SHERINGHAM DIARY 25 ~ A Vicious Bush & Appliqued Busts

The Wounds

With late February turning out so mild, I exhumed the tools for the Post- Winter garden clear up. After a successful start last year, I wanted to complete the taming of the cotoneaster hedge. It is truly impossible to kill it, so I severely slashed at it with a hedge trimmer I'd borrowed. Cutting swathes away, using both saw and trimmer, to produce as neat a hedge as its possible to sculpt in what is the organic equivalent of barbed wire. However, anyone whose tried this will know, a cotoneaster hedge is a vicious vengeful bitch, with thorns for fists. Despite protective gloves, my arms were lacerated as though an angry cat had mauled them. If ever we do have cat, we're now going to call it Cat-oneaster.

Well, I never knew that

Jnanasalin and I took off in Nigella, our black Corsa, heading for the delights of a Coventry Travelodge. Like many midland towns, Coventry no longer knows why it exists. Probably it can be found somewhere in the middle of the insane tangle of its inner city ringroads. Its iconic Cathedral, is a remnant of a once courageous post war optimism that has now completely vanished. The cities current state is encapsulated by the Herbert Museum, an art gallery that has lost its way. It seems overly focused on encouraging access to its collection of largely old white male artists. But it doesn't even present these well, in the rush to dumb it all down for the children. Whilst Coventry, a town known for its racial and cultural diversity, with a rich seam of black and white working class popular culture to be mined, particularly musically, is totally and unforgivably absent. Whose culture is being celebrated here?

Why go to Coventry? Because, boys and girls, it's on the way to the Giftware Spring Fair at the NEC. Its a long time since I was there as a punter. All I remember is the exhaustion of plodding up and down the halls, and how hard it is to miss the dominant female presence in the giftware industry. Mature, proffesional, confident women, often spectacularly draped in soft scarves and power statement jewellery, or with resplendently bedecked bosom cliffs in knitted tops with added applique. The artless splash of shimmer fabric, sequins or, at the tatty end, glitter, is everywhere. Somehow effortlessly bypassing both the chic and the classy whilst on their way to striking.

We went to take the temperature on trends, pick up ideas or future UK based makers. As pretty much everyone there imports, the latter didn't happen. However, we attended two talks on colour trends for 2019/20, which we found extremely useful. Reassuring us we know what we're doing with our colour ranges, and helping in defining them better. But mostly we just picked up ideas for finishes, textures and materials. We started in the high end halls, gradually losing all will to live as we grew nearer to the lower end ones. What is apparent is that high end is where the newer, innovative stuff is found. Some of this filters down to the middle range suppliers, and only what proves to be popular and can be cheaply knocked off, reaches the lower priced 'shonky' end of giftware. Its like watching the last ten years of retail trends cascade before your eyes.

We are on our way out of Morrison's, loaded up with our own shopping when a woman calls out  to us, she has her trolley in one of those lockable cupboards they provide ~ 'can you help me please, my key doesn't work'  Thinking I'd instantly understood what was required I stepped forward, fiddled with it a bit, till the door miraculously fell easily open. Exasperated she bellowed at me.' I wanted it shut'. I locked it, quickly moving on, not really expecting or receiving thanks.

Another month another National Live broadcast at the Sheringham Little Theatre of David Hare's new play I'm Not Running.'. It centres on the past life and political awakening of Pauline and her relationship with her former lover from student  days, Jack. Their trajectories both lead into politics but take divergent routes getting there. Jack climbs up the Labour hierarchy, whilst Pauline becomes a popular single issue campaigner against NHS Hospital closures.

Hare captures the political posturing and hypocrisies of a man like Jack, a career politician, loyal to the party, but morally slippery. Though not drawn from one particular political figure, he is a recognisable amalgam of various Blairites. Its Hare's real skill as a dramatist to make us feel we know these people, whilst also showing what we don't know, their passions, frailties, origins and backgrounds, plus their honest desire to serve as well as their vain self deceptions. They become more rounded individuals instead of political ciphers or broad caricatures.

The attendance on the coldest night of the Winter so far, was noticeably thinner than for Alan Bennett's 'Alleluyah! in November. But this was David Hare, prickly and pointed, not the cudddly whimsy of Alan. Both plays subject matter crossed similar territory, but Hare's is a far superior play. His sentiments are far more under control than Bennett's. Hare's wit and humour is used to reveal character, to touch the real heart of the matter, producing guffaws of recognition

************

There is a butcher's shop in Cromer called Icarus Hines, don't ask why.  I saw one of their tote bags hanging from a shopping trolley. In white cursive script lettering on black it said Icarus Hines -' More than just a Butcher.'  In what way Icarus Hines is more than just a butcher is unclear. Perhaps he serves cream teas whilst churning out the beef mince, forms macrame hanging baskets out of pig bones and hair, or is a bigamist and serial killer with bodies buried in his cold cellar. We do need to know.

The revamp of our Cottonwood Workshop website progresses. Its taken a bit longer than we'd originally anticipated, but it is nearing completion. Jnanasalin has found working on the never ending detail of it, has a real potential to do more than his head in. The end result will represent our business far better, and eventually people will be able to buy off it too. We continue to look out for a suitable retail site. Once the first VAT quarter is reached in April, businesses often pull up the drawbridge. Not to mention the added likelihood of a post Brexit collective throwing in of the towel. We are just waiting patiently to see what bubbles up.

Because of the division of our various creative labours, we can end up working isolated from each other, Vidyavajra in the workshop, Jnanasalin in the craft room. One consequence of this can be that we lose the sense of it being a shared project we are engaged in. So we are endeavouring to work on at least one project together. The results are often our best finished items. The first one off the block is a 1970's gold vellure covered ottoman transformed into an altogether more stylish contemporary item.

Before

After

In the meantime, Jnanasalin has found a brand new craft enthusiasm ~ learning to sew. As its all about precision cutting, sewing and assembling, like structural engineering, but in fine cloth, this is literally a marriage made in heaven. I've not seen him this joyfully enthusiastic and motivated since he discovered he was a major marvel with crochet. One of his first sewing tasks was making a pouch to put my Japanese Wood Cutlery in, the original was pink with white spots,which wasn't the hearts desire. So here we are embracing the full orientalist cliche. 

As I write, he's preparing his first mock up of a short sleeved shirt out of an old beige bedsheet
.

*************

Whilst walking the sunlit streets of Norwich, I passed a gaggle of slightly over excited middle aged ladies. One of them loudly declared, without a whiff of innuendo ~ 'But I love my bush'

At the moment I cannot concur.

CARROT CAKE REVIEW No 13 ~ In A Blind Taste Test I'd Be Stumped

Carrot Cake eaten in The Courtyard Cafe, Holkam Hall, Norfolk.

£2.60

We became fond over the Summer last year of the walk from Wells next the Sea across the Holkham Estate to the Hall. So, on a bright breezy Sunday morning in February we set off.  Now, there is also an additional incentive, a revamped Courtyard with a spacious,well designed cafe and larger gift shop. Holkham Hall Estate does seems at present to be outrunning the National Trust with the stylish improvements to its facilities. Though a bit more attention to the quality of their cakes is called for.

Hubby, separate from me, chose an Apple Spice Cake and I picked a Carrot Cake from off their confectionery table. Only when we sat down at a table was it clearly apparent how very very similar they looked.  The only thing to externally distinguish one from t'other was the sugar dusted frosting on the Apple Spiced Cake, and the walnut pieces on the Carrot Cake. I tried a fork full of Hubby's cake, he had a fork full of mine, and guess what? they tasted exactly the same too!

As you can see from the photo of the cake it looks a little on the anaemic side. Any sultanas having become a mere suggestion as they've been cooked down to the state of a moist stain. The cake's texture was quite blandly uniform. In a blind taste test I'd be stumped to say what it was, carrot cake would never have come to mind. If a few strands of grated carrot did happen to slip into the mixing bowl it doesn't show either visibly or when it hits your taste buds.  So say after me ~ 'A spice cake is not a carrot cake' ~ repeat loudly three times, bang your forehead with clear resolve on the table, before you scream and scream out your despair, then walk away the cathartic moment having passed. Until the next time.

My opinion didn't improve once it did reach my mouth, for it was clearly also gluten free. Though to be honest for a gluten free spiced cake it was considerably better than some horrors I could, and probably have, already mentioned. It still had more than a hint of that dry floury after taste though. Here accompanied by it forming into a kind of slurry along the bottom of my mouth. Actually I have no objection to a cafe providing gluten or dairy free options, as long as they make the traditional version too. These days, however, its common to find gluten or dairy free cakes mostly on offer. These are presented as though if they're indistinguishable from the traditional version, when they clearly or not. I want the real deal not a neutered facsimile. Let the sugar filled, dairy fat filled, busting with eggs, fruit, nuts, carrot cake lovers have a choice too, please !

Finally, just one more thing, the butter cream filling and frosting was NVN ~  not very nice.


CARROT CAKE SCORE~  2/8

WHAT MAKES A MAN A MAN ~ Part 1 ~ The Sissy Factor

In this photograph I am five years old, a half awake, sweet natured, yet bleary eyed child, that still survives somewhere in my psyche's back catalogue. That I was, and some might say still am, a bit of a day dreamer, is caught there for all to see. My parents would chide me for living in a world of my own, trying to ground me by stating the self-evident practicalities of life. Though there's little content wise to distinguish dreaming from day dreaming, you are after all simply mulling over possibilities, they are viewed differently, one is seen as aspirational, the other as delusional. Whether children, teenagers or adults we continue to day dream, its how we emotionally engage with the future direction our lives might take. There should always be a place made for it, because as adults we tend to dismiss our day dreams out of fear, insecurity or reductive practicalities.

A young child doesn't know how separate their dreams are from reality. The young boy in this photo appears too soft, too open, too vulnerable, too emotional, too unguarded and too easy a target for being bullied by other boys. At an early age boys discover there's a very easy way to enhance your masculine credentials, to do so at the expense of other boys by tormenting or beating the hell out of them. Boys have to make the choice between fight or flight, and suffer whatever the dents or bonus to their self-esteem may be. These linger off stage like a gremlin whispering prompts into the ears of the adult actor - cheering or jeering at you.

I'd no idea how to toughen up and never became a fisty-cuff fighter. I became adept at spotting risky situations where there might be a need to defend myself. Being called out across the street for being 'a sissy', was frequently accompanied by the sound of my legging it.  I understood that my masculinity, however unformed, was publicly being called into question. That this ought not go unchallenged, because no one voluntarily chooses to be a 'sissy', do they?, Five year old boys, though only 'proto-men', do sense what they are expected to be like. I instinctively understood that the macho sporty competitive physical type was not me, so I only half-heartedly tried.  I would never be a forward striker in masculinity football.  I actually found it hard to really understand what all that blokey punching, kicking and posturing was all in aid of. Nowadays, I still find it unnecessary, if not slightly bemusing. Back then it definitely wasn't funny.

Girls are not boys. For young boys, girls are where femininity resides.  Keeping your distance from them appears a worrisome thing for  'true boys.' Wherever 'the feminine' is, you are supposed to be wary of it, reject, ridicule, or if you discover you have it, for god sake try to hide or expel it. Any boy who betrays 'feminine qualities' exposes themselves to the fate of girls; driven from the boy's playground, belittled, patronised, teased and made fun of. Playground behaviour lays the foundations for our confidence in future social interactions. It also sets a self-justifying tone for future misogyny and hostility towards, not just homosexuality, but to anyone else who might have the misfortune to be considered 'foreign','alien' or 'different.'

The word 'sissy' itself comes with its own prejudicial baggage, of a skinny, weak muscled male, not willing to fight, whose masculinity is gentler and sensitive, perceived as not robust, flawed by virtue of the feminine traits present. You don't even have to be the stereotypical effeminate man. You simply have to show interest in subjects devoid of physical prowess, such as maths, science, art or culture, and the 'sissy' badge and T-shirt will arrive in the post.

Boys learn its important to demonstrate their manhood, to show what they are and are not. More grown up men than you might think, straight or gay, play along with macho masculine behaviour simply in order to get by unnoticed and unharmed. A strategy hardwired from an early age. All men become trapped within the narrowly defined constraints of what constitutes a man. a few lay siege to it, whilst most loyally defend.  The frustration and anger that unfortunately readily surfaces in men, arises quite often when a self-perceived failing, a falling short of that unattainable male ideal surfaces. This can gnaw away at the core of a man's sense of his own manhood. Violence towards themselves or others becomes a form of cathartic release. How I coped at Primary School was by retreating to the girl's playground, because that was the place where I felt accepted, where 'sissy boys' could safely hide from the brutal oversight of other boys.

There is no guidebook to what makes a man a man, every boy learns the hard way through their missteps. Picking up suggestions from how older boys and the men around them behave, or male role models in comics, art, history, advertising, books or films and TV. These show you strong, tenacious, resourceful men in full control of their lives, oozing self-confidence, cleverness and ambition, able to assert themselves, take risks, holding hard to a sense of their own power and success. This stereotypical man holds mastery over themselves and their world  Few have cause to question whether this is a fraudulent fiction. They keep up the pretence, that they are all of those things and more. Its as though the whole edifice of traditional masculinity is like a house with very few firm foundations, but with a lot of very heavy props and prompts holding it upright.

So, even if they say otherwise, no man is cutting the full masculine mustard. They must, however, still be seen as possessing power, even when life circumstances and their own feelings scream at them that they do not. Their true selves concealed behind the masculine facade, continuing to play the game according to the known rules. Few men will expose you, for fear of a reprisal. But if your are bequeathed a persona that is 'a bit queer', then this is a game changer for adherence to those rules. In order to survive you'll be forced to turn the way you are into an act of defiance, a vivid, visible and often verbal assault on the revered statutes of traditional masculinity. You have to do what Quentin Crisp recommends:

' the time comes for everybody when you have to do deliberately what you used to do by mistake, this is the only way to get the joke onto your own terms'

Boy-men of any age who call someone 'a sissy' or a 'puff', avoid the questioning finger being pointed at them, by being first on the offensive. Domination is the last refuge of a man who is feeling powerless. Men fear being publicly shamed by women or gay men, and shown up as weak. Their cutting banter sees the flaws and punctures with relish the masculine armour. A macho man is ,paradoxically, at his most vulnerable, emotionally and psychologically. Heterosexual men uses banter differently as a form of subliminal control. Disguised behind lighthearted friendly joshing, its ridicule and teasing is a reminder to not step out of line. If a man's masculinity is publicly exposed for what it truly is, it would not be just humbling, but deeply crushing and destabilising. They would truly lose it.

Its like a citadel whose walls will crumble under the stress of constant siege. If life throws a few curve balls at a man, losing control of his life, career, partner, children or home, only then might they start to dwell on discomforting questions about what they have become and who they really want to be. Many men,unfortunately, continue to avoid or fail to find the answers to these questions, and end up opting out on life completely.

Men, speaking very generally, see no need for self-analysis, remain blind to the privileges of their position as a male, and probably when drunk will espouse the self-evident superiority of their gender. They have little reason to question the toxicity or otherwise of their behaviour as a man, because its still kinda working for them. The world, after all, remains largely run according to the male viewpoint. There are few signs of men self-liberating themselves from the masculine constraints to which patriarchy chains them. He who has risen to be the Lord of the Manor finds it hard to say 'It's a fair cop chaps' no matter how many peasant revolts they have had to suppress.

If you are a woman, a person of colour, a gay person, or anything between and beyond these designations, you'll spend a good part of your life having to become more self-aware in order to discover what you really are. Struggling in the face of prejudice, oppression and ignorance, to become a truer representation of you, to the best of your ability. One way or another you'll have to discover how to 'sissy that walk,' of yours