Hello and thank you so much for dropping by.
I'm Alison, that's my little boy Finn, and we are absolutely thrilled to have you at BrocanteHome!

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Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Shabby Chic Interiors

Heavens! Apologies for two book posts on the room, but I happened across Rachel Ashwell's new book and just had to share it... At a time when we've had to whisper goodbye to Shabby Chic, to the echo of a scrumptiously lyrical au revoir from Rachel Ashwell, it is rather blissful to know that we will soon be able to prowl (in the nicest sense of the word) around Rachel's rooms, and root through her treasures and trinkets in Shabby Chic Interiors, set for publication in September and available for pre-order on Amazon now... In the meantime pop over to her blog and follow the writing journey glueing her heart back together: occasionally her words are raw with grief for the business we all adored, but already the pink blossom of tickly wonderful possibility can be read between the lines... And if that isn't exciting I don't know what is!

Tuesday, 28 April 2009

Scrumdiddliumptious!

Serendipity, aren't you just the loveliest little thing? New books from two of my favorite authors, Alexandra Stoddard and Victoria Moran reminding me that seeking magic in even the dullest of days is what we are designed for, and that Mommyhood is the bestest blessing of all, is I suspect, just what I need right now... Dear Darling Sarah Ban Breathnach, do feel free to come sprinkle a little of your literary fairy dust over our lives too, won't you?

Monday, 27 April 2009

White Chocolate Rose Cupcakes

I sometimes feel as though I live in a cottage made of lego. Bright chunky primary coloured everything with Spiderman or Doctor Who lurking underfoot at every turn. Where's the pretty gone? How did one little five year old manage, so very skilfully, to inflict his Ben 10 will upon everything I own?? Some days I need to re-group. I need an overdose of pink and frilly and sweet and pretty just to remind myself that life wasn't always one long round of Batman. That once upon a time a person could arrange a delicate glass bowl of the palest sugar pink roses and not come back to find that an alien called GreyMatter has drowned in it, or indeed arrange a little vintage still life on the fireplace without the ugly guarantee of discovering a cyberman leaning casually up against a violet sprinkled postcard... Yesterday was one of those days and in the absence of a car to deliver me to a shop full of whimsy, sweet sanctuary had to be found in the pantry, and so it was that a white chocolate easter egg and a spoonful of rose syrup were transformed into a plateful of delicate little cupcakes, stupidly simple to bake, and utterly delicious because the flavours were clearly made to merge, but decorated in such a silly fashion I couldn't bring myself to photograph them... Ingredients 125g Unsalted Butter 100g White Chocolate (Grated) 150g Golden Caster Sugar 2 Large Eggs (Beaten) 150g Self Raising Flour (Sifted) 1 Tsp Vanilla Essence Method 1. Melt butter in a saucepan over a low heat. 2. When the butter is almost melted, stir in the chocolate and take off the heat. 3. Stir in the sugar and eggs and vanilla essence. 4. Then stir in flour bit by bit, and bake until the skewer comes away clean. Let the cakes cool, then mix up a standard glace icing with 100g of icing sugar, 2 tbsp of rose syrup, and sufficient water to get the icing to the right consistency. Drizzle over the cakes, top with a sugar rose and serve, once set, with a cup of Earl Grey.

Eye Candy For A Dreary Monday

Because it is raining and it is miserable and I have got body ache from a day spent weeding the front garden and doing myself a whole lot of shaky damage with a chain saw, because I am in a frenzy of tidying and scrubbing and cleaning after falling behind with myself over the past two weeks and because I haven't got time to write up the recipe for the scrumptious white chocolate and rose syrup cupcakes I invented yesterday, I hereby offer you an image of a room that makes me swoon. The gorgeous combination of violet and green! Gilded landscapes and a patchwork covered television! Lions, and tigers and bears! Oh my! Found on the seriously inspirational Sanctuary, this room belongs to the owners of Crème de la Crème à la Edgar and is the reason why I am suddenly desperate to paint my floorboards white and dress Finn up as a miniature Red Indian... Tis a terrible thing is envy.

Thursday, 23 April 2009

The Lady Who Thought She Was A Car

It is two o'clock in the morning when you hear it for the first time. A big bang,then nothing, then a short spurt of what you can only describe as a vibration so noisy the girl in the long blue dress in the gilt frame above your bed cries out in alarm and shakes so much you fear she will land on your head. You blame the neighbours. You blame an elephant sized mouse. You blame the crazy dance of some hidden silent vibrating toy. You blame yourself. You stare at the child with the broken foot once again, lying radiating heat beside you and wonder whether it was him. You poke him in the chest to check. You are too scared to sleep, astonished that the local neighbourhood watch has not gathered in a throng of unexpected nightwear on your doorstep to seek out the cause of the racket. You are scared. But then it comes again and after that, you lie , staring at the violent red digits of the alarm clock on the bedside table, timing the vibrations as if they were contractions and eventually, soothed by utter exhaustion, you sleep. In the morning you hand over your son and visit the neighbours. Yes, they nod, they have heard the noise. No, it probably isn't a rat. But it might be a squirrel or a bird or a passing vagrant come to reside in your loft they say, sheer excitement wafting over their faces. Perhaps they say you could ring the council and play the Single Mummy card? Not before I boil my head you say and wander up the lane to feed your friends chickens. Millie and Rebecca live in an Omlet and seem delirious with joy. You poke food through the bars and accidentally pour water on Millies head and cluck past yourself in apology. You are tired and it is hot and lovely in this garden, a writers shed, painted pale blue, at the end of the garden, a bench calling your name beside it, vegetables growing in cheerful little patches all around. You could live there for always. You collect two perfect eggs and debate carrying them back to the house, but Millie and Rebecca have been more than generous over the past week, so you turn left towards town and resolve to gift them to culinary inclined friends who live along the way. It is a sandal day. A sunglasses day. You plod along the lane, through the umbrella of pink blossom, holding the precious warm eggs out in front of you, concentrating on not falling over and stopping when you reach the traffic lights though you will not be crossing the road, but merely turning the corner. But still you stop, head cocked backwards to stare at the lights currently on red. You wait patiently, admiring the larger of the two eggs and keeping your fingers crossed that it is a double yoker till you shift your eyes to the left and see a family stuffed into a tiny car beside you, staring open mouthed at the curious lady with the eggs, apparently waiting for the green light as if she was a car. You shuffle off in mortal shame, a hot blush scattering across your chest. You are tired. The weight of carrying a plaster casted five year old around has triggered your scaitica, you remain dumped by a ridiculously rude man, the car hasn't worked since November and clearly the whole matter that is your life is making you bonkers. But you are ok. Of course you are. You exchange eggs for a pot full of oregano, carry on into town and buy wine with which to bribe your Dad into your loft. He is easily bribed and before you know it you are standing at the base of the ladder watching his feet disappear into the ceiling. Yes, he shouts, there is a bloody big hole! No, he shouts, there is no evidence, of animals, flying, farmyard, zoo or otherwise! Oh my God, he shouts, in fright, as he mistakes a pretend little stuffed bird for the real thing, shifts his weight, and cracks the entire ceiling, at which point, you, not wishing to have said Dad land on your head, nor view him come to a sticky end full stop, dash off down the hall and cower in the bathroom while he tries to climbs out the loft without bringing the whole house down. You wonder what the world is coming to. There is a hole in your roof. There is a crack in the ceiling. You wouldn't try to cushion your Father if he fell through the ceiling. You eat too many crab sticks though all and sundry tell you they are the scraping from fishermans boats squashed together. You never answer your phone and the weeds in the garden are almost knee high. You have mistaken yourself for a car. A mini bloody metro probably. But life goes on. You bully your Dad back into the loft to mend the hole, report flapping insulation to the neighbours (who look mildly disappointed), eat more crab sticks, start the monumental task that is murdering the ivy threatening to strangle your house and deliver your son to the consultant in the local hospital who rubs his hands together in mild glee as he informs you that what we have here is not a fracure, hairline or otherwise, but something very rare indeed, known in medical circles as Kohlers Disease, known, for our purposes here on in, as squashed little bone disease, and requiring referal to a bone doctor at the childrens hospital. Oh yesarooney. A rare foot disease. Though luckily, one, hopefully, without long term implications. A dead bone in his foot. A full bright red plaster cast up to his knee. Half days at school. Beautifully contained frustration coming out of his little ears. Silence in the loft. Chaos in your head. Time to book yourself in for a service. Even old bangers need a bit of TLC from time to time don't they?

Thursday, 16 April 2009

The Thing Is

To love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again. Ellen Bass.

My Little Invalid

The twisted ankle I mentioned yesterday? Well yes, that would be a broken foot, broke goodness knows how, but broken all the same, and the reason why my poor little chap spent an entire night sobbing softly in his sleep. And so we are confined to barracks again. And joy of all joys, Finn also has the kind of stomach upset that requires three visits to the loo every hour, and as the loo is upstairs, Mummykins here is thus required to throw her scrumptious little sack of spuds over her shoulder and lug him up there on demand as he is not allowed to walk... and to his joy, not allowed to bathe either. Bring on the board games! Oh and the valium if you please...

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Wardrobe Heartbreak

(An abbreviated version of this post originally appeared on The Vintage HouseKeepers Circle and is part of a series of articles I will be posting here before the Yahoo group is closed)

To me the most difficult thing to de-clutter in the house is my wardrobe. In all honesty I find it difficult to talk about because so much of who I am is wrapped up in the clothes hanging there: and thus because I find the clothes hanging there so absolutely without the Je ne sais quoi I crave, I stand gawping at the glaring disparity between who I am and who I think I am every time my wardrobe doors swing open.

Once upon a time in the hallowed halls of Vogue, Miuccia Prada declared that "Clothes should always represent your vision of yourself" and that is how and where we are going to start the culling of our wardrobes: not with what is old, or holey (Aren't those old and holey items amongst some of your favourites?) but with the clothes that don't make you feel shiny and beautiful. The ones that aren't any good for snuggly days in the house or glam nights on the town. The ones that were expensive but make you feel fat. The ones that look fine on, but really aren't you....

There is nothing sinful about throwing or giving clothes away if they make you feel bad: even if that means most of your wardrobe is going to be hanging in Oxfam tomorrow. You really shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to be truly, deliciously, authentically you.
In an article here on BrocanteHome once, Mimi wrote about embracing your "signature" and I know that a fair few of you took it to to heart and really did take the time to consider what really shouts "this is me!"...

Authentically I wear big jewellery, gypsy skirts and bohemian tops: but the authentic side of me went for a holiday twelve years ago and never came back and since then more often than not I live in my uniform black trousers (designed to disguise big bum syndrome) and I can't say it makes me feel quite as glorious as it ought to. Comfortable, yes. But not GLORIOUS. So it's time to start living out loud. And in our world that starts with not giving BrocanteHouse room to clothes that don't represent our most treasured visions of ourselves...

This doesn't have to be about extremes: it is about giving yourself permission to throw away the 1985 Donna Karen dress that makes you look like a waitress and finding someone to love the fur you adore, but would never dream of wearing....

I don't need to give you step by step instructions: you know what to do and in all truth, only you can really deal with the emotions wrapped up in even the most innocent looking t-shirt...

So do this one just for you. The time is right to be who you were meant to be.

Kirstie's Homemade Home

So tell me, Kirstie Allsop, love her or hate her? Me, I'm in the "love her and wanna be her bestest friend please" camp because she's just so oodly scrumptiously herself at all times, speaks her mind, takes no nonsense, flirts for England, wears some gloriously silly but mildly wonderful retro-esque outfits and loves design, interiors and property with a passion most of us reserve for chocolate. I adore her and though Location, Location, Location drove me nutty due, mostly, to the whingey wannabe, unimaginative, potential owners- the very idea of Kirstie having her own programme dedicated to renovating an dilapidated Devonshire country cottage into the "ultimate handmade home" makes me feel like ringing channel four up and thanking them for finally giving me reason to stay up after Coronation Street instead of retreating to the cocoon that is my bedroom with the book and cup of moroccan mint tea that has become my habit of late, an hour before the universe lowers the dimmer switch on a lane noisy with owls screaming night night...

Frankie Magazine

Now then Sweetie Pies, have you seen the gorgeous desktop wallpaper at Frankie Magazine? Actually, let me re-phase that, have you seen Frankie Magazine, full stop?

Before and After

Gosh. What happened? Where did all the loveliness go? Down the swannee m'dear, with the rest of my life, down the swannee... Though I truly once thought that it would only be when Finn was safely ensconced being force fed phonics in school that I would be able to achieve something resembling hard work unencumbered by a five year old wrapped around my personage, it seems that my heart is at it's happiest when said child is pottering about planting sunflowers, felt-tipping my toenails and stashing secrets in his lidded desk during the school holidays. And so last Wednesday in a fit of industriousness not oft seen in these parts, I set Finley up with a set of Easter cards to paint and went outside to strip the dilapidated garden back ready for the removal of the precocious ivy crawling up the house and the chucking of some whitewash at the crumbly old walls. I was happy with my lot. I stashed the various pots and half dead, half alive plants around the corner, brushed away a forest of fallen leaves and went inside to summon up the strength to dig the mud out of my nails and prepare myself for the packaging of son off to his Daddies and the arrival of the Rocket Scientist in time for tea. I lit candles all over the place, let the scent of the blue hydrangeas blooming in terracotta pots on every surface, fragrance the house and climbed into something that said I like you, but it's time to stop pretending I'm a full time dolly-bird and that at 5.30pm on a Springtime Wednesday evening this my Darling is how I look. Deal with it... And in he came, dressed in his work clothes, insisting he be so hungry we had to eat forthwith and only takeaway pizza would do, and I ran about like one of the flustered little chickens I am currently minding, looking for, and failing to find a pizza menu, so we got into the kind of car you just don't picture rocket scientists driving and collected pizza's and trashy magazines and creme eggs and went and snuggled on the sofa, and ate garlicky doughy food in tandem, and giggled at the state of Britney Spears and then he went and stashed the pizza menu somewhere we could find it next time, went upstairs and took a shower (while I tried to come to terms with the very idea of someone using my house like his own), faffed about with the noisy boiler and walked about muttering about remembering to bring a radiator key next time he called, then let himself out of the back door to deliver pizza boxes to recycling bin and came back looking shaken at the state of my garden, texted someone in a mysterious fashion, backwards and forwards for an hour (reporting me to the backyard police methinks) and then promptly fell asleep, holding my hand. And all was well that ended dully. And I decided that I could really rather get used to this man about the house lark even if here was a plodding lukewarm little man who never wanted to leave the safety of my sofa for anything more thrilling than a pizza, let alone a meal out, cinema spree or even a tinsy little walk around the dusky light of the neighbourhood, and in my own head set aside the bristly don't tread too deeply into my territory little soul that I am, at exactly the same time as he was deciding that the shock of my destroyed garden and bangy old boiler was just too much too bear and thus he would not be returning my calls ever ever again and would instead ruin my Easter weekend with the kind of sudden all consuming silence that would have had me spitting feathers had I cared about anything other than the fact that I cannot abide bad manners in forty two year old men who should know better. Damn him to hell and back. But never mind because there was rose and black pepper chocolate for breakfast and an Easter egg hunt to distract me instead, there was a gorgeous cream leather handbag from my sister and fish in a restaurant with all the family, there was lavender syrup trickled over big fat strawberries, lots and lots of sun, a night spent holding my sobbing little boy after an ankle accident, an Elizabeth Taylor novel procured in a secondhand shop and thrown off in favour of the new Marion Keyes 800 pager, prawns and hake and trout to wash out my insides after too much stolen Dairy milk and of course the pleasure of still holding the world record for being dumped more times than it is possible for one woman to tolerate without volunteering herself for the convent. And the moral of this woebegon tale? Be a dolly bird all your life or else! And in the meantime hound your darling, lovely blog readers until they come up with something that will transform that ugly little patch of concrete into something resembling a pretty little garden in which to tear out your hair.... Help! Ideas, s'il vous plait?

Tuesday, 14 April 2009

One Hundred Tiny Pleasures.

Some day's we need shoring up by the teeny tiny things. The things that pass unnoticed. We need to open our eyes, prop them open with matchsticks if need be and sensually consume life in all it's silly, scrumptious, everyday glory...
Today is one of those days. Here for my own pleasure is a list of loveliness on a tiny scale...

1.   A perfect blush coloured apple sliced into translucent slithers.
2. The scent of my own perfume.
3. Listening to the kids laughing in the school playground a few doors down.
4. Rubbishy white bread, slathered in good butter and folded in half.
5. My tea drawer: a kitchen drawer filled with row upon row of herbal teabags.
6. The lovely coral coloured coat that makes me smile everytime I put it on.
7. Vintage brooches pinned to the cushions on my bed.
8. Burying my face in Finley's curly hair.
9. Ice cold skimmed milk drunk from one of the green glasses with the little hearts that Helen bought me for Christmas. With a chocolate digestive or two.
10. Soaking my tea-towels in lavender scented water and letting the freshness of it scent the whole house.
11. De-fluffing the tumble dryer filter. I know. It's an obsession...
12. Sunday papers hoarded for a weeks worth of reading.
13. Climbing into bed and snuggling down until theres only the tip of my nose peeking out.
14. Painting my toenails scarlet red.
15. Trying not to giggle when Finley is on the phone to my Mum.
16. Opening my comfort drawer and re-arranging the things in it, just for the hell of it.
17. Plucking my eyebrows. Achieving the perfect arch may turn out to be my life's work.
18. Sharpening pencils with a knife, because it makes me feel authentically artistic.
19. Hanging the living room rug over the garden line and giving it a good beating.
20. Saying Good Morning to people I don't know as I walk down our lovely lane.
21. Poetry. Poetry. Poetry.
22. Trying and repeatedly failing to poach an egg. I can't. I've tried.
23. Playing with a bowl full of old buttons while I watch the Tv.
24. Cadburys Creme Eggs.
25. Text messages. I love them. Even when it's only Vodaphone trying to sell me something.
26. Sprinkling a cloud of icing sugar on to anything at all.
27. Brushing my teeth. I mean really? Who doesn't love brushing their teeth?
28. Making the sink shiny. Because the Flylady is right...it is life enhancing.
29. The damp deliciousness of wet towels as I drag them out of the washing machine.
30. Idly stroking a feather up and down my arm.
31. Books that don't ask me to think. Silly old fashioned pulp fiction. Piles of them passed on by Mum.
32. Fishing melty marshmallows out of cream drenched hot chocolate.
33. New knickers.
34. Tying my hair back at the end of the day.
35. Wandering up and down the cleaning aisles in the supermarket.
36. Making my mouth water reading recipe books.
37. Annoying Finn by insisting that yes, I really do think The Wiggles are rubbish...
38. Stacking my newly pressed doillies in size order. Clearly I've got no life.
39. Slicing lemons and feeling oddly virtuous.
40. Then sprinkling salt on to my tea stained kitchen counters and using said lemons to banish ring marks for good.
41. Refusing carrier bags in shops as I whip out my string bag and almost expect a round of applause...
42. Tingly skin from body brushing before I get into the shower.
43. Charity book shops. Quirky and occasionally stinky. Odd staff obligatory especially in the animal rescue book shop, where you can also pick up a cat with your Chaucer.
44. New bars of soap. Yummy.
45. Dancing by myself in the kitchen while I wait for the kettle to boil. Don't tell anyone...
46. Irish soda bread and smoked ham.
47. A pretty bra or two hung from the butterfly rhinestone knobs on my wardrobe doors.
48. Feather dusting, cos it's plain old silly. Oh and my pretty new pale pink dustpan and brush.

49. Flicking back through BrocanteHome and marvelling at the occasionally absolutely ludicrous nonsense I have felt the urge to share with you. You poor people...
50. Holding back my smirk when the people in Costa coffee ask me if I would like frozen water with my Orangina.
51. Bashing the cushions on my armchair before I go to bed.
52. Locking the doors and turning out the lights before I go to bed, because all of a sudden it doesn't scare me anymore. Is this some kind of new peace?
53. Sitting with Finn on my knee as we go through his newborn photograph album for the millionth time.
54. Post without a bill or twenty three. I practically get down on my knees and offer a prayer of pure gratitude.
55. Opening one eye to squint at the clock and realising there is a still a good hour or two to dream before the day has to begin.
56. Wandering about wafting homemade air freshener into the air as I go.
57. Checking to see whether my daffodils have opened their eyes yet.
59. Crunchy celery dipped in cottage cheese.
60. The taste of a lovely dream on my lips for the rest of the day.
61. Chopping up old t-shirts for my rag bag.
62. Pouring sugar into my spotty blue sugar bowl. I don't know why. It just makes me happy.
63. Going to the library. The bestest thing in the world. 64. My grey blanket.
65. Running my hand along hedges and walls as I walk.
66. Reading something rude and blushing all by myself.
67. Popping the foil on a new jar of coffee.
68. Carmex lip balm.
69. Dipping my face into a perfect cresent of melon and drowning in melon juice.
70. Popcorn at the pictures. Actually the pictures full stop.
71. My neighbours. I have the loveliest neighbours.
72. Mum's "Have you locked your doors?" nine o'clock phonecall.
73. Lighting candles. Lots and lots of them.
74. Lemonade that sends bubbles up my nose and makes me giggle.
75. An empty washing basket.
76. Washing my titchy little windows on a sunny day.
77. Crying. I love crying. Over nothing and everything. Usually by myself.
78. Getting yet another blackcurrant juice stain out of my cream carpet.
79. Sitting down at nine o'clock in the morning to watch a very silly childrens programme called "Me Too!". Even when Finley isn't home...
80. Happy achy tiredness. You know the kind.
81. Cheese. With everything. I'm like the moon. Made of cheese.
82. Eavesdropping on babbas telling each other off.
83. Refusing salt on my food. After finally giving up a life long obsession and re-discovering my no longer puffy, wrists.
84. Chucking out another bit of Finleys plastic nonsense. How evil am I?
85. Drying cutlery.
86.   Remembering to be grateful before I close my eyes.
87. Stroking the hair back from Finn's hot little head as he sleeps.
88. The smeary challenge that is corn on the cob dripping with butter.
89. Coronation Street. I actually feel oddly cross on the nights it is not on.
90. An hour spent re-reading the occasionally mystifying messages on the back of old postcards.
91.   Suddenly feeling inspired to add a paragraph or two to the novel I've been writing for a hundred years.
92. Tying up newspapers with string for recycling.
93. A hot sea salt and rosemary bath, ice cold water (with frozen water please!) in a crystal champagne glass and thick towels warmed on the radiator.
94. The little chamelia in a tea cup full of water next to my bed tonight. A pleasure so fleeting I almost feel I should stay up and watch it gently wither.
95. Ribbon bookmarks. A bonbon dish full of ribbons on my bedside especially for the purpose.
96. "Hey Sweetie!" conversations with Helen on MSN...
97. Feeling face masks crack on my face because I laugh too much.
98. Listening to Finley re-tell his egg joke... "Mummy, there was this lady in her kitchen and she went to the fridge, put two eggs in a saucepan and poured boiling water on them. Then Mummy, one egg said to the other, Gosh it's hot in here isn't it? And the other one said "Wait till they get you out, they bash your head in..." . Laughing for the millionth time at my very own curly topped comedian.
99. Hot water bottles wearing one of Finleys old sweaters in lieu of a gorgeous fair aisle cover I haven't got...

100. Living here. Oh, how I love living here and drinking too much tea in teeny china cups...

Thursday, 9 April 2009

Some E Cards

SNAPPY ONE LINERS + VINTAGE IMAGES = SOMETHING THAT MAKES ME WANT TO TYPE LOL... (Even though people who say LOL on a regular basis should be hung, drawn and basted in barbeque sauce.)

I do wish all of this wasn't the kind of awful truth I deeply relate to. But there you have it: the perfect indictment of the state of our nation and indeed, the state of one Miss Alison May's life. See ya when I see ya Honey Pies, Easter is upon us.

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Hear No Evil, See No Evil.

To my sisters constant disappointment I never know what is going on in the world. I don't watch news programmes, buy newspapers, listen to the radio, subscribe to newsfeeds, join in current affairs discussion, or choose to voice my vastly under-educated political opinion. But the fact is that we live in a fast paced, media driven society and there is no escaping the stories that seep under the collective skin, no matter how hard we try.

My sister Helen calls it ignorance. I call it choosing not to dwell on the things I cannot change. I call it making my home a sanctuary from acts of unnatural cruelty, cultural obsessions and basic evil and I call it choosing contentment over dismay and destructive despair.

For the most part I don't know and don't much care what's going on outside my front door. When my whole country becomes obsessed with searching for the "truth" in media driven circuses, I want to batten down the hatches and lose myself in something mindless. I want to hold my little boy close to me and never let him go and I want more than ever to keep on teaching him that in a world we cannot change, we have no choice but to make kindness our raison d'etre.

Life is hard enough without allowing ourselves to be consumed by other people's nightmares, living in fear of mass destruction, or pandering to the whims of the over-inflated ego's of evil little men or bland uncaring politicians. We don't have to absorb the opinion of every talking head, read the cobblers all newspapers write to beef up truth where there is only lies, nor even listen to headlines to which our imaginations will bless with all manner of ugliness. We don't have to make other peoples distress the subject of idle morning gossip, nor use the news as the barometer of our emotions.

We don't have to. We really don't. Home should be a haven not a house of horrors.

Saturday, 4 April 2009

The Thrill Seeker

Look at her. She could be anybody now couldn't she? That hair. The corsage. The insouciance. And yet this photograph was taken in 1928 when one Fay Watson was arrested for possession of cocaine. Is there not something astonishing about the fact that that which we regard as classically beautifully is unaltered by time?

Thursday, 2 April 2009

Through His Eyes

Mummy, are you glum? No Sweetie, are you? Not today. Are you ever glum Mum? Not really baby. You must be Mummy, everybody is glum sometimes. Are they? Of course! The world wouldn't make sense if everybody was happy all the time. We all take turns. Turns? Yes, at being glum. Today just isn't our day.

Wednesday, 1 April 2009

Chantal Michel

And then by peculiar, ugly serendipity, you discover the illustration of your worst nightmare. Shame described in a way you have only before felt. Decay as invitation. That typewriter in the kitchen- like words matter more (because they do). Art you want to steal. Images you want to step inside. And still: always; hiding behind your damn hair. See the entire series at Chantal Michel.

Housewife's Nightmare

I used to think all nightmares were made of bogeymen and ogres and then, at the tender age of ten, I dreamt that my Mum had an unexpected perm and came to the shocking realisation that the most spooky of all night terrors are made of the most suburban of fears and often smell of ammonia.

Now I'm all grown up and almost permanently irrationally happy in the face of occasional adversity, I dream big spectacular technicolor dreams of the everyday: wacky, gleeful, bonkers dreams that make me smile all day long, tales that could be true with the odd peculiarity in the shape of Russell Brand, and occasionally deadly dull dreams about driving down familiar routes with particular attention paid to indicating at the right time and beeping my horn at passing stragers in dickie bows. My dreams are full of men in dickie bows and I can't imagine why. I dream three of four great dreams every night. I am busy in my sleep, my brain never, ever rests and I am even capable of waking up halfway through a dream, closing a window, and getting back in bed to pick up where I've left off, as if I'd called time for commercial break... And this my dears is why I love my bed so: not because it is layered in lavendered loveliness but because it is a floaty feathery fluffy magic carpet I sail away on only a few moments after I blow out my bedside candle each evening. A magic carpet that takes me away to the Brocante equivalent of Hollywood on a nightly basis. Until now - because recently my sweet scented magic carpet has been delivering me to domestic hell. Locking the doors and not letting me out of the house and then delivering invitations to all and sundry to come view my home as if it were a museum dedicated to the art of disastrous housekeeping. Oh yes M'dears. Though I am embarrassed to admit it, lately I have been tortured by a recurring dream that I have invited all of you to come root through my drawers, stare at the dirt gathering under my lino and discuss the secrets I keep under my bed. In one harrowing nightmare I found myself sitting in front of the PTA explaining the state of my house to a group of stern men (some of them in dickie bows!)who would ultimately decide whether my slovenly ways rendered my son unfit for school. In another, three Mothers from the school gates donned gingham pinnies and started cleaning my kitchen while I lie, like a pig in muck, utterly naked, drinking rhubarb coffee(!) and offering advice on the benefits of blogging with Wordpress. In both the dreams and the moments shortly before I open my eyes to a brand new day I feel the deepest sense of shame I have ever experienced in my life. And it won't go away. Am I going nuts? Am I suffering from some delayed version of "I've said too much?" or is my inner housewife simply demanding that I get off my lardy bottom and start loving my house all over again? Please consult your dream dictionaries and feel free to psycho-analyze me. I'm sprawled all over the proverbial chaise longue, stinking of perm lotion and blushing with shame. Do you dream my Darlings?