Hard to let go.

I've managed to fill two pages of this blog with 12 photos. It's a bit of self-indulgence. As I look through the books and enjoy the illustrations I find it harder and harder to think of a good reason for trying to sell them.

But on Tuesday I'm going to have blonde streaks put in my hair and that will cost so...
May they find loving owners!

No prizes for guessing where this comes from. My children liked 'The Bad Child's Book of Beasts' so much that it's become one of those in-family jokes. If someone makes a remark that sounds like a line from one of the rhymes everyone else starts chanting the rest of it. Very irritating for all those not in the club, but fun for us.

Old Fairy Tales

All the pics below this are from 'Our Old Fairy Tales.'

Our Old Fairy Tales

This is the cover to 'Our Old Fairy Tales ed. Mrs. Herbert Strang and illutrated by A.H.Watson. Printed 1930

(I wonder Mrs H.S. wanted to use her husband's name or was coerced into using it?)

Ispirescu

All the pictures under this are from 'The Tales and Stories of Ispirescu.' He was a noted Romanian folklorist, printer and publicist. The stories are illustrated by Done Stan.

Just in case I sell these books I want some momentos.

Morgan Le Fay. It looks like a part for Helen Bonham Carter if she hasn't already played King Arthur's naughty sister.

The last week has been dedicated to adding books to my Amazon listings. This not unpleasant chore, together with all the other interesting things one can do on the internet, has meant I've spent far too much time sitting here. The downside of having the iMac in a cosy and accessible place is precisely that - too much sitting. On the other hand I have a large amount of stock to list and because I had already listed the more obvious stuff as it came in what remains is more complicated, often needing a listing to be created and a photo downloaded. The added factor slowing me up is the section I'm working through - folklore and fairies. This has obviously proved a fertile field for illustrators and those from the opening years of the last century have made such beautiful colour plates, such dramatically satisfying black and white designs in the art nouveau styles of the times that I have to gloat over each and every page. Then there are the prettily bound monographs like '50 Ways of Cooking a Pheasant' (which jumped into my hand from another bay as I passed) bound in silk painted randomly with red, gold, black and pale grey. The author, Elsie Turner, was exhorted by her friends to write this to save them from being offered roast pheasant by their sporting friends at every meal between October and February. She includes a quote from 'The Happy Glutton', Alin Laubreaux who in a chapter on the hungry hunter says: "The Argonauts who voyaged with Jason in quest of the Golden Fleece brought back from Colchis to Athens the first Pheasants ever seen in Europe. And yet there are still people who say that the voyage was a sublime piece of futility. Sublime yes; but futile! They can't have tasted pheasant."

Books that bind.

Tuesday I went to pick up some books from a lady in her eighties who is cheerfully ‘putting her affairs in order’ because she has a deteriorating heart condition. She looked healthier than I felt and her brain certainly works more usefully than mine. I was there for nearly two hours whilst she gave me detailed accounts of the contents of almost every volume. They are all non-fiction, mostly travel and many (unfortunately for me) published by one or other of the TV channels after a series like Simon Schama’s. (I say ‘unfortunately’ because they are large books which made big print runs and quickly get priced down to £0.01 on Amazon.) What didn’t come into that category had frequently been gifted and inscribed to her by the author. As she talked she began to realise that she wasn’t ready to part with them quite yet so I came away with less than I had expected, which was fine by me. I was happy that she still had the anticipation of future pleasure re-reading them.

Two weeks ago I picked up books from a man whose wife died a couple of years back and who has now found a new lady to move in with in the north of England. He’s a handsome and intelligent man so it’s no surprise to anyone but him. He asked me out once and I felt churlish declining but his need for a life companion was evident and I just didn’t want the involvement. Quite soon after that he met a lady on a train and romance ensued so I was able to enjoy his happiness and cheer him on from the side-lines. He is humourously pleased with himself to be about to become a kept man (she’s younger than him and still working) and to ‘live in sin.’

People’s stories touch each other in a secondhand bookshop. There’s no place where the connectedness of human beings is more evident. Firstly the writers of the books themselves who fill these non-sentient objects with a spell that binds all who read them to the author for the time it takes to travel through the world he has created. Then past, present and future readers are bound together by the same spell as they physically touch and turn the pages touched and turned before, reading the same words. I remember - who doesn’t? - the composition title given as homework by a bored teacher, ‘A Day in the Life of a Penny.’ It could have been so much more interesting, though perhaps beyond the grasp of a ten year old, if it had been a year in the life of a book. The reasons they are chosen, the way they colour or even influence the lives they enter, must make a good tale.

Felting

One object that came into the light of day after five years in a cupboard was this Franz Marc inspired horse made during a felting workshop. Now that's the sort of craft I favour - not a single needle was used in the manufacture. If I remember rightly there was a lot of back-ache. It's hard work felting.
I made it for my grandson who gallantly claims he isn't too old to have it in his room even now.

Being a sacred cow...

... ain't a bad old life as long as you've got a servant to scratch your back!

The only way I'll get colourful and exotic scenes into this blog is by plagiarising other people's travels. In this case my daughter's. What a wonderful mix of ancient and modern.

I'm sure I remember people voicing the opinion that when the internet spread to the 'Third World' (inverted commas because I'm not sure India or Goa count as third world any more and am becoming increasing convinced WE are sliding into that postion anyway) there would be riots when they saw the way the rest of the world lives, or some such paranoia. I think they took the best from it in typically resourceful fashion.

Every woman knows..

... that when you need to move one or two items of furniture in a small house it follows that almost every other piece of furniture in the house will also have to move to accomodate the change, like one of those plastic puzzles in which every square has to slide about until the required order or picture is created. I moved my iMac upstairs into a more comfortable, less cramped and drafty position which unfortunately means it has to be in my bedroom. It is a small room made smaller by being up in the roof with 3' of straight wall before the slope of the roof begins. Beds, chests, chairs, tables, lamps were going up and down the stairs in an attempt to find some harmony. I'm glad on the whole that I was on my own as the disgraceful piles of dust under the bed would have humiliated me. I found £3.50 in small change and two pairs of specs. Also, less amusingly, old tissues, bits of chocolate (too dusty to eat, more's the pity,)and a biscuit.

Today I have back-ache.

There is a feeling of achievement though along with the aches, and it's nice to be able to fall onto the mattress on the floor(it takes up less room that way) every now and again to gather a few thoughts and iron out my back. The biggest achievement of all had to wait until this morning when the shops opened and I could buy a certain small piece of plastic to connect the internet. I spent an hour or so yesterday trying to understand which wire was doing what in the airing-cupboard where, mysteriously, my phone line enters the house. A forest of connections and filters live cosily amidst sheets and pillow cases, cruelly excercising the technophobe in me. I even dreamt about the problem. Half the night saw me fretting about what the hell I was meant to do to take a line upstairs instead of down. Eventually my non-logical brain cranked into action and I worked it out. Hooray. Who needs men?

Me, actually, at 5.30pm yesterday as I sat cross-legged in front of the airing cupboard almost crying with frustration. There are after all one or two points in favour of having a husband. The ex is away at a chess tournament or he would have been summoned.

Australia

I don't usually want to talk about political affairs or events happening in the rest of the world here but I have to say how much the sight of the destruction caused by the Australian fires has hurt. Maybe that's why I wanted to howl at the moon. There are so many natural disasters that take and ruin lives but fire is for me the scariest force of nature and the thought that it might not even be accidental - well that is many times more terrible.

I took this and the blurb below from a site where they sell these plaques. I hope they will forgive me. If I can earn enough cash from Amazon I will buy one ASAP - honest! I love hares and the folk-lore around them. They came to mind because the moon has been so big and round and eerie here lately with all the snow to pick up its blueness. The moon is so much more emotional a presence than the sun, it makes ME want to hold up my head and howl, or just sit and gaze at it. It plucks a deep chord of melancholy somewhere in my throat and heart and solar plexus that beautiful music sometimes touches. I don't know if I like it or hate it but I wait for it each month.

The myth of the Moon Gazing Hare reflects ancient beliefs. Pagans believed that seeing a moon gazing hare would bring growth, re-birth, abundance, new-beginnings and good fortune. The hare is known to be sacred to the goddess Eostre and eventually became known as the Easter bunny. At Easter we eat Hot-Cross-Buns, the cross on the bun is said to represent the four quarters of the moon, these buns were originally pagan offerings and were often hung from rafters to scare off evil that lurked in houses.

Finally we have the snow.

I think True Thomas looks very cute with his snow cap and the freckling on his nose.

There isn't much just here in this little coastal town but up the hill a bit, above the snow line (where Chloë lives) there was 12" fell in the night. Grandson is very happy because he had 'the best day ski-ing ever' in the Lecht yesterday.

No snow yet here, just implacably dark skies and rain. We're told it's only a matter of time before it finds us. Rats. I hate driving in snow. My Goa-going daughter arrived back in London Saturday which was lucky, a day later and she might have been landing somewhere quite different. It must have been a shock making such a rapid transition from 39 degrees to -2 but mostly she mourns the lack of light. It's difficult to believe that the days are in fact drawing out with such heavy cloud cover and the electric light constantly on. Very gloomy. Never mind, I'm off now to a local pub to buy a friend a beer I've been owing him for some time, and I think I'll have a whisky with Crabbies green ginger wine. There are still good things to be enjoyed!

There comes a time in every woman's life

... when she has to think of new underwear. I was clutching the elastic of my knickers through the pocket in my coat (and several layers of other clothing) as I went to the Post Office yesterday and decided reluctantly that the Time Had Come. These days anything that isn't actually seen by other eyes than my own is ignored and not replaced for as long as possible. I don't really care if I am knocked down by a car or slip on ice and nurses see my sad grey pants, I just don't feel like expending cash on the largely invisible. The soutien-gorge is entirely another matter of course. There's a charming french (naturally) article in Wikipedia on the subject of women's support systems and breast enhancers over the centuries in which the soutien-gorge is described thus: Le soutien-gorge est un sous-vêtement féminin composé de deux bonnets servant à soutenir et embellir les seins. Il est habituellement commercialisé avec une pièce de lingerie coordonnée (porte-jarretelles, shorty, slip, string, etc.)
I remember my first extremely uncomfortable experience with the English brassiere. There was nothing remotely sexy about the harness my mother bought for me when I started to get embarassd by the comments of the boys during games lessons (and on sports day - those 100 yards races... it gave a whole horrible meaning to breasting the finishing tape.) The confinement and the itchiness was terrible but had to be endured. One more of the downsides of being female. At least I saw it like that for a year or two but once into the fifth form the advantages to having a bust suddenly dawned and made it a worthwhile attribute after all.

Franz Marc

This doesn't photograph well as it's in one of those cheap plastic frames from Tesco. The colours are much stronger than they show here and it's quite a bit bigger than the Chagall. It makes a very determined presence in a hallway.

Hommage to Chagall: detail

Artwork?

I haven't any artistic talent of my own but I do like utilising that of other people. A few years ago I cannabalised a cheapish book of Chagall's works to make this 'Homage' with all my favourite images and as many of the translucent colours I have been spellbound by at exhibitions as I could get into a small space. The blob in the upper middle is a mirror glass. It's fun to see my own reflection in the midst of all these fantasies.

The earliest bows were discovered in Paleaolithic levels, that is any time between 75,000 and 50,000 years ago.

Artemis

A Toxophilite.

Last week flew by. I took my grandson along to the archery club Wednesday when he got back from school, and although there is a waiting list they let him have a taster evening which he really enjoyed. His uncle joined the same club eighteen years ago and probably owes the strength of his arms and an improved deportment (I bullied the girls not to slouch but I’m told I failed to bully Costa to sit up straight etc.) to the years he spent at target practice.

Much as I hate guns (and the fact that Sandy now owns two) I have a romantic feeling about the whole archery thing. Perhaps because it isn’t used to kill any more but to develop concentration, skill, muscle tone and that whole Zen thing. Perhaps because the traditional bows are beautiful in their craftsmanship. The same can’t be said of the compound bows which look like mechanical arms and have so many wheels, cogs, balancers etc. that they are regarded as a bit of a cheat by some afficianados of the art. They fire with such force that I expected the arrows to go through the back wall of the Community Centre.

I once thought of joining but now I think I might just embarass myself.