FINISHED READING - Dominion by Tom Holland

That modern Western Civilisation is deeply indebted to its Christian origins, could seem like stating the blindingly obvious. Yet the central premise of Tom Holland's book is to remind us, lest we imagine we are living in a post Christian society entirely cleansed of its influence, that actually our values and assumptions about how civilised society should function and what we value, uphold and put our faith in, is still largely informed by ideals derived from Christianity. Even though the majority of us have long since ceased to know that is where they came from, or to be believing practitioners. 

It is a common assertion that our democracy is a direct legacy from the Greek idea of demos. However, its clear those ancient Greeks might not recognise its current contemporary iteration at all. Slaves, women and men without land had no say or vote in Greek democracy. So transformed our sense of 'what democracy is' has been by the injection of Christian ideals into it - the collective responsibility for upholding fairness,equality, inclusivity, caring for the well being of the old, weak and disadvantaged in society. 

Over the millennia Christianity has had periods where it needed to reform itself, even prior to the Protestant Reformation. The whole impetus for our society to purge itself of its faults, the concept that it can progress, change and reform for the better, that stimulated most of our social, cultural, economic and scientific developments. The occasional revolutions and upheavals proving necessary for progress to be maintained. All these have their source in Christian idealism.

Protestantism transformed Christian faith into an individual act, one of choice and practice, and by doing so unleashed other individualised ideas about personal fulfillment, reaching own potential, finding our vocation in life, of a meritocracy, the evolution of a survival of the fittest doctrine to becoming a creed of capitalism, to your own self be true. 

That we compatmentalise issues in society into religious and secular concerns, was originally a Christian delineation. We now have to all intents and purposes an entirely secular morality, still borrowing its ethics from Christian ideals of equality, fairness and human rights. To campaign for the end of slavery, the furtherance of women's liberation, LGBTQ and racial equality.  Its not without some irony that these have also thrown up huge doctrinal conflicts and dilemmas for Christianity itself. Essentially having the pursuit of its own ideals thrown back at it. To further challenge and undermines its ability to lead society, with a damaged moral authority. Christian institutions now frequently find themselves behind rather than ahead of the curve.

The fascinating history of our civilisation as an entirely Christian infused project is what Tom Holland recounts in this book. Subtitled - The Making of the Western Mind, it picks out a few of the ideas and concepts that still remain inhabiting the modern mindset. Such as -compassion and identification with others suffering and predicament in - love your neighbour as yourself. Though Marx may have pointed towards religions in general as opiates, enfeebling and diverting peoples attention away from challenging the powerful and striving to better their lives. His whole conception of raising up and improving the lot of the poor working class and disadvantaged has veins of pure Christian idealism running through it. Its hardly a coincidence then that the early development of Socialism in the UK became driven to some extent by Christian activism.

In The West we tend to conceive of ourselves as being in a unique, god given, superior position in the human race eg - Yorkshire brags on its tourist billboards about it being God's Own County for instance. This type of 'specialness', of having divine backing, justifies our use of resources, our treatment of people, animals, environment and the planet. Bringing the benefits of liberal democracy to 'less privileged', 'under developed,' 'primitive' societies are views informed by the same mindset. That humanity now sees itself as at the peak of the evolutionary pyramid and able to go beyond God, is itself founded upon the Christianised myth of a predestined superiority. Paradoxically this has also made possible the development of Humanist and Atheist doctrines.

Viewing an entire culture as encompassed by a coherent network of religious and ethical imperatives and to create an 'ism' to define it. Is something Christian Westerners first performed upon itself, then did the same to whatever it encountered whether it be Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism etc. To categorise what was other and therefore outside of itself. By doing so distorting our perception of both ourselves and of it.

The expansion of Empires, the invasion of sovereign countries, has changed little other than the reasons we state for doing so. From being a Christian duty to save and proselytise, to a benevolent humanitarian duty to liberate and bring oppressed people freedom and democracy. But essentially The West knows what you need and will give it to you, whether you ever wanted or asked for it. These sort of pseudo religious crusades do not have a good track record.

So you might say, well yes, all this may indeed be so, but what does that matter to us now? We've moved beyond all that haven't we, we jettisoned God a while back, and secularised our moral compass. We no longer require the moral authority of organised religion or a God. Holland is not saying that this isn't so, that we are doing this is clear, and that this could be seen as progress. But then when you look at our social media, climate campaigners, ideas like 'cancel culture' these are manifestations of a deeply ingrained puritanical impulse. For nature, as they say, abhors a vacuum - in this case its a moral one.

Tom Holland points out a flaw in our liberal secular democracy, one that we have not yet been able to resolve. When the values of our secularised liberal democracy come under real attack. Being challenged and undermined from without and within, as they currently are.  How can we defend them? With what do we defend them? Tradition on its own is an extremely weak defense. Divorced as these traditions and ideas now are from their essentially Christian foundations and justifications? When even the concept of Human Rights was originally couched in entirely Christianised terms, how can we justifiably insist on them being Universal?

Is the current crisis in Western democracies in essence one of weakened faith in its own institutions and lack of moral authority? Can Western civilisation survive uncoupled from its own reasons for arising and existing in the first place?

As you can tell from the breadth of topics covered by this review, this has been an extremely thought provoking and important book to read.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

EPISODE 4 Curtains My Dear, Curtains

The Handsome Delivery Man Helps With The Hanging Up

Though Julia went into Randall's to pay for the curtains in person, she had no intention of personally lugging them home. She wanted them delivered.....to her door. She had her reasons, she'd need a hand putting them up, for one. Margot required only two things; that those bally curtains and Ms Goodall-Smillie be dispatched fully understanding what was not negotiable and not refundable.

So once she'd put one foot through the door of Randall's Margot began laying out to Julia mostly what their liabilities were not. Julia simply nodded her head and automatically mouthed a 'Yes' whenever she thought it called for. That these also slightly resembled yawns did not deter Margot, she'd dealt with her type many times before. Instinctively understanding the rules of Julia's game,

she concluded with, 

'if it is easier for you we will deliver at no extra cost. ' 

Having finally heard what she'd come to hear, Julia said

'Thank You!' 

followed by a coda of affected sincerity

'you're so kind' 

then abruptly headed out in the direction of home.

When it dawned on her there'd been no mention of a day or time of delivery. She swung quickly back into Randall's, stuck her neck and head through the doorway and barked 

'When?' 

Margot started, reclaimed her unflappable poise and replied

' Oh I expect it will be in the next hour or two, Rogerio's last local delivery is never later than 3pm'. 

Julia, noted the name, suddenly felt the siren call of her second home - the corner off licence. It was not even a detour.

Rogerio Marsden did small local deliveries just in the Brimmingham to Whittlechurch area, for local and national companies. Mostly, but not exclusively Randall's. Everyone appreciating his flexibility and van for hire at short notice. Not on theirs, nor anyone else's pay roll, the call today was a blessed relief. It had been really quiet for a couple of weeks. Things were finally picking up, hopefully.

He tootled his freshly washed and waxed white van round to Randall's. Picked up the package from the always expressionless Ms Treadwell in order dispatch. Placing the boxes in the back of the van, puzzled that this curtain delivery was barely a few streets away.  Like everyone he knew of Julia Goodall-Smillie by gossipy reputation. A few minutes later, about to meet her for the first time, he straightened his crumpled trousers and livery jacket and stepped up to her door. 

The door opened a fraction of a second before he'd completed the move to grasp the knocker. Causing him to stumble, then losing balance through trying not to drop the boxes, tipped over onto the entrance floor.  Julia stood there in what she thought her 'Queen Bey' pose. From the perspective of the coir doormat she appeared remarkably lofty in stature, with artfully bedraggled hair. Her person confidently armoured in a turquoise leather jacket, sculpted scarlet dress, heavy industrial bangle earrings and multiple asymmetric necklaces made of large angular bones. One hand firmly rested on the door jamb. whilst the other limply grasped an empty flute glass like a sceptre. None of this casually thrown together. As Rogerio recovered and straightened himself up he caught a whiff of her perfume - the recognisably astringent burp of mid afternoon alcohol.

Julia stood there for a while too long, giving the half prone Rogerio the once over. Mid twenties, tight wavy hair, as unruly as his clothing ( hopefully ) five-six ish, slight wiry body form, face of a dark haired bloody angel. God she'd eat him for lunch, if only she had the cutlery - however - already far far far too drunk. Maybe she could just playfully tinker with him, like a car engine.

Rogerio, for one moment completely forgot his purpose. Mangled himself back into his delivery man role, standing up straight.

'Curtain delivery from Randall's..... could you sign here please. Lovely day'

'Depends, doesn't it? Could you bring them through into my front room.'

Alarm rattled through his diminutive form, warning - do not enter - even as he actually did. He followed Julia into the front room, which so startled him he exclaimed  -

'Blimey, thats.....bright'

He looked around trying to take it all in. Completely at a loss what to make of it. This was amazingly garish, a lavish mess. The person who put this together must be unspeakably wealthy, but, as was so often the case, not a single ounce of good taste to go with it. The vulgarity of the decor was unhinged.  

He jumped out of his skin.  Julia stood right behind him, was speaking into his ear.

'These curtains you're delivering are to replace those abominations'

Pointing up at the swollen swags of Waffled Apricot. Rogerio wondered what was so wrong with them, considering the rest of the room.

'Could I request, half an hour, half an hour or so to just help me out a bit here. I'll make it worth your while. Just to hang these new curtains. Another strong able pair of hands, so so much better' 

Julia hoped that was being pleasant and charming enough. When it came to her persuasive abilities her performance had often proved  misjudged. What Rogerio saw was her manner slipping from overly assertive to overly flirtatious and unnervingly nearer to physical contact.

'Well, I do have another job in a hour. '

Rogerio immediately realised what a monumental mistake that was. Now he had no wriggle room at all should he need to make a quick exit.

'Well we'd better crack on then - Rogerio'

'She knows my name!'

The existing curtains had jupiter rings, so once the curtain rail supports were loosened, they easily slid off.  Julia unpacked the new curtains, proffering them to Rogerio. The fabric cradled in his arms was heavy and instantly made his skin crawl. His hands dusted with purple as he took them out from their plastic bags. It took a long while, with Rogerio, single-handedly fiddling clumsily with the cumbersome weight of the curtains, at the top of a high rickety ladder.

Julia, meanwhile, enjoyed 'scaring the bejeezus' out of the young man. This was a new game, faking uncontrollable lust. She thought of it as calculated revenge for all the times she'd been leered and pawed over. Standing on the bottom rung objectifying his bottom, holding not the ladder but his ankles, then the shins. Eventually ending with both hands buttressing those peachy buttocks. By the time he came down Rogerio's face was bright red. So flushed that he failed, at first, to notice that a purple pink staining was now creeping up his arms, in the direction of his neck. When he did he squealed in Portuguese -

'Merda!'

then

' What the hell is this?  Look at my arms! I've caught some disease off these fucking curtains. An allergic reaction or something. I have to get out of here. Go to A& E. I'm leaving, right now......its unbearably itchy.....Agh!'

Rushing out of the room, the front door, then driving off speedily and erratically. Julia shouting after him -

'Oh don't worry my dear baby boy, that's nothing a bit of Aloe Vera Sanitiser and a deep rub of Germoline wont deal with'

Taking an admiring look up at her new curtains, she felt triumphant -

'Well, that was a lot of fun'

Next Week - The Final Episode of

Curtains My Dear, Curtains
EPISODE 5 - Contact Tracing Leads To An Unexpected Find

Will be posted Friday 4th February 2022

ARTICLE - Cold Hands Warmed By Blood

 

Sometimes you have one of those days, when everything appears to be pitching you  towards some unforseen and precipitous edge. One bleak Monday in the second week of January, I'm working in the shop. Custom, as is usual in the post Christmas Winter months, declining dramatically with every day. We are a few days away from shutting for a few weeks respite from all that  I don't really want to be there, it has to be said. Its cold, its damp and hardly anyone around. Two thirds of the shops in The Courtyard are shut today.

No matter how close I place my bodily form to our oil heater my hands are remaining resolutely cold. I'm cutting and sewing handmade jotter notepads, in order to keep my hands and mind occupied, to be usefully productive.  Part of this task involves trimming covers and their paper inserts to the same size. An extremely sharp scalpel blade resting in my fingers, obtaining the cleanest cut edges possible.

Whilst both hands remain perpetually chilled the dexterity of my arthritic fingers correspondingly declines. Working with them feels as though I'm attempting to do an incredibly fiddly clock repair using sausages sleeved in thick knitted gloves. There has been one small nick to the forefinger of my right hand already. Then, as I'm trimming one notepad, the forefinger of my left hand drifts a fraction too close and into the way of the blade. Taking a thin sliver of flesh off the surface from my finger tip.  Though its not huge, a considerable amount of blood is nonetheless now pumping out of it.

I try my very best not to do the cliche squealing camp panic. Its just a small cut. But its bleeding like a hose pipe! Keep your cool. Where is the shop first aid kit? Did we replenish it recently? Bet we didn't. You'll find it but discover there isn't one plaster big enough.  In the first aid kit, I fumble around looking for a plaster suitable for this substantial finger cut. I wrap one around. Completely hopeless in the face of the red flood. I move onto a larger more absorbent version. This works momentarily, but quickly turns scarlet red. I try again, tighter this time, with slightly longer lasting results. 

I take to wearing a silicone glove to deter blood being smeared absolutely every where, and the shop end up looking like a scene from a slasher movie. I stop making the notepads. I stay on for another hour. During which we have our one humbling customer of the day. That's enough, time to go home. I ring the husband, who comes to rescue me. Well, he picks me up in the car.

Having now armed ourselves with replenishments for our first aid supplies, we head for home. Clean the wound, fresh absorbent plaster, savlon, cotton wool, dressing tape. The result ( see above photo ) may look like completely pampered overkill to you, but it did work. Hand above heart, thumb pressed on the area of the cut. Looks like I won't be swimming for a while. 

This bulky bandage on a finger is oh so recognisable. Before the arrival of modern day elastoplast there was only the heavy duty cloth version. The one with an adhesive backing that could double as duct tape if you wished. Adhering to human flesh better than any super glue. My skin,  however, had a strong allergic reaction to them. Every time they were put on, over even a minor cut, the skin beneath became a swollen, itchy, spotty rash. In one childhood incidence, a relatively small gash was prevented from healing up altogether, and almost, I emphasise almost, got infected.

Every time, whenever I had a fall or grazed anything that normally might be quickly dabbed with TCP and covered with a plaster, out would come the cotton dressing and bandages. Depending on the limb or where the damage to my body was, dictated how elaborate the dressing would end up being. The sight of my digit appendage copiously swaddled in lint as it currently was, was quite a familiar throwback to an earlier era.

As soon as you attempt a return to doing what you normally do, the bandaged finger reveals its true nature as an impediment to life, liberty and the pursuit of productivity. Compared to which the wearing of a mask in a pandemic is the mildest inconvenience going. Doing the washing up, not possible. Taking a shower, not possible. Lifting anything, holding anything firmly, not possible. Doing anything remotely fiddly, like tie a shoe lace, not possible. 

Getting your todger out of your trousers in order to piss, though possible, involves quite a lot of embarrassing fumbling around trying to locate the little devil. Then pointing it in the direction of the toilet pan without placing your bandaged finger directly in the line of fire. Do not attempt this in a public toilet or you will be in receipt of some very disapproving glances.

Within a few days the big bandage could be downgraded to an absorbent plaster, and subsequently to a transparent everyday plaster. Why does it need to be transparent? Who the hell knows. It has been fascinating to observe how skin recovers so quickly. All without my having to do anything, other than whinge and play the poor me card. A week later there's only the suggestible blip of a scab left. I'll have moved on soon, quickly forgetting how easily vulnerable to injury my body is. Back to the mode of 'let's pretend I am really the invincible man'.

LISTENING TO - Strong by SAULT

Its rare that I recommend the same band twice within such a short space of time. But here we are with this track Strong by SAULT from the 2020 album Untitled (Rise). Part of the two albums they released that year, the other being Untitled (Black Is ). Two stupendous albums that are musically and politically knock out.

Strong is the opening track on (Rise) and its so deceptively laid back, a seemingly effortless slick Philly Sound infused groove. Then halfway through it breaks into this heart stopping Africa Funk drum break which I find so uplifting of the spirits, its quite simply glorious. Melding back into the Philadelphia strings again by the end. Paying homage to its musical sources and ancestry whilst remaining contemporary. Stunning stuff. Enjoy.

EPISODE 3 Curtains My Dear, Curtains

The Way of Ordering Gets A Bit Tricky

Julia had tried to clean up the samples, but they'd just turned into warped dish clothes. With a whiff of stomach reformulated prosecco still lingering over them. On returning to Randall's to place her fabric order she came holding her singular choice. The purpled bruise one - Malevolent Punch. Intending to blank anyone who dared ask where the other samples were. When she recollected Simone's less than wholehearted endorsement, her silicon enhanced boobs shivered.  No, she reproved herself, this was the fabric she wanted. The oracle, on this occasion was simply wrong. Renewing her resolve, she crossed the portal into the other worldly realm that was Randall's.

The bell tinged with its usual genteel elegance. Though as she entered. Julia was met by the strangest sensation, reminiscent of an abandoned shipwreck. Even the echoes appeared lost.  She called out. 

'Hello, anyone here?' 

No answer. Proceeding to bang the counter bell severely, almost to breaking point. in reprimand. She detected soft rustling noises and hushed voices in the back room. A young shop assistant was then propelled forth out of the back office and store room, as though being thrown to the lions. This was a new Saturday girl, and serving the lion that was Julia Goodall-Smillie would be her initiation ritual. The haberdashery equivalent of having your head forced down a flushed loo. Poor, poor Emily Louise, serving Ms Julia on your very first day. 

Julia herself was bewildered - this was a petite child, not a grown up. Where was the emaciated stuck up adult she'd spoken to before?

'Who are you? What were you doing out there, making a three course lunch? Where's the usual woman I deal with here?

'Er yes, no... em... Emily.......I was checking.... stock, em, who do you mean? I mean what was their name?

'I don"t know - expressionless pasty face,late thirty ish, fair haired, tight bob, twice your height, very very lean, like a stick. Look, is there a manager or owner I can talk to? An adult, basically. 

'Until midday there is just me and Bethany. Its Ms Treadwell's day off and Mrs Randall's gone into town to pick up her son from the station?

'And Bethany is?'

'The other girl who works Saturday's. She's been here a bit longer than me. I've just started....... today'

Julia's eyebrows tensed. Her mouth crinkling with irritation. This was going to be hard. Was she up for coming back this afternoon? No, that was something she was not inclined to do. Oh fuck it, let's give the children from kindergarten a go.

'Do you think Bethany could come out too?'

Emily Louise shuffled in her court shoes quickly through to the back. Reemerging with a taller willowy girl, with the deportment of someone well trained in maintaining that floaty upright walk and poise a ballet dancer has. Creating the impression of self possession with vast amounts of confidence, largely unwarranted. Public schooled - obviously. 

'You're Bethany I take it, I need you to order this fabric. Are you capable of doing that.?

Yes, What fabric would you like to order?'

'It's this one here, I've brought the sample. It has everything on the back you need to know. Here are my notes and measurements on the window size and the drop I require. Could I just leave it and when Mrs Randall returns she could phone with the estimate and likely completion date later'

'I can take your order if you don't mind waiting' 

Julia, became quietly fascinated in observing Bethany slowly filling out the order form. Heavily pressing down in the clearly composed rounded printing that was her writing. It was taking far too long. But Julia was taken aback by her own level of patience. There was something mesmeric about watching the girl write with such neat precision. There ought to be an award for it. Bethany let out her held breath, a sharp exhalation signaling completion. Handing the biro written original to Julia as if it were a literary triumphe, and filed the carbons in the 'To Order' lever arche., saying:-

'Mrs Randall will be in touch should there be anything else required, about the deposit, total cost and estimated time for making them. Is that OK.?

Yes, that's fine. You know who I am, my address and contact details?'

'Oh yes, Ms Goodall-Smillie  - we know'

The 'we know' came out wrapped in a little too much cockiness, so Bethany smiled, with all the beatification she could summon. Hoping this might effectively camouflage or at least soften the backlash.  Luckily the customer barely noticed. She was halfway out the door.

As Julia left she caught in her peripheral, the two girls doing high fives. Conspiratorially giggling together, hiding their wired teeth behind their small doll like hands. She smirked. - Youth!

Margot returned to her shop with her nerves like tense runways, torn to absolute shreds. Picking up her son had turned into one enormous nightmare, the traffic, the difficulty parking, delayed trains, changes in platform. Compounded by her bad tempered unappreciative conceited little pig of an offspring. A chip off her former husband, he was the son. who took for granted all her good hearted motherly services. When she heard Julia Goodall-Smillie had been in, her heart sank further. Exclaiming exasperated -

'Oh, that's enough !

She grilled the two girls extensively about exactly what they'd said, done and agreed to. Luckily Bethany had had the experience and wherewithal to handle it. The curtain order was at least very legible. What a relief.

The fabric company, Retinal Hemorrhage, when she phoned to place the order, seemed frankly to be off their tits on drugs. Far too droll and lackadaisical for her liking. Interspersed with a lot of very knowing metro-sexual sniggering. Maybe it was her generation, but whenever she a spoke on the phone to such self amused London men, it was invariably hard to ascertain their gender. Even if they sounded gay, they might well be as straight as a poplar tree.

She decided to pay up front in order to obtain a speedy delivery.  The fabric arriving by the end of the week. This gave plenty of time for the curtains to be made up. As she handed the job over to her seamstress Francine, she apologised for the distastefulness of the fabric's subject matter. Urging her to do the best she can, because it was for Ms Goodall-Smillie. Francine bit her bottom lip.

What Margot wanted was no cause for complaint from that quarter. A cascading litany of other words - that cow, bitch, trollop, harridan, angrily stomped across her mind without being given voice. Decorous language in front of staff was so important to maintain. Her cat, an Egyptian Maus called Ozymandias, was accustomed to absorbing all her pissy vitriol. It was, needless to say, highly strung.

Francine had made up curtain orders for Randall's for decades. They used her constantly, were decent with her, paid on time and well. Self employed, she worked entirely from her cute stone faced cottage. Investing over the years in a modern half underground sewing room built out the back. Ideal for the cutting and running up of curtain fabrics. The first thing with any new fabric was to familiarise herself with it. Check it over for printing faults, misalignments, wayward or unusual patterning. Basically areas that she'd need to avoid or work carefully around. It was hard to tell with this one. This fabric was just weird in every way possible.

The impressionistic nature of the design, meant it appeared to visually shift. Shuddering on first handling. It felt alive in her hands, with its blue bruised veining, the sulphurous yellow halos on its skin like textured surface, all very unnerving. The filigree gold lines spread out like delicate slug trails, suggesting the outlines of eyes. As she did the preliminary measuring, these appeared to be checking her out.

Trimming the fabric to size turned into major surgery.  Once cut, it started to literally bleed colour onto anything it lay upon. The heavy dye load required to obtain the rich deep indigoes and purples in the fabric was unstable. It probably wasn't fixed much, or at all. The colour transferred so easily, even on light handling. Already she'd had to scrub surfaces and her hands several times. In the end. resorting to covering her table with plastic sheeting and wearing silicone gloves on her hands. Not great to do anything in, let alone sew. But she didn't want fingerprints cropping up all over the place, especially transferring onto other customers fabrics. What an expensive disaster that would be.

She phoned Mrs Randall to inform her. What should she do? Margot had the tricky task of ringing Julia to inform her. Expecting a huge eruption, she wasn't taken aback when Julia did explode, though she appeared to be not at all concerned. What she said was:-

'Fucking hell woman, once they're hanging up who the bloody well will care. Just do what I'm ruddy well paying you for. Don't come bleating to me about a minor pernickerty detai

Francine completed the job with her trademark efficiency. Continuing to take an extraordinary amount of care with the handling. Keeping the curtains wrapped in plastic at all times when not working on them. Once finished and left on the Customer Order shelf in Randall's stockroom, Margot noticed how warm the curtains felt to the touch. Even as they lay there you could see a heat haze rising off them. She'd be overjoyed the day she could hand them over to Ms J Goodall-Smillie.

These curtains had the potential to be big trouble, she just knew it.

Curtains My Dear, Curtains
EPISODE 4 - A Handsome Delivery Man Helps With The Hanging Up

Will be posted Friday 28th January 2022

. 

MY OWN WALKING - Journal 16/01/22

There are discernible themes running through my life. One is of tidal waves of creative desires, quite often frustratedly impacting against the solidly immovable rocks of circumstances. In consequence, there has also been a feeling of self betrayal at not being able, or not feeling able, to pursue them. Experiencing profound sadness whenever I carelessly break the scab off this old sore. Now with age, the time and energy to pick things up and run with them is not always there. Ebbing further away until at some point they will be entirely beyond the reach of me. These days I'm forced to regretfully shrug my shoulders and say ' no use crying over this now.'

I've often had pause to reflect that perhaps I was bequeathed too many gifts, too many things I'm able to do, or put my hands to. My creative interests have ranged wide. That has always been half the difficulty. The other half, a certain fickleness to my self confidence. Were I to name just a few past endeavours, there has been painting, poetry, acting, singing, performance art, story writing, history, morris dancing. Literally impossible to pursue all of them, all of the time. Creative impulses spread too thinly, might as well be a ghost. Which in itself proves dissatisfying.

Then there is the restlessness that never sleeps. A lifetime of endeavouring to find outlets to be creative within, kept company with the insufficiency of sleep. Fertile soil left fallow for too long can be painful to consciously recollect. Of all the crops never sown, so never reaped. Perhaps it is in the night that I dream the dreams I either do not want, or perhaps fear, to imagine or remember. Tossing and turning over what was or could have been. I needed to earn a living, quite often in an entirely mundane way. Entailing some of my desires being martyred on the altar of necessity. This is not an experience unique to me, it is regrettably quite a common one.

I work these days on encouraging gratefulness, for what I do have, what I have done, what I am doing creatively. This helps, to a degree. Saving me from falling too deeply into the pit of melancholy for anyone to reach and pull me out. I fully appreciate the value of the creative things that I have been able to do. But part of me remains unconvinced by my own arguements.  On an emotional level I'm always hungry for more. Whatever I have done, falls short of some idealised potential.  It can be like living with this quiet but persistently unrequited love. That hangs around in the wings saying ' you go right ahead and try to make this impasse seem perfectly alright. You know that it isn't. But I'll still be here patiently waiting for you to come up and embrace me. Just let me know when you're ready'

I clocked it was never going to be feasible to keep all my creative plates spinning, quite early on. It helped to focus on one artistic endeavour at a time, if only to get the sense of having made progress. I am fortunate to be blessed with many practical skills, picked up over the years. Though I've not had either the desire or the depth of talent to develop these to the level of true craftsmanship. Its too late now anyway. The dexterity and suppleness of my arthritic hands grows stiffer and more prone to cackhandedess. Finely detailed fiddly work not far from being beyond my ability to execute. I have to cultivate contentment with what it is that I can do, however imperfect. For this will have to do. 

I'm not confident artistic creativity alone can ever be a reliable enough refuge. To invest huge amounts of faith in, spiritually speaking. It is far too needy of attention. So rife is it with discontent and the voracious craving for more. Art can be like an addictive beast, the more you feed it the bigger it grows, the more insatiable its appetite becomes. Yet it appears, I cannot let it alone, something remains needing to be given a voice. 

Art as a form of self expression, it could be said, has no practical purpose, no meaning other than in the doing of it. Zen Buddhism might say that the whole idea of artistic self expression is a form of deluded neurotic vanity. And whilst I am fully aware of its evident limitations as part of a spiritual path, I appear unwilling to kick the habit. Unless the habit kicks me first.

QUOTATION MARKS - Brother David Steindl-Rast

Religions start from mysticism. 

There is no other way to start a religion. 

But, 

I compare this to a volcano that gushes forth 

and then the magma flows down the sides of the mountain and cools off. 

And when it reaches the bottom, 

it's just rocks. 

You'd never guess that there was fire in it. 

So after a couple of hundred years, 

or two thousand years or more,
what was once alive is dead rock. 

Doctrine becomes doctrinaire. 

Morals become moralistic. 

Ritual becomes ritualistic. 

What do we do with it? 

We have to push through this crust 

and go to the fire that's within it.

Brother David Stendl-Rast

From the TV programme The Monk & the Rabbi 2005

FINISHED READING - The Housekeeper & The Professor by Yoko Ogawa

Though published relatively recently in 2003 Yoko Ogawa's book is being republished as a companion for four other books by Japanese authors. Each different in subject matter, either capture aspects of the period when they were written in, or represent innovations in the development of the Japanese novel. There are works by Murakami,1994, Mishima 1963, Tanizaki 1936 and Kirino 1997 published by Vintage in there Japan Classics Series. Ogawa is one of a new generation of female writers that started to emerge in the last decades of the twentieth century.

The Housekeeper & The Professor is an example of a particular form of contemporary Japanese novel, where a touching relationship develops between two people from entirely different classes of society. Brought together despite odd circumstances and the evident impediment of eccentricity. Another novel similarly written in this style from 2001 is Hiromi Kawakami's Strange Weather in Tokyo.

Here we have The Professor, a mathematics genius, who, due to a car collision many years ago, has lost most of his ability to remember the present day short term details. He can only hold things for about eighty minutes before these slip away from recollection. Everyone who comes to know him has to deal with daily having to reintroduce themselves to him. The Professor wears an old bedraggled suit with numerous notes and pictures pinned to it. To help remind or prompt him to recollect.

The Housekeeper is employed through her agency to do just that, look after the house and The Professor's general wellbeing. There have been many housekeepers previous who have not been able to hack the job for long. It can be repetitive and taxing to ones patience. This particular housekeeper, however, starts to actively engage with the Professor through his primary means of communication, mathematics and analysis of statistics. The Housekeeper has a son, who The Professor calls Root, because of the shape of his head. Both become increasingly fond of the Professor, his eccentricities, his love of maths and begin to plan events and trips to broaden what he can experience every day.

This novel, like many contemporary Japanese novels, has no great dramatic story arc. It simply opens a window onto a strange world and unusual relationship. Ogawa's writing, whilst very modern in its choice of  subject matter, bears a style that is the epitome of the classic Japanese novel. An unfussy clean use of grammar and sentence structure, with no extraneous words or literary flourishes. Little by way of lengthy exposition or description. The writing, though economical, contains sufficient information to communicate feeling or move the story on. Extensive use of internal dialogue or cathartic emoting isn't employed, passions are kept distinctly low key and restrained. 

Despite this contained form, one is gently led into a world and atmosphere that you can identify with and feel for. Though we are never told who the Housekeeper, Professor or Root are, what their real names might be, they are not ciphers. Its a quintessentially human story, composed with a light touch and sense of care for the integrity of her characters. A study in how you connect with another person's world and viewpoint  However remote, or from a different class, culture or life experience they may seem. No one is that cut off that their humanity cannot be still reached on some level, in small yet significant ways.

Without trying too hard to impress, Ogawa's novel does, nonetheless, do so.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

EPISODE 2 Curtains My Dear, Curtains

There Is An Art To Choosing When You're Drunk

Rarely did she resist the temptation to be extremely rude to shop assistants. It was her default mode of engagement.  If anything, being confronted by a passive aggressive woman provoked Julia far more than any amount of male condescension. 'Mansplaining' was easily dealt with, you corrected very loudly and publicly humiliated him. That the strength of her reactions was mostly uncalled for, never crossed her mind. On this occasion, she'd been distracted by the allure coming off the folder of fabric designs, they were so temptingly......delectable.

Each design was an uber clever patternated repetition of eyes, coming in a variety of colour-ways, sourced from photos, paintings or carvings. There were open or closed eyes - celebrity eyes, surrealist eyes, eyes with macular degeneration, bloody eyes undergoing surgery, Turkish eyes, the eye of Horus, alchemical eyes, masonic eyes, stone cut eyes, the eyes of pigs, sheep or birds. Anything with bulbous bulging orbs from an ebony faced Spanish Madonna to Bette Davis and really mad looking dolls. An eclectic collection then. 

She felt unexpectedly spoilt at being in receipt of so many quality designed fabrics. Turning to Ms Treadwell she spoke curtly, more by way of instruction than request.

'I'll be taking these home, and return them.... probably....whenever. Something here may do, but I need to consider at my leisure. If I do want one, how long until you'll have the fabric in?

' As its a new company for us, that can sometimes take up to a couple of weeks. Are you going to make them up yourself, or commission us to do that for you?

Julia had a brief flashback of herself sewing. All the painful previous attempts having been unmitigated disasters, reducing her to ripping up or burning the fabric ritually in an out door brazier. So she said:-

'Oh, God no, you can do all that' 

A flick of the hand conveying the depth of her disdain for manual work. She turned exiting the shop with all the brisk she could summon. Glancing at the fabric folder gripped tightly in her lace gloved hands. One of these beauties.........may be - The One.

'This will certainly require a deep communion with Simone'

Accompanied by a glass of prosecco, or two.  A quick nip to the off-licence. Essential.

By the time she reached home, the paper bag containing the four large bottles of La Marca was on the point of rupture. Having carefully clutched them to her breasts all the way back. Fumbling in the pockets of her scarlet culottes for the door key almost caused a major catastrophe. On bending down to rest the bottles and bag on the door step, the side gusset of the bag tore. Bottles tinkled out.  One, bounced off the top step miraculously remaining intact. Had it not been for a nifty piece of footwork by Julia, effectively blocking any further forward rolling, a waterfall of prosecco froth would have cascaded down the front steps. Alerting every neighbour's 'twitch and tut' to the advanced state if her alcoholism.

Nerves rattled, a visibly strained Julia shuffled through her classically proportioned eighteenth century entrance hallway. Ungainly wobbling in the general direction of the front room. The bottles still cradled like new born puppies in constant peril. Once the fabric folder, held in her claw like grip, was released to the armchair, then the bottles could be safely deposited. Deftly arranged in a skittle formation on the rectangular solid block of glass that was her coffee table.

'Oh. Simone, I'm home, I need your advice my love, come on down please.'

Furniture roughly pushed aside. The hefty folder opened. Contents fanned across the carpet. The A4 samples failed to show them off to their best. More fertile imaginative skills would be required. 

'Simone dear, hurry up, I need some advice from my oracle and goddess'

Stomping around the marble floor in her retro platforms. She frustratedly riffled in the sideboard cupboard. The 'champerz' glasses were in there somewhere. Having excavated two, she put them on the blood red mantelpiece. These would be the lure, the invitation for 'a divine visitation'.  Julia enjoyed elaborating rituals to lead up to role playing, in this case it was - let's pretend we have a friend at home. All part of the 'mise en scene' whenever major aesthetic decisions were to take place. Her 'aesthetic consultant' she'd named Simone, long ago forgetting why, or who. Was it Nina? De Beaviour? Did she care? No!

Open a bottle, fill the glass to the brim, knock it back as though it were tonic water. Then another and another in rapid succession. Once she was actually fully in the vicinity of rat arsed, only then could she begin channelling Simone. A deeper husky voice emerging from her freshly slackened larynx.

'So, what do you want my sweet sweet bitch?'

The character of Simone had developed over time, till now she was this larger than life, spirited being, unashamedly speaking truth to Julia's stern dominatrix.  The persona somewhat resembled a drag version of Julia. Instability in the vocal delivery department, meant it veered back and forth between Danny La Rue and Mama Ru.

' Hello Simone. Well, what do you think of these? Funky eh?

'Great visually.  Quite powerful. These could dominate your life, let alone a room. Don't mess with these babies, leave them well alone, hun'

'You're sounding a bit freaked my dearest doom eyed one. Aren't you just a little taken with this one, the iridescent teal, it would zing next to the yellow cabinet. Not sure whose eye it is. A zombie Mother Theresa? It follows you around the room like a predator...or maybe thats the prozzo ?'

'Those eyes remind me of Damian le Ronde, that wallpaper designer you had the randy hots for a while back. Leary, far too willing to cross personal boundaries. Basically eyes, hands, everywhere. Didn't understand no' 

'How could I have ever lived with that. Those eyes soooo penetrating .......undressing you. Such a mean stare ......as if jealously scanning you for illegal substances at Gatwick. He was a close call you saved me from, my love'

'Thank you....so maybe consider this rouge red one, the heavy bagged bloodshot eyes..... dramatic.......Argento....ish.  Art shlock, its a current sub trend, so I hear'

' Is that what it is? I don't know.....Goth.... its a bit prepubescent teenager... for contrived Instagram depressives only.  I prefer graphic expressionistic splodges, wildly thrown dots and dashes..... Oh, what about this one, as a comprise?'

Julia held up a sheet that looked velvety, with dappled sour yellows and blue veined purples. Slarts of filigree gold, glinted calligraphically in rough suggestion of an eye, surrounded by the cosmic swirl of a deeply bruised eye socket. The after effect of being hit by a fist.  Now woozy and unsteady on her feet, Julia started to prance and circle intensively round and round, dervish like. Until she wanted, and then did vomit. Bar the purple one in her hand, none of the other fabric samples remained untouched. Upon falling into a nearby armchair, she muttered:

'Well, I think that's the selection process finished. We've decided Simone.  Its this one. Whatever it's called'

Julia peered at the label with one eye closed, as if that would sharpen her drunken focus. No 679 -  Malevolent Punch

'You can do better than that. Julia, pu..leese, don't be this trivial'

'I've puked, what more do you want?

Curtains My Dear, Curtains
EPISODE 3 - The Way Of Ordering Gets A Bit Tricky

Will be posted Friday 21st January 2022

LISTENING TO - Yard Act

Just when you think a northern post punk guitar based outfit had become an irrelevant thing of the past, up pop Yard Act. Wearing his antecedents like badges of honour, Yard Act's front man James Smith conjures up his own uniquely brilliant way with words. Cuttingly satirical whilst beaming up this knowing wink to cheer your heart. Its probably not without some significance that an earlier band Smith was in was called Post War Glamour Girls, in many ways John Cooper Clarke is his closest comparison and influence. With a heavy dose of Alex Turner's observational accuracy that made Arctic Monkeys such a breath of fresh air. Yard Act hold a similar potential.

You can hear echoes of Mark E Smith's invective but without the weird otherworldly lyrics, that meant you never really understood what the hell he was on about. The world James Smith describes is a very recognisable one, mythologised and heightened for parodic effect. His songs, like small stories, character studies even. The best example being Fixer Upper, where the central first person narrative is spoken by Graham. He's a builder who does up old houses and sells them on. Employing cheap Polish labour, who he doesn't pay on time. Made a lot of money and boasts about his two homes and the trashy wealthy vulgarity he owns.

Fixer Upper - lyrics

Hello there! I got a letter in the post
Addressed to the previous owner
I don't know how to pronounce their name
I don't think they were from round here, you know
Well, I just moved into the area, yeah
That big old thing over the road
It's a fixer upper though, it's a fixer upper so
We're gonna put poundshop terracotta frogs everywhere
And wrap solar power fairy lights round the gutter
I got a prosecco o'clock poster half price in Ikea
It goes nicely with the existential fear that I feel
When I accidentally wonder
What I'm really doing here
And how long I've got left before I'm six feet under
I can't believe I'm a two homeowner
(Finally!) Can't believe I'm a two homeowner
I've finally got a nice little drive to call my own
I got off street parking for the rover
It's a fixer upper though, yeah, no, not the rover, the rover's golden
I'm talking about that big old thing over the road
Yeah that big old thing over the road!
We're gonna knock through the kitchen wall though
Even though it's grade two Tudor architecture
But we're gonna absolutely ruin it
All alright? We can't stand old shite!

It's a fixer upper! It's a fixer upper!
It's a fixer upper! It's a fixer upper!

Anyway, this letter, I'll just post it back 'return to sender'
Unless you know him, I think...
I think he's called Mr. J Konopinski...?
Oh no wait, that's not an M that's a D
Dr J. Konopinski, do you know him?
Sounds a bit Russian to me... Oh! Polish, I see
And he had a PhD did he? What in?
Probably one of those pointless media degrees, not for me
University of life ya see, I got thick skin
School of hard knocks, gonna knock through that wall on Tuesday
Just in case you or the wife are gonna be in

It's a fixer upper! It's a fixer upper!
It's a fixer upper! It's a fixer upper!

Alright mate, sorry about the commotion yesterday
The bloody builders are refusing to finish the job until I pay 'em
But I told 'em, no one pulls a fast one on Graham
I'm Graham by the way, don't know if I mentioned
I told 'em, I'm not made of money, you're having a laugh
Two homes and a rover, comes from hard graft
I'm not minted, I earnt it
It's not some funny voodoo business
I didn't walk on gilded splinters
To make the dent I did in under a year
I earnt it, In case you're wondering
And as for the builders...
Yeah they're Polish
I'm not bothered about that like
But where you come from, it says a lot about a man
And I'm not from round here, but I am
Also they won't take cash in hand
What's with that? Maybe they wouldn't need the money so bloody fast
If they weren't willingly giving it all to the tax man
You take what you can get where I'm from
And I'm not from round here, but I am

I'm Graham by the way
(Hey Graham)
I'm Graham
I'm Graham

Yard Act are based in Leeds, but have not been on the scene that long. They are another band for whom word of mouth has spread fast. So now they are caught by the music media spotlight. With only a handful of gigs and a four track EP Dark Days to go on. A full album emerges this month entitled The Overload. Plus finally a bit of money for videos. A stand out track released in advance of the album is Rich, fun and affectionate ribbing of its subject matter, whilst also being a wry commentary on our attitude to people who have lots of money. Smith contrasts this via various working class archetypes holding up a fifty pence piece. Yes, its not just the millionaires, we all have a very skewed ideas about what true wealth is. 

Though the lyrics are what most hold your attention its important that I mention the music too. This never rests in one style for long. One track a noise infused racket, another sounds more like a cheesy working men's club backing band. But nonetheless it propels the tracks along in a tense high gear. I can see them becoming popular, But I can also see them becoming a bit of a one trick pony, with only a novelty single or a cover to pin their fame to. Enjoy their early flourishing while it lasts.

SHERINGHAM DIARY No 56 - Two Donkey Moon

I viewed an online lecture by the historian/archaeologist Chris Naunton recently - on Tutankhamun - In Life, Death & Eternal Afterlife. I've watched a few of his lectures to pass the time in the bleak quiet hours in the shop. Always packed full of interesting facts and rare details that I've certainly never heard before. He invariably overruns, quite spectacularly. Apologising profusely every time at the end. I don't think anyone minds greatly, at least no more than him. It kinda makes you warm to his generous enthusiasm to connect getting the better of him, yet again.

I put subtitles on during online lectures, simply because either my hearing or the audio can get flaky. Auto- generated subtitles are one of the unexpected joys born of the internet. Bizzare fascinating misinterpretations of ordinary words and manglings of grammar or syntax. Rarely does it mishear the same way twice. On Nauton's lecture a great deal of inventive translation of the name Tutankhamun took place. My favourite being, what would've be a really great name for an late sixties psychedelic folk rock band - Two Donkey Moon.

December? well that was a very testing month in the shop, wasn't it boys?. Beginning extremely well, but the moment Mr Bungle reintroduced restrictions, everyone went into hibernation. We had an appalling sequence of bad days takings until Mr Bungle hurriedly reassured us - no further restrictions before Christmas. Christmas was not cancelled. Things improved moderately, producing a steady and heartening final week leading up to Christmas and New Years Eve.

In the end December was up by about a quarter on last year, which sounds spectacular. But last years trade in the run up to Christmas was supressed by uncertainty over whether there would even be a Christmas. Instead we had Mr Bungle's last minute contraction from five days to one day of festivities. Lets just say we recovered well. Our Christmas trade, one suspects, could have been even better had there not been a hiatus hernia hanging over it. Each of our first three Christmas periods has been affected by circumstances beyond our control - an upcoming General Election, lock downs or increased restrictions. One year, just one year, it will be completely straightforward. Though I am not holding my breath.

We had three lovely days of Christmas at home just the two of us, the usual homemade nut roasts, gravy, puddings, cakes. Such preparations made a little more last minute than usual. After that we drove over in Barbara for three days of with Jnanasalin's family in Nottingham. Huge amounts of carbohydrate rich food was had by all.  By the time we returned home both of us had put on an amount of weight, unmentionable in this post.

Never mind, the new swimming pool in Sheringham - The Reef - opened before Christmas. So I've re-started my regular swims twice a week. I am quite a few breast strokes short of being fit. But after two and a half years without swimming I'm gradually getting my stamina back. The new pool has fabulous modern facilities, its quite a step up from The Splash that preceded it, which had become really scuzzy and unfit for purpose. It took a lot longer to re-open than originally planned, originally due before the Summer last year, then postponed to August. But Brexit shortages of materials and import delays delayed this. Add in the usual pandemic impediments its a miracle it happened in December. Now I'm just crossing my fingers that no future changes in Covid restrictions force it to temporarily close its neat little swim lanes.

Whilst watching the recent Grayson Perry's Art Club about the exhibition in Bristol of its art club contributors, I was interested in the work of one artist who made shrine artworks. I thought, I could do that, make small shrines, to anything and everything. It could be a great way to explore issues, devotional or otherwise, to have a new creative outlet to explore.

I've started by building a mock up of a shrine out of cardboard to contain a small resin figurine of Our Lady of Walsingham. Working out what the general architectural structure will be like, and have a few ideas how I might like to decorate it in the back of my mind. Christmas has interrupted my flow. But I'll return to it soon enough, if patience and time will be mine.

So 2022 - what will that turn out to be like?  Jnanasalin and I are looking forward to taking a break during January/February. He's going a solitary and I'm going to try practicing a more ascetic way of staying at home. Either side of this there is some tax returning to finalise and send, making prep to be done, a review of our website, planning new lines and suppliers to introduce, and some fresh fabrics for the spring to source. The latter necessitates a jaunt northwards along the A -line motorways to Lincoln and Stamford for a couple of days, to visit two fabulous fabric shops in two of our favourite towns. Yippee!

Fassbinder as Fox

Fassbinder Film Club continues. The 1975 film -  Fox & His Friends, is an extremely sad film that, even without knowing Fassbinder's doom ridden back catalogue, telegraphs way ahead the fatal ending for its naif central character. Fassbinder himself plays Fox with both great physical charm, and an endearing trust and innocence. Utilising his own far from passing resemblance to 'a bit of rough'. For Fox is a gay man who has on occasions had to work the streets for a living. Then he wins a huge amount of money in a lottery and falls in love with a rich businessman. Life has suddenly given him everything he'd ever hoped for. 

However, the businessman lover is in a tight spot financially with his family owned business. He hooks up with Fox, simply in order to funnel Fox's money into supporting his expensive lifestyle and keeping his failing business afloat. Too late Fox has to face what's really going on. Eventually found dead of a drug overdose in the underground. Being robbed by young children of the last money he has left in his jacket  pocket of his lottery winnings. 

Fassbinder here is at his most Brechtian as a film maker. Championing the outsider, the downtrodden, the maginalised, isolated and maligned. In Fox & His Friends the moral is very clearly being laid out before you - that any working class person is inevitably ripped off by the capitalist system that will always promise them the world. 

I am going to be 65 in June this year.  I've had a series of communications from pension providers about pensions that finish this year, if I want them to. I have to decide what exactly to do. Its prompted that New Year desire to sort out a few things that I have been endlessly prevaricating over. First, going through my files of paperwork and having a clear out. My bike needs servicing. I need a new pair of glasses. Oh, the list its getting longer and could turn quite inhibiting and weighty, so let's take this one small step at a time shall we Stee-V.

EPISODE 1 Curtains My Dear, Curtains

A Fabric Project Prompts A Visit To A Haberdashers

When Julia woke up at the crack of dawn, she already had her mind set on one aim for this bright, as yet unsullied, day - new curtains. Mentally punching the air - Yes! - a brilliant fabric for the front room. It wasn't that the present occupants were worn or in need of a quick dry clean. She was just bored by them. They'd been installed for six months or so and all the novelty had really worn off. They should be gone, and gone soon. What was wrong with them? Unclear. But it was somewhere in the area of Waffled Apricot not really making a sufficiently notable enough design statement.

Now she'd envisaged this tantalising prospect, the hunt needed planning for. Where to source that soon to be delicious fabric? She imagined she'd start off at Randall's, because you had to begin somewhere. But she preferred to shop local anyway, because of the greater opportunities to cause outrage it provided. So much easier in a village than in a town, where everyone professed not to care what you did. Her surname in Brimmingham, however, had become a rude word on the street. Notorious enough for all local shop assistants to know where she lived, and be able to recite the address off by heart.  

'Lets give the family run haberdashers a chance before casting the net wider, or to the 'net', shall we?'

However, she held out little or no hope of finding anything suitable. It had never happened before. Randall's staid fabric range she'd once described to their face as - 'a capital IT prefaced by a large SH.' Of course they knew their local market; ultra conventional and conservative. The type of people to whom a boldly sculpted damask was as racy as it got. Even if this were to be executed with a degree of heightened irony, it was simply not the emphasis she was seeking to embolden here.

One look at her front room would tell you why. She'd not deign to line even her knicker drawer with a twee chintz. To say the senses were challenged by her interiors would be to downplay the effect. Provoked, assaulted or blinded were nearer. Colours and patterns did not so much riot, but raged. Crudely mustered in a fully fledged war. Explosions of expressionistic splashes spreading artfully across a sofa, fought a battle for supremacy with a wallpaper marshalled with stripes, and the jazzed up rectilinear design of the carpet.  The constant visual jitterbug,  generating an optical disturbance worthy of Bridget Riley.

Julia absolutely loved it, so certain was she that it was unique. No one else could pull off such a bravura use of ocular excess. She was very surprised no one had contacted her to do a Sunday magazine photo shoot on it yet. Having sent  pictures and info to a old school acquaintance at the The Telegraph.... several times. 

'Note to self - you'll have to badger the bugger - phone them!

There were no places of peace and serenity to contrast against the actively strident surroundings. Julia thought those served no useful aesthetic purpose at all. That was the source of her discontent with the existing curtains, they were far too meek. Just not working hard enough. Without needing to read anything on the subject, she'd instinctively grasped the ethos of 'maximalist' design, and gone way way beyond.

Minimalism, not without some justification she believed, had become too all pervasive these days. It was up there with flock wallpaper as an interior design tragedy. Stripped of character, individuality or soul, it was now the default choice for every empty headed, clueless thirty something who wanted to appear effortlessly modern. With the emphasis being on effortless. It was lazy. Any propensity to be cutting edge well and truly blunted by being over a century too late.  

Julia preferred totemic collisions to tastefully coordinated beige, off white or tonal grey ensembles. As she sat pertly in bed planning the splendid day ahead, emblazoned across Julia's baggy Day Glo Orange night shirt, and picked out in blobby sequined letters for added emphasis, was the phrase - 

' Kelly Hoppen, can go fuck herself'!' - 

Once up and dressed she hurriedly left her house and turned the corner. Two streets further down she swiveled left. Half way up, the flaking Sanderson's paintwork of the late Georgian bay windows of Randall's came into view. Her expectations remained low. The assistant Ms Treadwell stood impassive behind the polished mahogany counter. Greeting Julia with the practiced blank visage of understated politeness. She smiled weakly, whilst inwardly her heart was sinking 

'Why did it have to be me? Why her, today of all days?'

She knew of Julia, oh yes, everyone knew of Julia. Goodness, what a pain this woman could be. She didn't understand why Julia even bothered asking. When had they ever had what she wanted? Nevertheless, she'd make you go through their banks of fabric sample binders, searching for a distinctive fabric, that would not be found.

'Good Morning, Ms Goodall-Smillie, how are you today?'

'Fine, fine. This morning..... I'm looking for curtain fabric, no brocades, velvets, or damasks, non or your Laura Ashley style nostalgic tat, or derivatives thereof. I know this might be a bit, just a bit, of a forlorn hope. But do you have anything bold, and I do mean bold, either in colour, design or concept. This would be highly highly preferable. Had anything, anything, new in, lately.....ever?'

If Julia's conversation became peppered with repeated words, she was usually  teetering on the edge of her very worst behaviour. The emphasis infusing every sentence with a sarcasm, not lost at all on Ms Treadwell.  Particularly as Julia leaned in towards the hapless shop assistant and practically spit her request at the poor woman's spectacles. Ms Treadwell flickered her eyelids, startled, intimidated, the too close proximity triggering her phobia and hence flustering her.

She was used to a refined, but distant civility, often concealing its sense of superior entitlement beneath a sharply pleated skirt. Brimmingham was the sort of village that kept quiet about its spiteful authoritarian leanings, preferring to conceal them underneath the highly polished walnut veneer of homely gentility. Ms Treadwell's eyes popped wide open at Julia's head-on confrontational manner. Then she took a step back, recomposed her expression, hardening it to the best pinched withering look she could currently muster. Today, today  maybe she did have something to stop Ms Julia Goodall-Smillie's train in its tracks. 

'Actually, I may have I believe the very thing. If you'll just excuse me for one moment'

Randall's like most haberdashers received unsolicited fabric promotion folders, almost on a daily basis. And likewise, almost daily they were quickly passed on to Beryl, who, as a local person with a charitable disposition and the time to indulge it, made shoulder bags or rucksacks out of them. Donating her recycled creations to the homeless refuge in Compton Norton, the nearest town. As a consequence many a drug addled war veteran, lodged temporarily in a defunct Debenham's doorway, also sported a bag made from a patchwork melange of high end fabrics. Snuggled up alongside a smelly wet dog.

In yesterday's delivery had arrived a folder from a new company, London based. Very trendy and hence distasteful in its unhinged desire to offend, called Retinal Hemorrhage. She'd quickly skimmed it quietly confident there was nothing suitable for a Randall's customer. Then threw it into the bin for offcuts and end of roll fabrics. From where she now fished it out. Perhaps this would be a god send for her confrontational customer. The one with that fake hyphenated name and less than savoury origins - Wolverhampton, so she'd heard. The designs, bold yet disturbing, she presented with tentative triumphalism to Ms Julia Goodall-Smillie. 

'How about these?'

Julia's eyebrows arched very high. 

Ms Treadwell looked alarmed, unable to read whether that was a good sign or not.

Curtains My Dear, Curtains
EPISODE 2 - There Is An Art To Choosing When You're Drunk

Will be posted Friday 14th January 2022

THE FRIDAY SERIAL - Coming Soon

CURTAINS MY DEAR, CURTAINS

Over the first five Fridays of 2022 I will be posting five short episodes of a story I've recently completed. I've decided to adopt a more Dickensian strategy and to serialise it. Rather than posting it in one humongous blog, so long you could never scroll to its end without getting repetitive strain. 

This way it will be easy to read over your first coffee of the day. A brief bit of mischievous delight to look forward to on these dark Winter mornings. At the very least it might cheer your cockles up at the end of your working week, ready to make the most of your upcoming weekend.

This upcoming serial is call;ed - Curtains My Dear, Curtains - its a gothic tinged story about the travails of a strong characterful woman who decides one morning that she needs new curtains. 

The first episode, will be coming your way on Friday 7th January 2022

THE FRIDAY SERIAL
Curtains My Dear, Curtains 

Friday 7th January -Episode One 
A Fabric Project Prompts A Visit To A Haberdashers

Friday 14th January - Episode Two
There's An Art To Choosing When You're Drunk

Friday 21st January - Episode Three
The Way Of Ordering Gets A Bit Tricky

Friday 28th January - Episode Four
A Handsome Delivery Man Helps With The Hanging Up

Friday 4th February - Episode Five
Contact Tracing Leads To An Unexpected Find

MY OWN WALKING - Journal 01/01/22

One morning recently I lay half dozing in a sort of waking dream. It was one of those constantly unfolding scenarios where I am lost but trying to get back on track. I was out cycling around with a good Buddhist friend of mine. We get parted along the way whilst peddling through one if those wastelands of run down trading estates, partly redundant warehouses and rubble car parks. Whilst trying to catch up with where I think my friend is, I take a short cut through a small brightly coloured clothes shop. This is very tiny and quite labyrinthine, and has multiple eccentric points of entry and exit. Which one will be the best way of getting out of here with my bicycle and catching up with my friend? 

I never locate him, but then in this type of 'search dream' you rarely do find your way. The desired destiny remains elusive, just beyond tangible reach. The emotional tone of any dream is primary here. The detail is generally misleading should you start over interpreting them. This one put me in touch with my own fears and anxieties about losing spiritual purpose and direction. These feelings have a tender, raw quality to them, surrounded by auras of doubt. It has some truth to it. Whilst I am encouraging myself to stay open and receptive, it has no intentionally predefined sense of direction. To be directionless is not necessarily to be lost? You can have purpose in the moment, without knowing where you heading towards.

Travelling without a spiritual map you do have to stop every once in a while to check out where you are, the terrain ahead, potential paths forward. Maps are nothing but abstractions, symbols and analogies for the path, nothing like the literal ground you are to traverse. But maps provide a sense of security through the confidence in knowing the general direction you're heading in.  A spiritual map defines what your purpose or mission is. Faced with the actual territory there's frequently a mismatch between your experience and what the maps tell you should be there. Its easy to then become confused, questioning and doubt filled. At some point spiritual maps become redundant.

Whether what you are doing us correct. Are going the right way? These are common experiences whether you are travelling within or outside of a spiritual tradition. Questioning and doubts are part and parcel of the currency exchanged between practice and faith. 

The Lotus Sutra recounts a parable. A group of people are being guided towards a supposedly Magic City. Though the journey is arduous and long, thoughts about reaching the Magic City keep everyone motivated.  But as they near where the Magic City should be, the guide informs them there is actually no such a place. That it was employed simply as a device to make the journey easier. Teachings in any tradition, convey particular sets of myths about the path and where ultimately a spiritual journey is destined. Our need for a clear tangible goals sustain our faith, even though ultimately such descriptions of the goal may prove to be deceptive or illusory.

However, here am I, currently talking about my spiritual journey as a supposedly 'independent path'. This is a story I am currently telling myself about why I am doing what I am doing. Though the story is bound to be shot through with self delusion, its helping me navigate my way through the unfamiliar territory I'm currently walking through. Undoubtedly I'll feel occasionally I am wasting my time, wandering about aimlessly in the barren wasteland of the worldly realm. If I am lost, what is it I have lost? Have I lost faith? If so what in?

My motivation, purpose and resolve to persist deserts me from time to time. Confidence and trust in what I'm doing will return, I know. I have to hang loose with feelings of being clueless, bewildered and directionless. Its difficult to stand back, to not strive too hard to forge a way forward. Perhaps, for a while at least, it may be better to stay put, wait patiently, be receptive, to get a better feel for what the actual ground beneath me is like. Faith returns like every good friend does, in its own good time. 

In my last journal entry I touched on a variety of things I felt were missing. Perhaps I need to add faith to that list. Faith can become invisible to you from time to time. Faith stands upon twin unstable grounds, in a goal one has no experience of as yet, in relying upon the slippery hold we have on our sense of purpose and practice.

A journey doesn't need a destination, only a purpose, an imaginary conceit. In your imagination you require your own version of the Magic City. Quite what that is for me at the moment, what I am unconsciously putting my faith in, is an interesting question. I have no clear perception or answer as yet what that is. But I can be sure I will have faith in something.