It's no go for Gauguin but green light elsewhere .

Went to the National on Wednesday . We had comps for the Gauguin portraits exhibition .

Now , normally I wouldn't have bothered , having had an aversion to said Gauguin since I was obliged to study him a bit for my academic History of Art exams .I could have said "comps or not its no go " and buggered off to loose myself in the Jan Van Eyck self portrait ( as I regularly do ).

I thought , though ,  that I should employ the same principle I do to most things - take a fresh look then open your mind before you open your mouth .
I carefully separated the man , the paintings and the customs and expectations of his time .


That's a half hour I won't get back .

There was a gallery attendant ( looking like Edris Elba ) perched on a little chair .
I said " do you like these ?"
He said " sometimes I do "
 I said " and like me sometimes you don't ".
We had a quiet giggle together and I went off to buy a Dega postcard in preference to a Gauguin .


Today we went off in the rain in the bumbling country bus . The route took the usual detours to villages beginning to prepare for Advent .

A curry for lunch , three bookshops  and then round to the market square . They had had " switch on "last Sunday.

The square  had a huge tree and garlands on gables and old lampposts  .

Everything was bedecked in white and Emerald lights .

In the fading light and drizzle it spoke of the bright white light that hope delivers .

It spoke of how  ever present  and timeless greenness is in spite of all circumstances  .

We sat on a bench in the dark and drizzle .
I remembered where we were this time last year ( see post Dec 19 / 12 / 2018 ) and my heart danced in the lovely light .
"Come on " the saxophonist said " or we shall miss the bus " and I grinned at him out of all proportion to what he had just said .

Piccalilli and Topaz .

I  have always hated piccalilli . I find that your taste buds and sensibilities change over time .I had a speculative taste and loved piccalilli . Not sure what that says about me .

Anyway ,  I tried various types . Then I went to the market and bought two sets of ingredients . Veg diced small and plenty of mustard in one . Beetroot , red onion and red cabbage in the other . The latter comes out a glorious purple . I have yet to try it .


We have timed tickets for the major Hogarth exhibition at the Soanes . We have always loved sliding the wooden panels back and seeing each treat appear .
The attendant in the Hogarth room is real East End . He stood there looking cheesed off with life , heard us talking about the paintings and came over . He has read every book he can find on the period and the artist . He can tell you marvellous snippets about small details in the paintings you had never noticed before .
I wonder if the curator of this new exhibition can drop as many aitches in such an erudite fashion as our man or seem like he is a refugee from one of Hogarth's paintings . We will see .


Pushed my hair back the other day and discovered it has grown long enough to put it up again .Think of a slightly ruffled ballet dancers hair - like that .

This , then , is the excuse to get out my jewelry boxes . Over the years I have collected  silver and semi precious stones . Artisan and handmade . Think Elizabethan portrait but silver and stones and not gold .
I have dipped the plain silver things and am painstakingly doing each semi precious by hand .


I bought a new mascara in London the other day from a pop up in Carnaby Street . It's called "better than sex ". I rather doubt it somehow but each to their own .


So 
dishevelled ballerina hair , that mascara , and the freshly shone citrine , topaz , garnet and amathyst etc glimmering on my ears . That's me for Christmas .

Must think what my Christmas books will be this year too . Might do another nice fat Anthony Trollope , will fit in the Hogarth biography but have not decided on what else . Any ideas ?

Contentment .

Bumbling along in a country bus with rain streaked windows . Reading , dozing or lost in the green views .

Destination : a second hand book shop , an old fashioned restaurant that does roasts and homemade pies  .
Maybe a butcher in a striped apron with sawdust on the floorboards .
Maybe a market full of seasonal treats - celery and wet walnuts this week .

Small pleasures to anticipate , relish and savour .

The democracy of dirt .

I was sitting on the bench at my plot this afternoon . I've been doing this a lot lately , usually covered in mud or soaked and often both . I looked at the plot and realised the wilderness has gone .
There are rows of beet , beans , cabbages , sprouts and leeks . Broad beans , garlic and onion sets will follow shortly .

I have met fellow plotters. I have been given cooking apples and a pumpkin .

Yesterday a man approached, six foot , long pony tail .He looked over the plot .
 "That carpet is better than the one in my sitting room " he said .
 I explained about getting old carpets from the carpet shop and pushing them in a shopping trolley all the way to the plot . Twice .
 He listened , nodded and eyed up the straight rows and the nets here and there to keep the pigeons off . " I've got a digger " he said . "if you get the last of the rough off I'll go over it for you if you like ".

Heavy limbed and content the saxophonist and I discuss it over a pint .
When did going through the motions become an enthusiasm , a joy .

We have made friends there , because although we are a diverse bunch we all have a love of the green haven .
 A place were we can sit serene , drinking tea  in our muddy glory , where we work hard and there's a sense of achievement to take home with you .

People are decent and kind to one another on the plots . We help each other and either laugh or shrug when a crop doesn't come up or gets attacked by pigeons or slugs . It's all a learning curve or an excuse to stop and chat .

In a world so ugly and uncertain as it sometimes seems a man with a digger and some generosity is most welcome .

This afternoon I walked along the little paths to his plot and put a jar of piccalilli and two jars of chutney I'd made in his poly tunnel . He will know who they are from .

It feels good to be part of a community where nothing more is implied than meant .

Kaleidoscope

I saw some one offered a free non disposable canvas bag . I was behind him in the queue and when he was asked " what colour ?" he said " it did not matter"  .

I was shocked . How can you have no preference ?

It's the same as people who live in beige clothes and look beige themselves .
 Few people want to look like Coco the clown but to not delight in colour in some way is inexplicable to me .

 I have always been excited by colour :

• Opening a new paint box .

• Huge old fashioned apothecary bottles full of brightly coloured water in chemist shop windows .

• Old Christmas tree baubles from the fifties or earlier . 

• Old fashioned Spangles that had waxed wrappers that thrillingly included purple and white stripes , yellow and white stripes , dark emerald and white stripes ....

• Expensive balloons in beautiful colours ( not those horrid foil ones )

• bottles of ink .

• The colours of stained glass the sun throws onto plain church floors .

• Trays of embroidery thread all graded by shade . A draw in the cabinet for each colour .

• Semi precious stones that are lemon yellow , blood red , kingfisher , lime green .

• Coloured foil on Easter eggs .

• Reels of ribbon .

• Unexpected fairy light colours .

• Brush pens in lines of colour that include mint , leaf green , mustard , dark storm blue and cerise . 

I hope it is common for people to revel in such every day joy .

Beat .

We went for a drink with a cousin of mind last night . His ailments are various and the people he disapproves of are many . I think we may excuse ourselves from further joy !

Anyway woke this morning feeling despondent about life and old , very old .

So the saxophonist being the best physician there is said " lets go to London ".

So I put on a new dress and some scent and we went .

Round to the little independent publishers I love . Price had gone up but I bought six gems anyway , across to the artists colourment shop and on to eat chinese at leisure and in the cool .
On to one of my favourite shops .
 Black silky slip dress in the sale and new season soft moss hoodie to sling nonchalant over the top . ( I will wear it with this seasons girlie socks and stacks .)

Out to sit in the shade and sip water .

Along from us was a street performer . A young woman with wild brown hair and a full drum kit . She had speakers and a backing tape . Think drum and base ( a la Jumping Jack Frost .)

Interesting to watch . The men treated her like any other street performer .
The women , though , that was  different .

She was very good ( and technically good the saxophonist said ).

There were two types of women and in each group were old and young , wealthy and not so much .

One group tightened their lips , pulled their cardigans across them and walked away .

The other group ( and very diverse they were ) moved to the rhythm , smiled back at her , clapped and gave her money . In some cases a five pound note .
Stately Japanese lady in a straw hat , blond American , two ladies in saris , two little girls and their mum  with dread locks .

Summer in the city , exuberant and loud wild music that said . " I love drumming and I'm good at it , I love being a woman and I 'm good at it ".

Didn't have to decide which camp I was in just knew I did not feel old any more .

Was that a pigeon ?

The bus swoops down green lanes like a swift .

Its not that swift though as it detours to various villages on the way .
It's been a revelation this temporary bus / train travel .
The conversations you hear .
Plus I  thought the twice weekly trip out of the village to shop was over . I had sort of assumed that people were not so anchored in the village for most of the week as they always used to be . By no means is this true .

We went to see some Eric Ravilious , eat a brunch , buy a few treats in the second hand book shop . A stroll round the market and then onto the sequestered garden .

A maze , scented old roses , some Victorian hot houses and lots of hidden green corners with benches .

We sit on a bench drinking icy , very lemony lemonade .We look at our book finds . I read out a good bit and am stopped in my tracks .

Somebody lets out a loud raucous fart . The saxophonist and I raise our eyebrows at one another in surprise .
Then the saxophonist says " was that a pigeon ?

I reflect that unlikely remarks are not restricted to random bus passengers .