Saturday, 5 April 2014
Inge hisses like a snake, her words inflicting a sneer. She's staring at my head, poker faced.
'Wa-SSSS-up wit' your hair?' Inge continues, still venomous. Eyes surveying my recently styled Hollywood hair.
What's up with you more like! I think, feelings hurt.
'Hair extensions, Inge. I love them, aren't they gorgeous. Super sexy?' I coo.
No reaction from Inge. A mute. Jealousy? I fill up the space in that nervous way you do during awkward silences by chattering on, 'Cost a bomb, top of the range, Sir Henry himself applied the weave ...'.
Aha, a raised brow from Inge at the mention of Sir Henry; she doesn't believe I managed to book an appointment with him at the salon; it's common knowledge that his waiting list is at least 12 months long. 'It's Raccoon Hair Extensions,' I finish proudly, smirking.
At this Inge chokes on a gulp of her coffee and takes a few minutes coughing the liquid up, which pleases me as I'm finding it uncomfortable having a one sided conversation. Just deserts.
We have a good table by the window overlooking the Sensation Science Centre directly down the hill and the Tay river beyond. I wonder if choosing to meet in the DCA was the right thing. It's not our usual. I felt it would be a new start for Inge and I. A good place to patch up our friendship; but her moodiness is making me think otherwise. I glance towards Inge, narrowing my eyes in puzzlement. Is she still hankering after the old days? That's it! Eureka. She misses me! Bless! I gaze adoringly as Inge composes herself after her near death experience and still embarrassed, thanks the waiter for thumping her on her back; and thanks also the chef who flew out from the kitchen as he's the first aider of the establishment.
Annoyed with me for her mishap, she resorts to name calling. 'Raccoon Head Shaz. You'll have Brigitte Bardot after you! Killer! Some animal lover you are; what will your cats say? How many raccoons died for your beauty? Humph.' Inge finishes her soliloquy almost choking again on her spit, fishes up her bag from the floor beneath the table and barges towards the ladies room; her final remarks cast over her shoulder. 'You've been hanging with Janet Low and Jay Blonde too long. From next week I'm your best friend; and say goodbye to the DCA, our local is the Mexicanna across the road. Dumb Head!
I'm agreeable to the changes, though slightly miffed as the DCA chef was rather good looking and worth further investigation, however the Mexicanna is our local. Of course, there is now a chance of encountering Attila the Hun. Sour note.
Wednesday, 2 April 2014
A long time ago I thought, that if all I wanted to do was write, then everything would neatly fall into place. It would just happen! Published! Rich! Wayhey! It didn't! Wake-up call!
I need to get back to the drawing board. Literally. Back to scratch, though not quite, I have kissed writing success on the lips. Once. Relief.
What I am saying, in a long winded way, is that I was lost (my writing career that is) and now I have found an aid, a new start, with the discovery of Writers' Forum magazine.
What I need to do is get back to basics; and Writers' Forum is helping me with this. There are practical exercises Homework to encourage my revision. Expert advice to help with focus, pin point my weak areas and instruction on the technical side of writing (computers). An Ideas Store to ignite Eurika moments, and competitions for readers to send short fiction and poetry to. Writers' Forum have thought of everything in the schooling of the writer, even supplying a monthly achievement calendar to pencil in important dates, submissions, books read, research etc. In addition, they research the industry with features on the magazine scene and insider information on how to break into particular genres. I particularly like the Fiction Workshop where readers can have their work expertly critiqued and the results shared in the magazine.
Writers' Forum is published monthly and costs £3.60. I have found a magazine that appears to genuinely want their audience to improve, and grow as writers. Now, I've got no excuse for It not to happen.
Tuesday, 25 March 2014
I recently visited Jack Vettriano A Retrospective at Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, in Glasgow. An exhibition consisting of over 100 of his paintings brought together for the first time in twenty-one years. I have always admired Jack; Scottish like myself, from a life of the working class, like myself, and taking up a creative career in later life (he was in his thirties when he started painting) like myself. However, I had not seen the breadth of his work, so this retrospective was a perfect opportunity. A delight!
What draws me to Jack's figurative paintings is the elegance of dress of the women (One Moment in Time), the old school glamour of the interiors (Drifters), the nostalgia of the props (Suddenly One Summer). Jack himself , says he
'wished people would dress more carefully, more beautifully, and make the best of themselves.'
Although it's the costume, the interiors, that I love best, his colour pallet and composition is affective. Crimson reds, emerald greens - deep and moody: very film noir. And composition. His placement of elements is graphic; considered, right down to bric-a-brac on a side-table or mantle: theatrical in effect. Can this explain why his work has been bought by movie stars ... paintings going for six figures.
There is another side to his work, of course, a side that
'suggest stories, dark and hot happenings, complicated pasts and futures.' (A.L. Kennedy, writer).
I am not so interested in these 'stories', which suggest to me rather seedy, grim and unhappy characters. Is Jack showing what's going on in his world; his mind? I can't wait to see what the next twenty-one years brings, how he develops.
Overall the exhibition was a great success for Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum breaking all attendance figures, with 132, 502 visitors. Vettriano is a brand and the galleries souvenir shop was Vettriano collectors' heaven, with any object that can be printed upon having the Vettriano stamp - umbrellas, tea-towels, note-books etc. I bought a print Portrait in Black and Pearl. I am a fan!
|Portrait in Black and Pearl|
Saturday, 22 March 2014
Psychologists say smiling cheers you up when you are feeling depressed. It's really true. Of course, when you are feeling down it's hard to find something to smile about. Sorted! These two t.v. adverts, recently broadcast in Britain, are having me grin like a Cheshire cat. ADORABLE.
Saturday, 15 March 2014
I know I shouldn't. It's like putting yourself on a diet, you start craving what you shouldn't (carrot cake all moist and sweet, toasted brioche with a smear of Lurpak, Cadbury's Cream Egg ... STOP!). I said that this year I would cut back buying books; that's what libraries are for, after all. However, I am a book girl; try telling a cat to stop stalking birds or a dog to stop nicking sweets from your kids sticky fingers. Hard, indeed. So here are my book spoils to add to my collection for March.
|Robert Burns, by Alexander Nasmyth|
|Guernica, Pablo Picasso|
|Wonder Walls by Sarah Bagnar. This is a good book showcasing how other collector's display their stuff creatively and practically too.|
|The Great Interior Design Challenge, a book by the BBC based on the television programme. I was glued to my T.V. in January, whilst the wannabe interior designers battled it out to win the BBC competition. Loved it!|
Saturday, 8 March 2014
I love this little 6th edition (1966), The Manual Of Horsemanship published by The British Horse Society, Warwickshire. It is divided into advice about handling ponies and riding (Equitation), saddlery and horsemastership. My favourite section as a teenager was Horsemastership and Stablemanagement; in other words, caring for my pet.
' In dealing with horses there is a right way and a wrong way of doing things. Sometimes there are several right ways of doing the same thing. The man who does things the right way is said to possess horse sense. If he does it instinctively he is said to be born with horse sense'.
I liked to think I had horse sense; that I was a natural. I am an animal lover after all. This belief helped to give me confidence and jump the cavalletti of what I found to be a rather intimidating world to enter into. I did not live in the countryside. I lived in an industrial city; Dundee a jute city. I was working class. Not from the horsey set at all. My family did not own transport. How do I find my first pony? Where do I keep him/her? How will I fund the welfare of such an expensive animal?
Me with Misty and Barney Rubble
Misty was renamed from Bacardi, after a book I read, Misty Of Chincoteague, by Marguerite Henry (1947). A better fitting name I thought.
It is all a blur but I did it! I first of all cared for a Highland pony called Bluebell on free loan from a Scottish trekking centre. I borrowed my mother's bicycle to travel to the local stables (Quite dilapidated old farm buildings at the back of the city). Amazingly my mother funded the weekly DIY stable fees. My little Manual of Horsmanship tucked into my rucksack. This experience, when I was fifteen years old, helped to drive my determination to have a pet of my own. In time I became the proud owner of Misty, Barney Rubble and later Sheika.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
They say it's the journey not the destination, but what if that road is full of pot holes? How do I know I've taken the right journey? How do I know I'm heading to the right destination?
Decisions! Decisions! We are all making decisions, all the time. Constantly. Every one of us. Some snap, some long and painfully uncertain.
I read the following poem and it has helped.
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill.
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with it's twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns.
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow -
You might succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor's cup.
And he learned too late, when the night stepped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of clouds of doubt -
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be nearer when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you are the hardest hit,
It's when things seem worse ...
... THAT YOU MUST NOT QUIT.