who predominantly swim in one location we, as a group are recognisable, we have named sweatshirts, and have a certain positive notoriety in the swimming boom at Firestone Bay.
Groups are not for everyone and ours is as unstructured as a group can be. Just a WhatsApp group to organise our swimming time so no-one has to swim alone.
” So are you a bobber” is a fairly regular question.
Followed by ” Why are you called Bobbers”
Because mostly we just bob about nattering, some focused swimming is involved, but actually the most valuable thing is the bobbing and nattering. Putting our many worlds to rights and our sense of belonging to a supportive and caring community.
The absolute silence in this reflective image of Sutton Harbour last night, does not in any way reflect the aural reality. The harbour had the rich sounds of the harbour through history. Tuesday evening dog walks around the harbour have the bell ringers of St Andrews Church as a regular and welcome soundscape. Seemingly performing perfectly, Tuesdays are their practice nights.
Coupled with the nearly still water in the harbour the acoustics were perfect last night. It was also the last day of the school summer term so families were filling the cafes, and their exhausted teachers were finding their way to the bars. The pavements filled with strange adult crocodiles of walkers. Large groups of colleagues making their way to their selected bar informally but formally, two by two. The only thing missing from the human crocodile were the luminous pink-tabarded attendants at either end.*
Live music spilt out from the bars across the harbour, and dancing girls made their, uncertain, way to a Salsa Bar. High heels and cobbles are tricksy at the best of time without the added uncertainty of a pre-class drink in the evening sunlight.
As seagulls circled, greedy for chips, the only thing missing from this moment , which could have been heard any time in the last 500 years, were the Fishermen and Sailors in any significant number. Fish are landed in Plymouth but the huge fish market is just a holding space for the fish auctions that are held on-line. I’m not sure what handsome young sailors en-masse do on Tuesday nights but they were not easily visible. Represented only by middle- class, older men, in two’s and fours. Pink trousered with those non-uniform, uniform caps they all wear to silently call one another from across a world crowded out by non-sailors.
The harbour hubbub and the people watching was just serendipitous concatenation at its unpredictable best last night.
A Golden Moment, I might say.
* I only realised the significance of the teacher element of last nights bar activity when I heard the crisp steps of a man walking from one bar to another. Who walks from one bar to another with recognisably crisp steps?
A man, or woman, who regularly crosses purposefully from one classroom to another. A warning sound of impending trouble that we all learn to recognise from age 5.
*Of course such a lovely evening was rich pickings on which to ponder.
A painting ponder was to sketch Sir Francis Drake and his wife Mary Newman in the contemporary attire of Summer 2025. She will be wearing a spotted flared dress for a night on the cobbles and he will be wearing the older casual sailor outfit with one significant difference. Those pink sailor trousers will be cropped to show off his shapely calves and feet in deck shoes with no socks.
Something that will require a lot more pondering is how to replace the phallic symbol of the hilt of his sword. I suspect an uncapped bottle of beer will have to do. Over-sized of course. No cold weather posing for Frank.
Sir Francis Drake on Plymouth Hoe ( a Spanish seagull has taken revenge on this day)
Domestica has leached into Tuesday. I am not entirely certain why, maybe the success of yesterday has spurred me on. Unlike my grandparents I don’t have to be fully engaged with domestica. Today I loaded up the washing machine and the dishwasher and took off for the morning dog walk, then went to meet a friend for coffee. By the time I had returned the domestic goddesses were ready to be reloaded and so with heavy rain outside I started deeper domestica. I also had to look for a missing note book, amazing how missing things gather together. I didn’t find the notebook immediately but curiously my bank card and a tape measure were hiding side by side in an unexpected place, the place I had hoped to find the notebook. The notebook announced that it was not missing at all, but had been put in the wrong place under a quick watercolour sketch all along. In the midst of a domestica day these three misplaced items had eaten up an hour of my down time created by the Domestic Goddesses.
And just like that another project for domestica downtime was inspired. Superimposing the notebook on the quick sketch.
And indeed on some other images I was pondering today.
A wet feather.
A sunflower
A recent sketch
And lastly, the domestica.
In between these images beds have been made and a bit of a summer clear out. I predict Wednesday will be much the same but there is a good chance the additional summer chores will be done and dusted. 2 weeks early. I still don’t love domestica but having the end in sight of the big seasonal jobs does bring a little smug satisfaction.
I make no apology for nattering on about the spectacular sunset we were able to watch, from our van on Friday night. The serendipitous luck of making a late decision to overnight camp in a carpark, overlooking a beach that we usually only ever visit in the Winter and Spring. Just to be close to Truro for Saturday morning. I am not sure what the correct words are, but being able to sit and read our books and glance up every now and then to watch the day melt into dusk and then finally put on a spectacular finale as the sun dived below the horizon was such a glorious experience. Other people ebbed and flowed around us as the day shapeshifted. We arrived to a full carpark at the moment when young families need to leave the beach and start the nighttime routine and beach bar dwellers are not quite ready to start the night. Half an hour sitting in the van with an ugly view of the toilet block was rewarded with the perfect spot becoming available,overlooking the whole beach with a direct view of a small stream running to the sea.
After an hour or so I began to wonder if we might be in the prime spot for the sun setting. Our evening was filled with dog walks and a bar visit. The car park filled up again with older families. Truculent early teenagers and their weary parents attempting a family holiday and much older teenagers driving their first cars. All ages of people anxious to see the sunset from the beach. Zimmer frames and walking sticks replacing pushchairs and gentle hand holding on the sand. ‘Children’ in their sixties clutching the arms of frail elderly people needing to do a sunset with much loved people who are closer to their own sunset than anyone wants to think about.
The sun did not let anyone down.
Least of all us,who had hoped for a stream of fire, and got it.
But how to depict the whole cycle of the past 4 hours.
30 years ago I had a colour analysis and was prescribed a Soft Summer colour palate to wear. I don’t remember what motivated me to do this at the time, but the experience was fascinating.
I think one reason stems from childhood summers. Spent visiting little known relations in Wales and Glasgow. Relations who barely know children struggle to find appropriate topics of conversation. My appearance, curly haired, glasses and bookish was remarked upon. Possibly not completely kindly. My grandmother’s generation in Wales would suggest that more pink in my wardrobe would be advantageous. Then the familial road show would rumble on to Glasgow where the pink fashion advice would be repeated but in the far harsher tones of the city dwelling, Glaswegian Older Generation. Delivered one word at a time.
” That.Child.Needs.More.Pink”
“She.Is.Such.A.Pink.Person”
To discover I was Soft Summer, 30 years later was somewhat of a bittersweet moment. Some pink was involved. Because of or despite the older womens colour advice I have always felt timorous around pink only really embracing it recently since going full on grey.
I have long since lost the precious colour chart but all the other advice sticks with me. I just did an online analysis and discovered I have slipped into Autumn. Oh goodness not much pink in autumn, I may have almost missed the pink boat that I was destined to board at the age of 5. Autumn shades? How very age appropriate.
Autumn
Thank the goddess of Colour Analysis that I did not plunge myself into the colours of Deep Winter today. If my lifespan is measured by my colour analysis, I have two whole seasons to go . That is rather fabulous. I shall wear pink though as an act of rebellion and then,of course, it will be purple. I am certain purple will feature in a deep winter colour chart.
Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Morning mist and sticky heat. The Tidal Pool at Devils Point.
The sea mist was genuinely as dense as this first thing this morning, the borrowed light simply a reflection of the early morning sun, obscured, by mist, behind me. But the heat of the morning was uncomfortably sticky under the naturally occurring parasol. I have pondered a bit about the mystical, mythological stories linked to this area. Mostly because of my what3words discovery of yesterday.
My most regular spot for getting into the sea has this as it’s what3words location.
Allows.Wizard.Rival
I am quite charmed to think that there is a benign Sea Wizard allowing me to dump my troubles(rivals) into the sea each time I dip.
For no particular reason I checked the what3words location where I was standing to take this mornings pool picture.
Lush. Wonderfully. String. Not particularly relevant at first glance, but the drone shot clearly shows the wonderfully lush lawns of a local tennis club, and then for me there is a string. I am lucky enough to often work inside that club and also be there for entirely enjoyable reasons.
I love the simple pleasure of finding a what3words location that resonates personally
Looking out to Cornwall from the Royal William Yard last night we could see the tides and currents that give Devils Point its name. 7 currents converge here.They are really easy to see with the naked eye. All but invisible with a simple phone camera, but by just adding a bit of extra colour I can show the complexity of these waters.
Sir Francis Drake made Devils Point famous by making a pact with the witches and demons of the area to create a storm that would incapacitate the Spanish Armada. Other versions are available.
There must be something about the waters around here. I tend to take my demons with me when I swim nearby and then cast them off as I enter the chilly waters. It works every time.
Demon Casting at the tidal pool.
What3words even allows me a small mantra to call up my own wizard for dealing with rivals/demons at my most regular swimming spot.
It has been a blisteringly hot week. I have always been a lover of hot weather but as I have aged my tolerance is reducing. I have a new understanding of seeking out shade, a light breeze, avoiding the hottest parts of the day and sun hats. Sleeping at home daily has become like the giddy first nights of a holiday trying to adjust to flimsy bed coverings.
Abroad I love the abstract shapes that sheets form after a night of fitful sleep in a foreign climate.
This week I have had abstraction at home.
Which I agree does not look all that exciting, but by reducing the detail and adding some colour my bed looks like a sculpture.
Something I might never had discovered if my tolerance for heat had not diminished. So maybe I am not so bothered after all.
Is that why the Italians in particular are so brilliant at creating folds of fabric from marble. Bright Sunlight and folds of bed linen every morning before they even get up.
theoldmortuary.design 