Whimsy, or Whumsy

If your fingers are anything like mine and instead of hitting the right keys at the right time and in the right order, they are missing them, hitting the wrong ones or splodging 3 down at the same time, so that what should read "green" actually reads "fgrweemn". I feel like Homer in the Simpsons episode where he eats to be fat enough to work from home and then can't work the telephone keypad. "If your fingers are too fat to dial, smash the numbers with the palm of your hand, you terrible, terrible person." Or something. 

Anyway, today is Valentines or Galentines or Palentines or Petentines or just another Friday. However you wish to consider this day (I haven't done Valentines for years and frankly this one freaked me out: what was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to buy? Why is he not like normal people and happy to mainline salted caramel? Why did I not fall in love with a woman and thereby have a multitude of sad, cheap shit to chose from in the shops?), I think we all need some whimsy to carry us through the storms predicted this weekend. 

 

And that's just from those who brought Val. Day stuff but didn't get anything in return. 

I'll keep you posted on that one. 

These gorgeous creations are automaton (which I have a soft spot for anyway, much like I do stop-animation films) created by Rowland Emmett, the genius behind the designs for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, an illustrator for Punch and one of those people that I really wish I known and met when he was alive. 

Whimsy, beautiful design, attention to detail and a blatant call on your curiosity, I love these so much, I'd knock down some of my house to get it in. But I'm not allowed to. However, there is a touring exhibition of A Quiet Afternoon in Cloud Cuckoo Valley (see images above). If you go along and have to elbow a middle-aged woman with unruly hair out of the way, that'll be me. Say hi while you're elbowing.

My Week in Pictures

I had an early morning visitor - the Velveteen Splodge (Thor-cat's new nickname because he is as soft and strokable as the purest velvet, and also because when he splodges out on the carpet, he looks almost boneless) wanting to know, in the nicest possible way, where his damn breakfast was.

A quick visit to the allotment last Sunday and a final bout of digging the long bed in time for the frosts (ha!) to break the earth down. It yielded quite the biggest ant's nest I've ever seen, plus a leftover from the previous tenant. I have no idea what a "Pupleurium Houndifalum" is. If , indeed, that is it's real name *squints*

Tulips in the dark dark morning. 

The Withnail Wall is finally up, a mere 7 months after moving in, and it is splendid. It's been our habit for the past 3 years to go to the annual screening of Withnail and I at the Electric Cinema in Birmingham. There we eat themed cake, watch the film amongst like-minded (and often costumed) people and take part in the charity auction. Hence quite so many Richard E Grant signatures. The day they get Paul McGann in to talk about it and sign stuff is the day I genuinely lose my tiny mind with excitement. And have to remortgage the house.

Treated myself to some new t-shirts from Cakes with Faces. Love their designs. Cute but not mutton-as-lamb cute. 

Not shown, my Mum's new knee, my first ever attempt at making a teriyaki sauce (that turned out rather well) and the crochet blanket I started thinking to follow along with Attic 24's C-A-L. I ripped it apart after 4 lines, vaguely unhappy with it but not able to articulate why. Just couldn't face 293 rows of sodding treble stitch. 

Also not shown, my newly-painted bathroom. It is a vivid pink and no mistake. Like being on the inside of a raspberry. If you're going to go pink, go hard, say I. Insert your own double entendre, you filthy minded so-and-sos. 

Riding out the waves of a very wet week (not quite literally) and coasting to a Saturday night full stop. 

Highgating it outta there

For some reason, it was decided that the hottest day of August would be a perfect day to spend wandering around Highgate.

Actually, I know the reason why: we'd arrived in London the day before for a 40th birthday party and, as we were in the North London area, the Boyfriend was extremely thoughtful (despite the kind of hangover that makes you want to pull your own brains out and replace them with a cold cloth) and tagged on to the Sunday a trip to Highgate so I could fulfill a dream of many years standing.

The weather was not so thoughtful. There were no cool breezes, there was no smidgeon of rain to alleviate the suffocating heat. There was a veritable rush for the crypt in the cemetary just because it was several degrees cooler in the dark than it was outside. Frankly, I think we'd have rushed in if there had been zombie hordes awaiting us inside: fine, eat my brains, just let me lie down in the cool while you do it.

Actually I would not as zombies are my one irrational phobia. Although, having read Zora Neale Hurston's account of meeting an actual real zombie in Haiti (Tell My Horse), I'm not sure it is an irrational phobia.

But I can feel the question hovering behind the eyes of anyone reading this...why spend a gorgeous summer day in a cemetary?

I wish I knew the answer to that.

I suppose it's the mix of architecture, peace, surprising flashes of nature and social commentary that I love and that make graveyards, especially the big old Victorian ones, so appealing to me. Or it could be that, from a small age, a regular occupation when staying with my Nan was to go visit the small village cemetary where she would lay flowers for her father in law and own mother, reserving a little bit of spite for Doris, her unforgiving (her son married beneath himself when he took up with the baker's daughter) mother in law. Truly all life is contained in these places.

My sister and I "adopted" a small and neglected grave of a young girl, Rebecca, almost hidden in the corner by hedges. We pulled out the weeds, begged flowers from my Nan for the rusty pot and generally chattered about childish things to the tiny headstone. You could say that we were always morbid wee things, although my sister seems to have grown out of it these days.  

Anyway, enough memory lane. To the present day and Highgate. Gosh that place is beautiful. We paid our respects to Douglas Adams (it would have been rude not to leave a pen) and Karl Marx before heading to the west side and the guided tour. 

A confession: I am not much of a fan of the guided tour. There, I've said it out loud. That's despite having worked for a museum where the only way you could access the building was by guided tour (it was the exception to my own rule). I find that you have to stand for too long in one spot, that you don't get to see the bits that are most fascinating, that the chance to just sit, soak up the atmosphere and stare around you is missing.  

However, wandering on your own is distinctly not allowed in Highgate. According to a friend of mine who's PHD means she spends a lot of time wandering around cemeteries, and who has been allowed unescorted access to Highgate, there are quite a few holes in the ground, falling tree branches and other dangers which mean 1000s of people doing it is a health and safety red tape nightmare to be avoided. Much like the holes in the ground. So I can understand it, but knowing there are vast spaces I didn't see fires my curiosity. And I wish I'd been able to pay my respects to Lizzie Siddal.

And now, nearly a month on (another confession: I started this post a week after coming back but life has a way of getting in the way of my plans just recently), I imagine that the heat has dissipated and those huge trees, creators of so much of the H&S nightmare, will be starting to change colour. I'm trying to come up with a plausible reason for visiting North London again... I'd like to go back, do another tour, see more of the east side, not be viewing it all from the wrong side of a night out.

But is is my favourite cemetery? No, that space is reserved for Key Hill in Birmingham, an oddly isolated place where it suddenly grew silent around me (and a former colleague found evidence of a voodoo ceremony), and Haworth, not isolated at all, thanks to it's central location and the hordes of Bronte worshippers. But there is something quite special about Highgate nonetheless. I can understand why so many people have written about the place. Next on the bucket list of graveyards - the Pere Lachaise and Arnos Vale. Just not at the same time.