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I'm Alison, that's my little boy Finn, and we are absolutely thrilled to have you at BrocanteHome!

Brocante has been online for five years and with soooo much to see and do here, the best way to make the most of the site is to sign up for the monthly newsletter and get my scrumptious way of vintage housekeeping delivered directly to your in-box...


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Tuesday, 30 September 2008

A Fond Farewell

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Trust me to only really start believing in the not so mythical "credit crunch" when one of my favourite women's magazines announces that due to the "tough economic climate", the current issue will also be the last...



Goodbye Eve, you did a mighty fine job of championing women in small business and making the myriad of demands on the modern mummy seem manageable.



You will be missed.

Love Alison May
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Sunday, 28 September 2008


Little_me2

A Potted History.

There  I am , on the left. Alison Joanne May. Ali to her friends. Al to her Mum.

1976. The hottest Summer any of us remember. Showing my knees for the last time, because thereafter they are destined for a life in trousers...


I grew up near Liverpool, oldest daughter of Sue (Ludicrously, naturally glamorous) and George (Man with a moustache). Developed an irrational but amusing fear of snow and  did a horribly stressful and life-forming foundation year in art, before deciding that a girl who drew people without heads, hands or feet, probably wasn't destined for the Tate Modern and gave it up to work in an office for a year. No really.  A life insurance office. And when the excitement of life insurance got too much for me I went to the local university (because I loved my Mommy too much to move away) and did a degree in communications and art, which involved a whole lot of  batting my eyelashes and sobbing on the shoulders of  my   poor  (gullible?) lecturers when yet again I'd failed to meet a deadline...

I met Mark when I was nineteen and by the time I was twenty five we lived in a huge flat, (a stones throw  away from the little house I live in now),  and ran a shop full of my hand-painted furniture and custom designed stencils, together. In the evenings I held interior design classes in our flat, and  taught myself to cook... anything as long as it included a tin of tuna and a paper bag full of nutty brown mushrooms. We watched Friends religiously, saved our pennies for the little cottage of our dreams and bought a cat, called, wait for it... Tuna.

By this time the extortionate rent on the shop had got the better of us and  I gave it up for five years of  interior design and ruining peoples walls with bad paint effects and too much terracotta colourwashing. We swapped the cat for a baby called Finley, (who  I dreamt into life in all his curly haired wonder) and I gave up work to stay at home and  re-invent myself in the image of the  perfect housewife....

And so, eleven months into my babbas life, in November 2004, BrocanteHome was born- the daily dalliances of a devoted Mommy, a house decorated with soul and a relationship slowly but surely, coming undone.

Thus began a document of domesticity and matters dear to my heart. The routines that sustained me, the diagnosis of  finley's Celiac Disease, a scrapbook of poetry and books adored, thoughts on abundance, loneliness and contentment.   A life well lived. But a life Mark chose, in  2006, to leave for another woman.

And to me this is when BrocanteHome really found it's voice.  When  I finally began to discover the authenticity I had long sought. When everyone of you held my hand as I fell apart and picked me up again when you could see that I was ready...

Tonite






And so here I am, more than a year on. Happier, skinnier and less demented than ever before. The veteran of too many silly first dates, a house probably not as neat as it once was but beaming with all the joy of the mundane things I couldn't live without, and a future glistening with dreams acheived and dreams  I haven't  dreamt up yet..

*****
Things You Don't Need To Know.

I write a lot of lists. I waffle. About myself. A lot.
And  I combine the two in lists of lots of things you don't need to
know about me. But  will probably relate to regardless...




And just in case you feel the urge to bring a little joy to my door...



*****

Best of The Best.

So with more than 1500 posts on BrocanteHome I
appreciate that finding the good stuff is getting a tad difficult. And
so to save your legs,  I hereby  offer a collection of the posts I
believe best define my personal philosophy, tell my story, demonstrate
a range of subject matter and chart the waters  of blogging a life I
adore, in all its messy glory.. 

Why Brocante?


































*****

The Star of the  Show.

Finsat2

An angel and  a little monster. My raison d'etre. And the raison why I never get  a lie in and spend far too much of my time pretending to be  Kirsten Dunst, while he swings from the staircase in a  Spiderman suit.

*****

And The Rest of the Cast.

Gangan_2







GanGan. Otherwise known as my Dad.

Nana2






Na-Naaaaaaa. Otherwise known as my Mum.

Helen

And Helen. Otherwise known as my sister and best friend.

*****




Alison Elsewhere.

Myspace







Flickr








Love Alison May

Saturday, 27 September 2008

TUT

Nudewrite

Goodness. This combination of title and image is going to have you thinking that what follows is a outraged treatise on the immorality of what I suppose amounts to vintage porn. But look how beautiful she is! And more than that- look at that lovely wallpaper! At that wall to wall carpet of the kind that would be taken up and occasionally battered with one of those pretty curly rug sticks, whose name, for the moment evades me.

Heavens I have wandered completely off subject! If we were taking a walk I'd have us thoroughly lost in the forest and at the mercy of mean wolves and bogeymen by now. You see what I really wanted to share was the little piece of loveliness that lands in my in-box every morning from TUT, otherwise known as my very own message from the universe....



"Alison, your "ship" was spotted off the coast this morning, slipping silently through the fog. Coming around the cape, she appeared in a shaft of sunlight and what a sight to see! Glimmering as much as the ocean herself. Massive and beautiful beyond belief. Laden with treasures, happy times, friends, love, and laughter.

This week, though, you must prepare for her arrival. You must make space in your life for her gifts, before she heads back out to sea.



Your first mate always,

The Universe..."



Now I've never been one for spiritual mumbo jumbo and I have plenty of other nonsense filling up my inbox and sending me round the twist, but this, oh how I love this... especially seen as each message occasionally makes reference to your hearts desires... in my case a bigger garden and a smaller bum!



It's wonderful. And it has got absolutely nothing to do with nudey vintage ladies or indeed carpet beaters (Ah! Is that what they are called?) so you are quite safe to go request your very own little ship sailing into the shore of life...



I'm off to prepare for her arrival. And then I'm going to Waitrose.

Love Alison May
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Thursday, 18 September 2008

Housework For The Figure

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"I am a housewife. I know just how tiring and thankless housework can be. I know that the daily chores leave little time for looking after one's face and figure.



But there comes a time when neglect begins to show, when you find you have to take a size larger than the last time you bought a new dress, when your muscles seem to be set.



I have exercised all my life and I am convinced that if the muscles all over the body- which are put there by nature to form a natural corset, bra and general support- are kept toned and supple as in youth, they will retain their elasticity and keep the figure young.


I don't set aside certain hours for my exercises- they are always with me. The few moments waiting for the kettle to boil or the bath to run- that’s when I stretch, relax, bend and swing. There is no time to overdo it, but these gentle day-in, day-out movements are enough to keep the muscles strong and happy."



Oh Eileen. If only I was as perfect as you. Though I often find myself pretending to be a ballet dancer when I lean over the dishwasher and stick my leg in the air behind me, the truth is I suspect the elastic in my natural corset snapped a long time ago. But my Dear in your honour, next time I am brushing the carpet I will try to remember to twist from the waist and give the good old love handles a bit of working out...



God knows they need it.

Love Alison May
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Monday, 8 September 2008

Vanilla Cherry Madeleines and The Super Duper Sumo.

Madeleines_013



Picture the scene. It is 5.45 in the morning and your  three year old son wants to get up and have snuggle pie with his mummy, when you would really rather go and sell your ever so slightly immoral soul to the devil incarnate than have  a  spiky elbowed munchkin  sharing your bed for the duration.



So you get up. You are wearing a rather fetching pair of frilly coffee coloured  polka dot knickers and nothing else, rubbing your eyes and trying to think grateful thoughts as you stumble  towards the bathroom, when said munchkin informs you that "from behind you look just like a super duper sumo", and gives your leg a bear hug, because in his eyes, a finer compliment he could not bestow on the hormones holding a merry dance in your veins.



You debate having an indulgent little sob and instead choose to tickle the life out of your son on the bathroom floor, then brush your teeth and go down to face the day. Because for once it is sunny and thinking positive thoughts leads to a positive Alison, and we all like her infinitely better than  her miserable doppellganger.  You dance around the kitchen, wiping this and  brushing that and it is 6.15 in the morning and the rest of the world is asleep  and  quite frankly you haven't seen what the world looks  like at this time in the morning for ever such a long time, so you bake vanilla cherry madeleines and eat one divine little specimen with milky coffee for breakfast, and yes it is quite frankly the actions of a japanese wrestler but who cares when life is swimming along oh so very scrumptiously?



I'm happy. Goodness me, the only super duper sumo you know and love is happy. Go bake some cake.

Love Alison May
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Vanilla Cherry Madeleines and The Super Duper Sumo.

Madeleines_013

Picture the scene. It is 5.45 in the morning and your  three year old son wants to get up and have snuggle pie with his mummy, when you would really rather go and sell your ever so slightly immoral soul to the devil incarnate than have  a  spiky elbowed munchkin  sharing your bed for the duration.
So you get up. You are wearing a rather fetching pair of frilly coffee coloured  polka dot knickers and nothing else, rubbing your eyes and trying to think grateful thoughts as you stumble  towards the bathroom, when said munchkin informs you that "from behind you look just like a super duper sumo", and gives your leg a bear hug, because in his eyes, a finer compliment he could not bestow on the hormones holding a merry dance in your veins.

You debate having an indulgent little sob and instead choose to tickle the life out of your son on the bathroom floor, then brush your teeth and go down to face the day. Because for once it is sunny and thinking positive thoughts leads to a positive Alison, and we all like her infinitely better than  her miserable doppellganger.  You dance around the kitchen, wiping this and  brushing that and it is 6.15 in the morning and the rest of the world is asleep  and  quite frankly you haven't seen what the world looks  like at this time in the morning for ever such a long time, so you bake vanilla cherry madeleines and eat one divine little specimen with milky coffee for breakfast, and yes it is quite frankly the actions of a japanese wrestler but who cares when life is swimming along oh so very scrumptiously?

I'm happy. Goodness me, the only super duper sumo you know and love is happy. Go bake some cake.
Love Alison May
0 Scrumptious Comments...

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

Making The Home Cheerful

Familydinner


"I USED to know a home, very plain, very simply furnished, very strenuous in its endeavors, and lofty in its ideals, which for abounding cheerfulness surpassed the common abodes of men and women. Looking back I know that there was a struggle with poverty, that the wolf sometimes growled at the door, and that the one shadow on the lives of the heads of the house was that they had so little to give away. But the fund of anecdote there, the jests that were as much the family property as the silver spoons and the old clock in the hall, the friends who came and went, the hospitality that was spon­taneous, and the fun that was never wanting, made that home perennially sweet for its inmates, and makes it perennially fragrant in memory.

The Little Things.

The habit of being pleased with little things is worth culti­vating by those who would be cheerful. If we wait for the greater gifts and scorn the smaller ones we shall often go through life with empty hands. A child's kiss, a child's good report on Friday afternoon, a bit of fire on the hearth on a chilly night, a letter from an old friend, a pleasure jaunt to park or seaside costing for the whole family less than a dollar, a new book, a picture bought with small daily savings—these are the items that add to the balance on the credit side of the home felicity. And when one has for years made it a rule to be glad and pleased when little delights have brightened the hours, one will realize that the capacity for a surprise or pleas­ure is greatly enlarged. The woman who found it a treat to go to Coney Island with the children for a picnic will be very far from blase if she ever goes to Mentone or Capri, or crosses the Continent and sits among the roses in a garden of en­chantment at Santa Monica. Still beyond this, they who culti­vate the talent for finding enjoyment in the daily little things, will be the stronger for battling with the sterner realities, and for bearing the greater sorrows, if ever they come.

The Joy of Light.

Among tangible aids to cheerfulness in the household, and these should not be overlooked, light and warmth take prece­dence. Exercise frugality in other directions, but have a well-lighted living room, and, if practicable, a fire that one may poke. The gloomy, vault-like chill of a half-warmed, obscurely lighted home has driven many a boy and man to some hostelry where lamps and fire beckoned. No place in a home should be too ornamental and too costly in its equipment for the use of the family. A stately drawing-room may be the privilege of a palace, where there are suites of other pleasant apartments, but people of ordinary means should live all over their houses, and have no shut-up room, into which the boys and girls may not intrude. Books and periodicals add immensely to the cheer of a home, and to the broadening and brightening of growing youth. That house is always cheerful which is open to' the voices of the period, which keeps a tally of new inventions and discoveries, and which is, to use a graphic phrase, up to date. The up-to-date house must own, not merely borrow from a library, plenty of books. Receptive to new ideas, cheer­fulness comes to us as a matter of course. It is to the lonely, narrow, hopeless home that melancholy creeps a menace and a blight.

Avoid Ruts.

They who most prize home cheerfulness will carefully avoid getting into a rut. The bondage of routine fetters those who never have variety, who, year in and year out, walk in the same track and drop seeds into the same furrow. If the mother, the pivot of the domestic machinery, shows symptoms of wearing out, if she is not responsive as formerly, if she sits by herself, and the tears start at some fancied slight, the combined family should rally to her rescue. Twenty miles from home, or two hundred, the sovereign virtues of a change may restore her spirits and make her once more cheerful and brave. One un-cheerful person in the house, one who is the slave of the low mood, will, without evil intention, upset the equanimity of the whole circle. Low spirits are malarias. Very subtly, very woefully, they undermine the family health. The conta­gion of despair is more noxious than the germ of yellow fever, and more to be dreaded. Make a strong fight, and be sure it will not be a losing one, with prayer and pains, against the ill dominion of the blues; in other words, against the malignity of the lower self. If the individual does this, the family will feel the tonic of a brave endeavour, and will help mightily and unit­edly to drive the demoniac possession away.

Plenty of Song.

One more tangible aid to good cheer at home is- music. Banjo, mandolin, piano, plenty of song, and the household will move without friction, in mutual respect, and a common devo­tion to the common weal. A music-loving family is almost sure to have good times at home. While a home ought to reach out from itself to other homes, and to keep an open door for friends and guests, it should never be dependent for its cheer upon any influence from without. For its happy times, its daily enjoyments, and its pleasures that are processional with the year, it should be sufficient to itself. If cheerfulness in the home is to be a factor in the home's development, it must grow from the centre, not be fastened on the circumfer­ence. The song must be in the soul before it is on the lip. Good times at home, among the home folk, a simple, uncostly style of living that involves no undue anxiety, a house not too fine for daily use, and plenty of sunshine and love, will fulfil the republican ideal, and up-build our nation."

By Margaret E. Sangster, 1919.
Love Alison May
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Monday, 1 September 2008

Cultural Harvest

Picturemake_005



Mum guess what?

 


What baby?



It's the Harvest Festival on Sunday and you'll never guess where we are having it!



Where Finn?



Paris!



Paris??!!!



Yep. You know, the place with the nuns where Madeleine lives?



Yes Finn, but I'm not sure we'll be having our Harvest Festival there Babe.



Yes we will! Mrs Carr said we are having Harvest Festival at Christ Church PARIS church!



Oh my darling little Munchkin. So that would be the local parish church then.



In my mind I was already parading down the Seine with a basket full of fruit in my arms and a trail of children in Parisian school uniform carrying baguettes and tinned beans behind me. A girl can dream can't she?

Love Alison May
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Love After Love.

Keeps

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott.

Love Alison May
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