#1615 the old mortuary ponders

I learnt two new words this weekend. Chromophobia and Chromophilia . A fear of colour and a love of colour. I also went to an art exhibition called The Way We Live. This extraordinary soft sculpture was part of the exhibition.

This work is by Do Ho Suh, a Korean conceptualist who creates the homes or parts of the homes he has lived in. With sculptures created with paper or semi- transparent polyester.

Now I would always be considered a Chromophile. Colour is my thing. But this pale green and red hallway is an exact replica of my hallway at home. Never in a million years would I paint it pale green and bright red.

In my hallway I am a Chromophobe, the only bit of giddiness is glitterball.

Braver than us, we have neighbours who own one of my Mackerel paintings. They are going to pick out the colours of my Mackerel to decorate their hall, which is also identical to the soft sculpture by Do Ho Suh.

The hallway depicted in the sculpture was a home of mulitiple occupancy that Do Ho Suh shared in New York. Which really fascinates me. Around the world these staircases, although essentially the same and about 150 years old, must have so many different artistic and Interior Design differences.

A local favourite of mine is in an old nightclub. The building had been left empty and neglected for some time but is undergoing some much needed renovation and preservation. I photographed it when it had recently been released from the fate of becoming a mega church. At the time it was pretty smelly, damp, verminous and maybe a scintilla of urine. But the layers of paint and general shabbiness were accidentally beautiful.

Of course had I known all those years ago that I would be writing this I would have included the handrail.

I was last in the building in the summer, this was a back stairway and is now closed off as an unsafe area. At the time I visited previously it looked like the scene of many an illicit historic rendezvous or hook up during the buildings Night Club years. The stories these stairs could tell…

One last ponder on my own Chromophobic staircase. When our house was still a New Build. This is what the women of the house would have worn. What ever would they have made of the glitter ball.

Staircases, they make you think.

The Way we Live Exhibition is at The Box, Plymouth until the end of February

#1608 theoldmortuary ponders

Another remarkably sunny day on Dartmoor, gave us peaceful forest bathing and bright river walks.

Walking in a forest that is recovering from the hottest summer it has ever experienced, it was only planted in 1931, was made all the more peaceful because the grass has only been growing properly for about a month. Soft new grass in every direction made the forest floor look freshly upholstered in fresh green velvet. The perfect acoustic muffler

.

Keep the word muffler in mind, you will need it later.

Although just to keep you interested the beautiful, beautiful day was pretty crisp. We were on Dartmoor and the air temperature was 5 degrees lower than at home. The first use of a wooly scarf, a muffler, kept the chill off our necks.

We did not experience the temperature of the crystal clear river water. Lola did, and made no comment. Muffled or otherwise. She was much more interested in snuffling out fungi than making idle chit chat about water temperatures.

She was also happy to be basking in dappled sunlit silence, next to the van, the queen of everything she surveyed.

Until she wasnt, a low rumble eased its way towards us.An invading force of more than 30 Land Rovers pulled into our idylic spot. Great big 4×4’s rolling into our space. Hefty thighed passengers jumping out to queue and somewhat overwhelm a horsebox coffee shop parked in a different clearing. In a moment we were surrounded by vehicles. Some provocatively threw up their bonnets.

Crowds of eager people looked into the inner workings. Others stood around in awe. Some even ventured to touch the still warm inner parts of another persons vehicle. We had been overwhelmed by an enthusiasts event. All over the forest car park knots of people touched, photographed or simply gazed at Land Rovers. Two hours of inexplicable motor joy. Then a secret sign, the crowds dispersed and the great conundrum of vehicle enthusiasts wherever they turn up. It seems that no matter how, pristine or beautifully restoratively engineered vehicles have been prepared and turned into festish objects, One aspect is deliberately left a little rough around the edges or even has the effect deliberately enhanced.

Exhaust Mufflers… Or Silencers, in the U.K. Car enthusiasts seem to love to make a noise with their vehicles . Deep,throaty, farty noises. Unexpected pops and bangs. Thus with a cacophony of unneccesary noises over 30 Range Rovers left the forest and we were bathed, once again in lovely silence.

Googling the words Range Rover and Bellever Forest showed us exactly what the noise was all about.

A strip off apparently! No nudity was noticed by us. I think that may have been a good thing. I am just thrilled to have used the word muffle 3 ways without ever seeing a shortened version of the word.

#1401 theoldmortuary ponders

It is Fig time, I eat them and often paint them. Today I learnt a new empowering word. Foundress.

I am almost as thrilled with the word ‘foundress’ as I was when I discovered the word ‘mistresspiece’.

This all came about because I arranged a still life for a future painting. 6 figs on my favourite plate.

At the time I pondered if the irregular area , obvious on a cut fig was anything to do with a fig wasp.

The life cycle of a fig wasp is an interdependent, lifelong cycle spent entirely between the inside of a fig’s flowering structure (called a syconium) and flight to a new tree.

On entering the syconium a female wasp becomes-

The Foundress

Finding a tree: A fertilized female wasp (the foundress) flies to a receptive fig tree guided by its specific scent.Squeezing inside: She enters the syconium through a tiny, tight opening called the ostiole.Sacrificing her body: The opening is so narrow that she typically breaks off her wings and antennae while squeezing through.

Pollinating flowers: Once inside the hollow cavity, she brushes against the flowers and transfers pollen she carried from her birth fig.Laying eggs: She inserts her egg-laying tube (ovipositor) into the ovaries of the tiny flowers to lay her eggs.

The mother/ foundress fate: Her job finished, the original female wasp dies. Enzymes in the fig dissolve her body.

Larval growth: The eggs hatch into small larvae (grubs) after several days.Feeding inside galls: Each larva feeds on the surrounding plant tissue inside a protective swelling called a gall.

Wingless male wasps emerge from their galls first. The males mate with the female wasps while the females are still trapped inside their galls.The wingless males chew an escape tunnel through the wall of the fig for the females, then die inside the fruit without ever seeing the outside world.

Before leaving their birth fig the newly fertilized females pass by the male flowers and become covered in fresh pollen.Restarting the cycle: They fly out through the tunnel made by the males to locate a new flowering fig tree and repeat the cycle.

You may have to read this a couple of times.

No Fig wasp comes out of this alive, there are no happy endings.Lady wasps are held captive until they are fertilised. Gentlemen wasps die building an escape route that they will never use.

My love of figs as subjects for painting and eating figs seems cruelly nonchalant compared to the eternal circle of tragedy experienced by the fig wasps.Even the discovery of a new-to-me word seems pretty trivial with this tale of brief, tragic life and certain unpleasant death. From start to finish this has the feel of an epic drama.

Foundress, though, the word does sound rather fabulous. I sense it will never be the plot for a film or book

Six figs on my favourite plate.

P.S this is a trial blog, using new software

#1279 theoldmortuary ponders

Firestone Bay

Heatwave 5/2026 has left Firestone Bay. Leaving the Bay and surrounding area with normal, unpredictable  August Summer Weather. This was the scene yesterday and the day before. The crowds of swimmers anxious to cool down have left the area. I had the water to myself for twenty minutes or so. Other bathers had just left and a few arrived as I left.

In a normal English Summer the bay would still be buzzing on a day like this. But 5 Heatwaves have made normal seem mediocre, lacklustre even.

More mediocrity.

Mediocre is not a word that is used often. It is one of those words that my synaesthetic brain loves.

Meaning neither good nor bad. It feels judgmental and not in a good way.

There are many things that I am pretty poor at doing. Doing them to a mediocre standard would be a considerable improvement. But if I were judged to have become mediocre that would not seem like a positive.

Good Enough is a phrase that feels similarly down beat when actually, for a lot of things , good enough is good enough.

Yesterday was  a little lacklustre, mediocre even, but good enough in its own way.

Who wouldn’t want a bay to themselves for a lunchtime swim.

#1275 theoldmortuary ponders

Breakfast of figs, fresh from the tree. Strawberries were from a supermarket.

We seem to be on the backside of the fifth heatwave of 2026. We woke up to an entirely different feel this morning. More normal for an English summer, some overnight rain and cooler. Dull.

Since May my days have been planned around heat avoidance. Today there is no need to take Lola out for an early morning walk to avoid her getting over hot and her paws getting sore from baking pavements. Today all thoughts of sun drenched and over-saturated colours have faded to greige.

I walk past this sign almost every day of my Stonehouse life. It protects a car park of 11 spaces overlooking  one of the most interesting sea views in England.

Joy Sucking Car Park Sign

Every day I look at this sign and think. Surely this could be achieved in less dispiriting language and still deliver respectful and appropriate parking.

You can hear and feel the joy and colour being sucked out of peoples souls as they are confronted with this message in such a beautiful spot.

The Cafe itself does not suck joy. Drinks are served in ceramic mugs, the cheesy chips go down very well. Especially with fresh figs during a heatwave.

Their bacon butties ignite warmth in winter swimmers.

But that sign! Every day my heart slumps a little bit as I feel joy being extracted excruciatingly by words, harshly used, in a beautiful place.

#1274 theoldmortuary ponders

How do you deal with uncertainty?

I have fairly firm, certain,views on uncertainty and am a little uncertain about the order I should write about uncertainty.

Uncertainty should play no part in certain aspects of life, for those parts of life you need to know what you are doing, have a plan,the skills and materials to turn uncertainty into certainty.

Uncertainty can be banished by confidence and training.

Intuition is a great tool against uncertainty.

Uncertainty can be allowed its own sweet time to resolve.

Uncertainty is not always a bad thing, particularly in the creative world or when dealing with other humans.

Personally I love the serendipity of uncertainty. I prefer people who embrace uncertainty but not to the point of being irritatingly whimsical. People who are forever certain are not my cup of tea.

This prompt arrived less than 12 hours after I deliberately avoided a fellow swimmer who I don’t really know. She is impossible to have a casual conversation because she is certain about everything, often wrong and talks in a series of statements. A little diffidence would benefit her social skills.

Life is just too short for so much certainty.

#1263 theoldmortuary ponders.

Does every picture tell a story?

I think most do.

This one tells of the late summer clear up. All family guests have moved on to different holiday destinations and our home has eased back from peak occupation. The crocs belonging to three small girls are gathered in a bucket by the back door while the girls themselves are away on different holiday adventures.

Using a similar colour scheme I am trying to tell the story of a set of swimming steps that are much quieter this week now the heatwave has moved on.

I am at heart a story teller either with words or pictures.

A regular blog reader, who is familiar with these steps, said yesterday that I had made them look very posh. That was not the intention, but I agree. They may have been posh once upon a time but shabby shic is a better description now. Most of the time they are entirely tolerable and are regularly washed by incoming very high tides.

At night they can be a gathering place for  smokers of weed and men who like to do a wee. Not so posh then. Not so great as a swim destination either. Not  so great a picture.

But I don’t need to tell that story about these steps.

Years ago a little pair of discarded crocs by the back door of the actual Old Mortuary used to break my heart.   A small person and her family  had left us to live abroad. That would not have made a great story or a great picture.

3 pairs of crocs in a bucket is a much better story.

However in the interests of story telling I also wanted to show the earlier set of steps at the peak of the August heatwave. I am not interested in the crowds of people who used these steps recently just the steps as a metaphor for extreme atmospheric and radiated heat. Just too much heat.

The heat blistered out of the rocks at night. And the sea languidly lapping the steps, warmer than we have ever known. Not quite cooling enough perhaps. Oleaginous even.

A different colour scheme. A completely different story.

#1350 theoldmortuary ponders.

A marvellous place to muse or mull. Or even ponder

Yesterday was a musing or mulling kind of day. Nothing serious, just a delicate or sensitive situation, tennis club based that needed good handling. I was extremely lucky to get a favourite swimming spot to myself so I could mull or muse uninterrupted.

A good overnight brought me some clarity for that problem. But then trivial ponderings made me wonder why I had not called my blog ‘theoldmortuary muses’ or ‘theoldmortuary mulls’

theoldmortuary ponders follows on from Pandemic Pondering. That title obviously had a time limit but on a writing course I was advised to leave the pandemic behind, before it left me behind. It was also suggested that I make my blog more personal. theoldmortuary is my creative space and although a pseudonym that feels pretty personal, not for a moment did I consider dropping the word pondering. Mull would never have been chosen but muses might have done.

I do wonder if I have rather devalued the essence of a ponder by pondering such trivial, benign, repetitive or quite frankly flimsy thoughts on a daily basis.

Muse does seem slightly more appropriate but for now, pondering will be the thought process. Leaving musing and mulling for more serious thought processes.

Back to to the swim where I mulled or mused a tricksy tennis problem. From my ridiculously elite swimming spot I swam to the very popular beach.

And then I swam back. This is a truly trivial,benign,repetitive and flimsy ponder.

But musing and mulling also occured.

#1413 theoldmortuary ponders

Early morning dog walk for voting. So early that I had to wait for the coffee shop to open.

I rewarded myself with the laminations of a croissant.

I have a habit of voting early, having missed the vote once when I lived in Lambeth. I had left for work before the Polling Stations had opened and due to the unpredictability of working in Cardiac Cath labs arrived at the Polling Station with only a half an hour to go. Almost the minute I got off my train there was a strange vibration in the air. The Polling station was less than five minutes from the train station. There were outside broadcast camera operators and journalists and an enormous queue. Some sort of drama had occured and there were record numbers of voters. There was no way that everyone in the queue would get to vote and no chance that anyone joining the queue, like me, would get the chance. To queue, to make a point or not to queue. Either way I was denied my constitutional right.

The Lamentations of a choice, no croissants involved. The cafes were all closed.

#1409 theoldmortuary ponders

In the 1990’s I was a busy working mother of two, wishing that Plymouth was more like Brighton.

My Brighton life was mostly carefree. Plymouth was the settling of my new life,consolidating being a parent and doing a job that I didn’t care for to make parenting easier. The comparison was not kind to either city. In the 90’s two bands in particular kept me sane . The Verve, all dirgy, and melancholic and Daft Punk, Electronic Dance music with something extra

Plymouth was represented by the Verve.

Brighton got Daft Punk.

I love them both but Verve love is hollowed out . Daft Punk the love of escapism.

With tthe distance of time I can see that both loves have equal merit as do both cities

Which is a long preamble to natter  about a contemporay ballet I was intoxicated by last night.

Body and Soul by The English National Ballet.

Source: BalletcoForum https://share.google/tSHdWk7W0gCG1ra6s

Two distinctly different choreographed ballets that might seem, and were unconnected . Maybe a pairing not for anyone but to me they made perfect sense. Both hugely expressive pieces using gorgeous, perfect human bodies to unfold a story or a feeling. The music of Part 1 was not at all Verve like but Androgynous dancers performing such mind blowing emotion took me to that hollowed out place that I felt as a newish parent in a strange place. I had no care for the gender of the dancers, just mesmerised by the places they were taking my head too. There should be more words for erotica and sensual.

Or maybe completely new words that describe sublime pleasure of being cocooned in the moment of contemplation by writhing human bodies who are just there to make you think, nothing sexual or intimate. Just thoughts.

Part two was so much closer to my 90’s Daft Punk vibe and similarly thought provoking. It was by its nature, bawdier,closer perhaps to sensual and erotic. With May Day vibes of flesh and lust sanitised by white drone like and sexless creatures. Just there doing their thing  perfectly and simply to make us think.

Not knowing or caring what gender any individual dancer was, allowed for a huge amount of buttock envy. My goodness those dancers had the most amazing bottoms.

My head was quite properly blown. All that gorgeously stimulated thinking and some absolutely peachy bottoms. What a night out.

https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2026/mar/20/english-national-ballet-body-soul-review-sadlers-wells-london-kameron-n-saunders-proper-conduct-crystal-pite?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

I am still thinking about it. Wondering at the ability to have my head completely taken over by movement and music. Loving the hollowed outness and the escapism in equal measure.

If only we could have two new words to express the joy of being made to think unexpected thoughts in a theatre by honed and expressive bodies.