What I want to say

There is nothing like being far from home to clear your head and to enable you to really relax.

I can sit around in the daytime and read books that Cece recommends (novels for 10 and 11 year olds) or watch medical soaps with minimal guilt ( i.e. Grey’s Anatomy) or just sit in the sun and dream. 

Being far away from my real life and all its tasks and responsibilities feels like a genuine holiday. I get the space to think about things, such as the future.

People often ask me if I will write any more books and I say, sometimes with hesitation, “No. I’m a painter now.” Wendy asked me this on Friday and I talked around the subject for a while and ended up saying “no” again. Finding a publisher is just too hard, and self publishing is murder and you end up with very few people reading what you have written because of the lack of publicity and marketing. And your book does not appear in bookshops up and down the land.

Wendy said that when I said “self-publishing” I had a look of extreme distaste on my face, but when I talked about painting I smiled. She also asked me why I couldn’t just write because I enjoyed writing. Dave has often said “Why do you care if people read what you’ve written? I don’t care that no one hears me play the guitar?”

Later I realised why I care about people reading my stuff. When I started writing it was because I wanted to say “This is what life is like for me. Is it like this for you, too?” I wanted to communicate, to share my point of view. I didn’t want to write just for the fun of it.

Some kinds of writing ARE huge fun: it was incredibly enjoyable writing Plotting for Beginners with Jane. And it was fun writing my pieces for the Times and sending them off and getting an almost instant reply saying they’d publish the piece, and then seeing it in the paper the following Saturday. The money from The Times was good money, but the satisfaction was never about the money.

The money just shows that what you produce is worth something to someone else, just like the money from selling a painting is some kind of validation. But the real reason I don’t think I will write again is because I don’t have anything new to say. I’ve pretty much expressed what it’s like to be me, and if there is anything I have missed I can put it on the blog. But you see that’s why writing the blog is so hard these days - because I think I have said most of what I’ve got to say.

You know what it’s like living with Dave, and how it feels to have grandchildren 5,000 miles away, and to live up a lane. You know my political views. You know the main issues that I wrestle with. There are various personal things I would not want to talk about on the blog, and I can’t see that ever changing.

Why do I paint? I love colour. I love line. 

When I started painting it was for fun. It is still for fun. I choose subjects because I think they are beautiful and/or interesting. And I guess I want to say “Look at this! Isn’t it lovely? Aren’t grasses wonderful? Don’t you love blue skies and daisies? Don’t patchwork quilts make interesting shapes and shadows and lines and shades?” 

And don’t you love to see washing blowing in the wind?

And for the record - I think the idea of a monarchy in 2023 is utterly ridiculous, let alone swearing allegiance to one.

Picture post

 It was a long journey in time as well as miles, but it was a smooth one. 

I got the chance to watch some good films - The Banshees of Inisherin (which I need to discuss with someone else who has seen it) and She Said.

Isaac had told me that the girls were busy (it was Lux’s gym night) and he would be meeting me at the airport on his own. But it was a ploy. They wanted to surprise me. 

And at home,  Cece offered me one of her home made English scones with home made raspberry jam and her home made ( !!!!) clotted cream. What a girl.

The first day was busy with a walk to school, a game, some art (Cece has set me the challenge of designing a banner) and then Lux was singing in a choir concert at school. It was all spivving. And that included lunch with Wendy in the sunshine on the rooftop of the Rio, where of course I had a margarita.

Gosh, it’s so good to be here.

Surprise post

Having said I am not going to blog till midweek, I have changed my mind.

I am sitting in bed with half an hour to spare and before checking the headlines and feeling as fed up as usual by them, but this morning able to keep the consequent emotional turmoil at arms length, I turned to Wordle and Quordle. 

But then I decided to check out the few blogs I have in my ‘favourites,’ and it reminded me how nice it is to peek into the lives of others, to learn something about their everydays, their joys and hardships, to look at the world through their eyes.

This made me think…maybe that’s what I give by writing my blog, even when I have nothing startling or surprising to share. So here I am.

Every spring I grow my sweet peas inside loo roll tubes, inside yoghurt cartons, on the windowsill. I used the wrong compost last year and only a fraction came up. This year they are stupendously vigorous, and with some roots emerging from the bottom of the cartons, they’re begging to be planted in the garden now, when usually they wait till I get home from Colorado. So I have been trying to harden them off AND plant them out before I go away. First they were in the shed, and now they’re in the cold frame. It’s a risky race against time and temperatures.

Having done all my jobs except that last one, plus one more admin job, I’ve turned to packing.

Packing for a trip to Boulder includes chocolate hobnobs for Wendy, a cat clock that Dave has made for Cece, (which I will show you when she has seen it), prints of two of my paintings (requested), power of attorney forms (for me) for Isaac to complete, and clothes for every possible temperature. Packing clothes for Boulder means boots and warm jumpers, cool T shirts and sandals, as for a few days it will be chilly like here, and for a week at least it will be warm. Oh yes. Warm sunshine. 

Of course amongst all the busyness I’ve had to wedge in a visit to see my youngest granddaughter, Ms X, offspring of the-family-member-who-declines-to-be-named and the lovely Jaine. She is such a joy. She is so contented and cute, and how I wish I could show you pictures of her, though of course I respect the wishes of her parents. It’s a strange thing that when I spend time with her, all my concerns and undone tasks float away. I only have eyes and thoughts for her. What a luxury it is to have grandchildren.

That’s it. A glimpse of my very ordinary life. Except that last night I had a rare dream about my best friend Mary, who died 8 years ago. I opened the front door and she was standing just outside, wearing black leggings and a dark purple T shirt and a huge smile. I burst into tears and gave her the biggest hug I’ve ever given anyone. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to see her.

This is a photo in our album that I have not looked at in years.

Mary at school sports day, 1994

Hiatus

Dear friends,

I'm sorry it's been so long between posts.

My spring plans were turned upside down by my sudden illness and the consequent re-arrangement of my trip to Colorado, and it's meant that I have been incredibly busy since getting home from Wensleydale. I leave for the States on Tuesday and I hope that when I get there I'll have time to blog again.

I hope you're enjoying the new leaves on the trees as much as I am.

Love Sue

p.s. I took this photo of our washing line from the bedroom window and am currently pondering whether it is possible to paint it.

Sibs’ trip

I am away in Wensleydale with the sibs.

More words next week. xx

Stream of consciousness post

I was so excited on Saturday night about my planned exhibition (see last blog post) that I couldn’t get to sleep. Really. I was lying there trying to go through my paintings in my head and deciding which to show and counting them to make sure I had enough. Is 35 enough? I think so.

And now I have the date: Saturday June 3rd and Sunday 4th,  2 - 4 pm. Dave and I are already planning how to arrange our downstairs rooms to best show the paintings. And I am planning where to store everything that’s in there now, and I’m not talking about furniture. As just one example, Dave’s stained glass will be staying, but not the six wooden clocks still resting against the dresser, waiting to be given homes. 

And talking about being given homes, how distressing it is to see the government sinking itself deeper and deeper into the moral mire over its vilification and treatment of people in distress. I am not the only one who feels like this. I just read a powerful piece in the paper by the writer A L Kennedy. I’ve never read anything by her before and this piece begins in a baffling way but - to me - becomes more and more lucid and powerful. It includes clauses such as

“People with broken empathy shouldn’t be allowed to hold up a country.”

“Billions vanish into a vast fraud vortex, our rights vanish, our alleged Tories interview each other on Schrodinger’s GB News, while our alleged socialists are fine with Thatcherism”.

And the comments are worth reading too. My favourite begins

“Compassion, generosity, support and, wherever possible, happiness and gratitude are revolutionary acts.”

And talking of reading, I’ve just polished off Anne Tyler’s latest novel French Braid which I found highly entertaining, and having loved Claire Keegan’s ‘Small things like these’ I am embarking on her slender book ‘Foster.’

What have you been reading lately? Any recommendations?

My sister Jen gave me what turned out to be my favourite mug the last time I saw her. It was plain white and had the simple motto Silence Please. She gave it me because I like quiet so much. I dropped it yesterday, and Dave sweetly insisted he will do a Repair Shop job on it. He’s currently researching epoxy resin. Where is Kirsten Ramsay when you need her?

But Jen, being Jen, had bought a spare and is going to give it to me at the weekend on the sibs’ trip. I wish you all had such a sister. 

I’ll leave you with this photo of me having got back from the framer with one of my favourite paintings and being so delighted I asked Dave to take my picture.

Spring

I am delighted to report that Spring has finally come to Hepworth Towers. This last winter has been the hardest I've lived through since the one after my mother died in October 2008. It's done now, thank goodness.

(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)

(extract from the e e cummings poem sweet spring is your time is my time is our time)

This week I found a clump of violets that had self seeded at the edge of our patio.

And the wood anemones are out on the Trail.

My sweet peas are cracking on

And that painting book I bought at the art gallery in Sheffield has bump-started my painting that had recently stalled. It's packed with inspiring stuff and towards the end there is a chapter entitled On Display in which the authors encourage the reader to exhibit their work.

So that's what I'm going to do. I'm dithering over a date at the moment. This morning in bed I was counting in my head how many pictures I have to exhibit and it comes to 30. I think that makes a reasonable exhibition. And the three friends I have told have all been very enthusiastic, which is so encouraging.

Before the exhibition, though, I'm going to Wensleydale with the sibs for a long weekend, and then at the end of the month (health permitting) I'm flying to Colorado. The two good things about this belated trip are that there will be more colour in the landscape there, and I shall miss the coronation and the annoying run up to it. Yippee!

A new start

 

“Here comes summer”
Mixed media

Goodbye March 2023

It's been such a difficult month and it's only now that it's almost over that I can talk about it.

I was due to travel to Heathrow on February 28th to fly to Colorado the next day. But on the morning of travel I was taken ill and it would have been impossible for me to travel anywhere, so I cancelled the trip.

When I was feeling better I claimed on my travel insurance for the cancelled trip. I don't know if it was because I was making a slow recovery or if my brain is disintegrating with age but coping with the admin for that was taxing, not least getting a signed declaration from my GP.

In the meantime I was waiting for an appointment to have something else checked at the hospital. Uncertainty takes up a lot of space in my brain and by the time my appointment came round a fortnight later I was beyond tense. But it was good news - all clear - so the minute I got home from the hospital I rang the insurance, expecting them to say fine, all systems go, but they said I needed to get an assurance from my GP that I was fit to travel in April. I lost my rag. 

"What? It took me two weeks of hassle and cost me £40 to get the declaration for the claim and you want me to do the same again?"

"No, no. A verbal assurance that you are fit to travel is all we need."

"But I am telling you I am fit to travel!"  Did they think I would want to travel to the USA alone if I wasn't well?

"We need to have word from your doctor. If she tells you and you tell us, that will be fine."

"Do you know how hard it is to get hold of a doctor?"  I really lost it; and then I apologised and rang off.

Surprisingly and fortunately an email and a text secured the assurance (bless my GP) so I am now re-insured at the same price as the transatlantic ticket, on top of the original premium. Being old and having been ill in the last three months is bloody expensive. 

You might ask "Why the rush? Wait a while and pay a bit less." But the thing is, not only am I getting older so premiums will continue to get more expensive, but also the girls are growing up fast, and I don't want to miss any more precious time before they sail off into adolescence.

All of the above set against the background of the UK government's dark and cruel oppression of people in need has brought me down this last month and I have been an out-and-out misery guts. 

Also I have been unable to paint. I have begun two paintings and discarded both because they weren't working, and I had no inspiration for anything else. 

But yesterday I took a train to the shining city of Sheffield 

and had a coffee and catch up with a friend and we went to see several exhibitions at the Graves gallery. It was inspiring and invigorating and I bought a helpful book about painting 

which I would recommend to any other beginner. I've already devoured half of it and I can't wait to get started on a new idea I have.

After the gallery I went to see the new and well-reviewed rom-com Rye Lane - which was upbeat and refreshing.

Meanwhile in March, Dave has been patient and forbearing through all my misery and hissy fits, and he’s continued to make wooden clocks. He has completed six and given them away, and although he has no homes for any more, he can't stop making them, because he loves the process and he is in love with the wood he was given. 

Yesterday he used the last piece, and this morning he is talking about dismantling a trolley he made for the shed because of the "delicious" cherry it's made of.

Once he has started doing something he enjoys he can't stop. We've been here before with tables and with signs saying Carpe Diem.

At breakfast we were talking about whether it was helpful to have a diagnosis of Asperger's when you're an adult. 

"It helped you, didn't it?" I said.

"No. It explained why my life was shit, but it didn't change my behaviour. Hence the clocks."

Details, snapshots, trivia

There are artists I follow on Instagram, whose work I admire, but who are fixated on certain subjects and I get bored with looking at their work. I was thinking about this when half an hour ago I took yet another photo of my breakfast tray on the patchwork quilt I've just mended and which is now on the bed for the spring.

I am constantly fascinated by the way the light falls on the folds of the fabric and the patterns created. And that's what led me to paint my pandemic quilt again - this time with colours from my imagination.

It's large. I  took it to be framed last week and spent twenty minutes dithering over what frame to have and whether to save money by not having a mount. I chose as best I could and left the shop but then stopped on the way home to ring them and say "No. Stop. I've changed my mind. Please don't frame it. I'll put something else in the exhibition."

In terms of painting, choosing a frame is my Achilles heel. It's not just about the cost, it's about the colour, the size and the mount. Arrghh.

Other details of my life right now...

I told you about the 5 year diary I got for Christmas which has a question to be answered each day, didn't I?

These are the last two entries:

 

These are just some of the tulips that my lovely daughter gave me for Mother's Day:

I took the following photos last week. It was a cold grey day. Our daffodils had still not come out because they'd been flattened by the deep snow the previous week. I had cycled down to the bottom of the Trail and was sitting on a bench, longing for spring and looking at the sky, trying to decide if there was enough blue sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers.

 A woman walked by and I told her what I was doing. Yes, I am that person now - an utterly shameless old woman who accosts strangers with odd remarks. She played along. She was old as well.

Not enough blue sky...

Five minutes later, enough blue sky!

Today the sun is out and so are the daffs and my washing is blowing in a gutsy (sic) March wind.

And yesterday a dear woman on the refugee hospitality committee eagerly took some of my jobs from me - jobs I had been worrying about how to do if I manage to fit in a Colorado trip in late April. 

Things feel better this week than last, and I'm thankful.

Patience

'It's an odd feeling, farewell. There is such envy in it. Men go off to be tested, for courage. And if we're tested at all, it's for patience, for doing without, for how well we can endure loneliness.'       (from Out of Africa)

I am not a patient person. At present I'm being tested because I had to cancel my trip to see my Colorado family on account of illness, and now there is a delay because of health checks and insurance. 

Dave is still making wooden clocks - at present a cat clock for Cece. He made me one to hang on the bedroom wall with Courage inscribed in it.

I now think I need another one that says 'Patience.'

I'm not just impatient for travel, I'm impatient for sunshine, because although spring keeps peeping out from behind the greyness of winter, it's not here yet. 

I am also fighting apathy and/or tiredness, but that's enough about me. 

Let's move onto something inspiring...

Did you watch the Channel 4 series called The Piano? If not, I recommend it unreservedly: you can watch it on catch-up. The basic idea was to film members of the public playing those pianos in railway stations and find the four best ones to be in a concert at the Royal Festival Hall. The participants did not know it was a competition until after they'd played. They were playing for the joy of it.

One of the four chosen was a 13 year old girl called Lucy who is blind and autistic and has learning difficulties. She played sublimely and I can't stop watching videos of her playing various pieces of music - classical and jazz.

Here is her performance in the final concert. Watch and wonder and enjoy.

I am not just in awe of Lucy's talent, I am in awe of her teacher, and his patience. This video shows how he taught her. 

What a gift he has given to Lucy - enabling her to express herself and find joy in music - and what a gift he has given to the world through his gentle nurturing and teaching. 

 

Letters from home

"Are you OK this morning?" Dave just said.

"I’m fine, apart from the news." 

I think I’m finally better now. It’s taken two weeks. And the old patchwork quilt is better too. It took me a full week to mend, doing about three hours a day. Phew. And although The Repair Shop might have inspired me to fix it, I can’t say I did a Repair Shop quality job. I was so sick of it by the end I was what my mother would have called ‘cobbling it together.’ 

What else has been happening here?

Cece won an award for the banner she designed, and that is hanging up on the main shopping street in Boulder. Go Cece!

I did a crappy abstract painting called “Disappointment” one day, and painted over it the next. Now I’ve started a challenging painting based on this photo that Isaac took of me in November 2021. 

Get a load of those grasses!

Since I wrote my last post I have had several interchanges with my MP, who may not agree with me about anything at all, but who does respond to my letters with missives that are well thought out, if chilling.

I came across a tweet from Mr Sunak on Sunday which appalled me

!

and I wrote to my MP to say - this can’t be right can it? It doesn’t mean that someone escaping from modern slavery in a cannabis farm or a brothel and going to the police will be deported, does it? Please tell me I have got the wrong end of the stick. I got a reply the next day confirming the worst. 

We must speak out about this cruel policy which breaches our commitment to the 1951 United Nations convention. The Bill passed its second reading in the Commons last night. How can people vote for it and not be ashamed?

It is now the case that unless you are a Ukrainian or a very lucky Afghan, you cannot come to the U.K. as a refugee. And if you are an Afghan arriving by small boat, no chance. You will be deported, along with Syrians, and all the other desperate people who are fleeing war and persecution, the majority of whom would have a successful claim to asylum if the new law did not mean all bets are cancelled, all succour denied.

There are no safe legal routes. 

As the tattered postcard on our fridge says:

Please write to your MP

Dear Friends

Please write to your MP as soon as you can about the cruel, inhumane and unhelpful new law the UK government is proposing in order to deter desperate people fleeing war and persecution from coming to these unfriendly shores via small boat.

There are no safe routes these people can access which is why they come this way. It is not illegal to travel via unconventional routes to claim asylum. 

As soon as I have posted this I am writing to my MP to protest and to ask the government to deal with these desperate people compassionately and constructively.

If you don't know what to say, you might take some ideas from Dave's letter. He wrote this to our MP yesterday:

You will know from our correspondence that I am not a fan of your government, which seems to me to be the worst in my lifetime: the least competent and the most venal and corrupt. Indeed it is hard to understand why refugees and asylum seekers wish to flee to the UK where everything is broken.

Nevertheless, it feels important to tell you that the approach to refugees and asylum seekers is lacking in principle and repugnant in practice.

The mantra of ‘Stop the boats’ is a cheap pitch to the nastiest populist sentiments, and unhelpful.

The approach headed by the Home Secretary is, by her own admission, likely to infringe the UK’s legal obligations. Is it not extraordinary that she can put forward legislation which has even the smallest chance of being illegal, and in breach of our international obligations?

The problem, for me, is that the proposals are inhumane, and lacking in basic human decency. If the people arriving here in small boats were giraffes, bonobos, dogs or stray cats, there would be a public outcry and we would have a national campaign for their comfort and safety. As it is, we have an approach which has already been complicit in, and teleologically responsible for, the deaths of so many in the Channel. These people on small boats are people, people like us but less fortunate.

For too long the UK turned a blind eye to the plight of Jews fleeing oppression before the second world war. That looks like a national stain now, as the current approach to people seeking refuge in the UK will seem in the future.

The traffic of small boats could be reduced by making legal routes here more numerous and more accessible. And if the Home Office was more effective, the long delays in processing incomers’ applications could be usefully expedited.

Your government is successfully turning the UK into a hostile and xenophobic environment, and pursuing policies which are simply shameful.

If only the government could do something – anything – which appeared neither crass nor callous. It is an increasingly desperate hope.

Dave Hepworth

This is my letter, just written:

I am writing to object to your inhumane new law which plans to detain and deport genuine refugees who arrive here by small boat.

These people are forced to use small boats because there are insufficient safe routes to the UK.

There are other ways to stop small boats.

One way would be to set up a processing centre in Calais to assess whether people are likely to be eligible for asylum BEFORE they attempt the dangerous journey. And then provide a safe route for those likely to succeed.

The figures show that Afghans make up the largest group by nationality. These people were unable to leave their country because of the failures of the British government schemes. Other countries represented are Syria, Eritrea, and Sudan. Home Office figures show that 98% of applications for asylum from these three groups are granted.

Your new law refuses to recognise these facts.

Not only do we need more safe routes, the Home Office needs better organisation and funding so that asylum applications can be dealt with both fairly and efficiently so that refugee status can be granted swiftly where it is deserved, and these people can start to contribute to our economy while they are trying to settle here. Do we not have a labour shortage in this country?

If the asylum process were fit for purpose you wouldn’t be having to pay to house refugees in hotels; and Ms Braverman wouldn’t need to inflame populist racist and ill informed views with her rhetoric. The latter causes ugly and threatening behaviour towards refugees from people who are suffering themselves through food and fuel poverty.

I object to your cruel and shameful policies.

The UK was instrumental in setting up the 1951 United Nations Refugee Convention. We should stick by our honourable history and lead the world in compassion and justice, not in cruelty and law-breaking.

Yours sincerely

Sue Hepworth

 

Convalescence

Antibiotics are obviously wonderful but I do wish they would come without the side effects. My combination of pills this last week has given me the usual nausea, but also aching muscles, sleeplessness and when I do get to sleep - nightmares. 

On Saturday night I had three. One was of that unpleasant man Clarkson heading a new craze for skateboarding on downhill pavements, facing backwards, and counting any knocked down pedestrians as inconsequential collateral.

Then I woke up and read the news. Real life contains sufficient nightmares -  Rishi Sunak, planning to detain and deport all those desperate people arriving by small boat; the settler violence against Palestinians in Huwara, which I notice that neither the "Labour Party" nor Keir Starmer has yet condemned.

On another tack...I realised on Friday night that every time a friend or family member had asked me how I was, I had moaned about how bad I felt  (as well as saying that Dave has been better than Florence Nightingale in the caring stakes.) So on Saturday morning, the first time I showered and came downstairs for the day, I decided I would try to improve my stoicism rating. Now I just say to everyone "I am getting stronger everyday, thank you." It's not so hard.  

In any case, I have no right to complain. I don't live in a war or earthquake zone, I have a good GP, a caring partner, a warm sitting room and enough to eat, when there are plenty of people even in this country with none of those.

Since Saturday morning I've been sitting by the fire in the daytime mending my second favourite patchwork quilt. It looked like this when it was new: a classic Shaker design. 

I think it's about 18 years old. Whatever, a lot of the white pieces round the edges are badly worn because I used an ancient family counterpane for them. I thought mending it would be a nice convalescent activity, sitting by the fire, and that it would probably take a couple of days to complete. But the more I unpick to replace, the more worn pieces I see, and it's turned into a big project. I can't deny that I've been inspired by The Repair Shop. But also by Dave, who has been making clocks with wooden faces out of discarded new worktop pieces for the three children. He sees them as ‘legacy items.’

Yes, that is his stained glass on the windowsill behind him.

Thinking of ‘legacy items’ made me realise that I am fond of this patchwork, because it’s pretty even though it's faded, and I couldn't bear to leave it in such a poor condition when I die that no-one in the family - or even a charity shop - would want it and it would be thrown away. 

I’ll be continuing with the work on it today. I’m hoping to be well enough for a walk by Friday. 😊 

How am I doing in the stoicism stakes?

My news

The good news is that 45 of my sweet pea seeds have germinated and sprouted.

The lovely news is that I’ve sold this painting. It was in an exhibition in Sheffield.

The bad news is that I was taken ill on the day of my flight to Colorado and had to cancel the trip. I am still ill. And pretty fed up.  Although it makes me laugh that I’ve sold a painting!

Trying to remember

When I woke up this morning and went to find Dave in his study/indoor workshop, he was sitting at his computer reading about the poet Edwin Brock. He said he'd looked for our Penguin Modern Poets collection of Brock and two other poets and he couldn't find it.

"We must have lost it in the fire," he said. 

But I thought we still had it and padded downstairs to the poetry shelf. But he was right. It was missing. I had thought it was one of the half a dozen badly scorched books he'd miraculously recovered from the ashes, like his precious Ezra Pound 

that he used to carry around with him at uni along with his T.S.Eliot collection. 

"But it wasn't Brock I was really looking for," he said. "It was another depressive poet but I can't remember his name. I'm sure he was in the same anthology."

I myself have been struggling to find my copy of Olive Kitteridge. I think I must have lent it to a friend but can't remember who or when. I'm cross I don't remember because I want to read it again - now!

For a long time after the fire I couldn't lend my books to anyone. Then I began, but only to good friends and only books I could bear to let out of the house. There are six books that never leave. Olive Kitteridge is in my second tier of books i.e. books I expect to read several times but am not so attached to I never lend them out.

It's all silly of course. I could buy other copies of ones that go missing. But it's not rational - it's emotional.

As far as memory goes (and it definitely does go) I've read three pieces by neuroscientists lately saying that alcohol is a neurotoxin and the last piece said you should give up drinking by the time you're 70. 

For some odd reason I went off wine after Covid in December and so I've been making the most iof this and trying to consciously keep it at bay ever since. I have had perhaps one glass of wine a week since Christmas (instead one a night as before) and I've only occasionally missed it. I've not given up. I'm just going to be more abstemious in future, because I need all the brain cells I can manage to keep.

The best poem about forgetfulness is one by Billy Collins. Even people who don't like poetry like this poem. I don't have permission to share it on the blog.

But you can read it here.

And you can listen to the poet reading it here.

I've just finished a painting and tidied my studio because tomorrow I'm off to Colorado. Yay!

I can't wait to see my two Boulder girls.

Here's C with the banner she designed

And here's L off to her first school dance

I'll see you when I see you.

Reboot

The spring is definitely here, and as of yesterday the sweet peas are on the windowsill

but the bad news keeps on coming, and because of the light mornings my battery powered DIY neon sign 

doesn't show up any more. I'm going to order a proper one online, but in the meantime I'm taking another tack.

I get all of my news from reading the Guardian online in the morning, apart from stuff about science and astrophysics, which comes from Dave - enthusiastically and sometimes overwhelmingly delivered. This morning I'm starting a week without news. 

It's 8.16 and I've done Wordle, Quordle and Wordiply, rearranged some paintings on the walls, spread a throw over my studio sofa because Dave keeps sitting on it in his grubby boilersuit when he comes in from the shed to tell me something he heard on the radio, and now I'm writing to you. See how much can be done when you ditch the news?

I've also put back on the bedside table this book:

Which today offered me this gem:

"Changing one thing can change everything. Let more light into your life by letting more light into this day. Then repeat, repeat, repeat. Keep moving."

I have finally managed to reach a place of equanimity with this painting, by changing the quilt and the background:

Acrylic on canvas board 
35 x 45 cm

It isn't perfect in my eyes, but only one of my paintings thus far is precisely how I envisioned it. 

I was pleased with this one last week, 

Acrylic on canvas board
66 x 40 cm

but now I think it needs more work. That's OK. The joy of acrylics is you can go on and on.

So now I'm going to do some cleaning, then make lemon curd, then paint. 

Here's wishing you a happy week.