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.