THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHS.

 

Tottie.

I’ll freely admit it was me who suggested that Tom go through all his old cloths. He hasn’t worn most of them for years now and with those extra kilos they no longer fit. I didn’t however suggest that he throw practically all of them in the bin. There were T-shirts dating from the 1980’s and as you would expect the necklines were somewhat fragile, hardly museum items, more like polishing rags. There were three chest of drawers full; tattered pair of 30 inch waist jeans (friends said he was skinny), socks that needed darning, (if one could be bothered), shirts with almost non-existent collars, and underwear, well we won’t go there. He had to admit that most of it he hadn’t worn in years. I gave him two bin liners for the stuff to chuck, and a large yellow and green bag for what he wanted to keep. It only took him ten minutes, and when the two black bags went into the bin he had to admit he felt better for it. Out in the studio he filled the bottom draw of the store cupboard with what he would need for everyday stuff and left the other bag in the hall presumably to put back in the bedroom. I thought nothing of it when the bag disappeared, at least not until he asked me where I’d put it.

“I haven’t touched it, they’re your cloths”.

“Well you must have done because it’s not there now”.

I was just about to give it both barrels when a strange look came over his face, like a sudden revelation that there is a God after all. He rushed outside and round to the bins and then came back looking very dejected.

“Don’t tell me, you put the other bag in the bin as well”.

“Yep, and bin collection was last Tuesday”.

Now of course it’s all my fault for suggesting the clearing out in the first place, and he’s gone into one of his silent modes. According to his brother he used to do that regularly as a child, or as he put it going off in a huff. Well I wish he would just go off. I’m sure there’s still plenty of rose petals out there. This all happened before he was due to go down to London for the opening of his show, and he was just about to add it to the list of reasons as to why he couldn’t attend the opening night. I stopped him right there. “You have a perfectly good tweed suit of your fathers in the wardrobe”. “Yes, but no shirt”, he snivelled. “Well buy a bloody shirt for God sake!”

Tom.

It’s that time of the month, or in Totties case 6 months, and I’m due for another implant. I do wonder if I should bother, the bossy cow’s been giving me such grief recently. I’m thinking seriously of evicting her, she’s become a real pain in the arse. I’m sure it was her who dumped my bag of good cloths on one of her tidying up sprees. It’s a wonder I can find anything these days, but thankfully my workshop has remained out of bounds and any case the disorder is so total that she wouldn’t know where to start.

So, what would happen if I did get rid of her? Would my life return to normal and would I as they say grow a pair. Foregoing those interminable hot flushes, and losing some of her soft covering would be a real bonus. I could actually fit into my clothes again, well that is I could if she hadn’t chucked them all out. I hate this fat faced pudgy look, and everyone saying I look so well. I want to look and feel like me and me alone. Tom, skinny again, complete with wrinkles and creases.

It is indeed fortunate that I have my studio and my work to keep me from walking of the nearest cliff. The end of year exhibition at An Lanntair is increasingly on my mind as summer is over and I’m sure we’ll race through autumn and those ever decreasing daylight hours. I have six doll’s houses to put on show plus three boxed dioramas, and yet still I haven’t come up with a title. Since they will be lit internally and people will have to peer in through the windows, I had thought of calling it Peeping Tom, which drew a shriek of horror from Tottie. The tree house is nearing completion and I’ve been wondering for days just how I’m going to get it out of the workshop. So, today I removed all additional branches and got it as far as the door and no further. Unscrewing one of the limbs allowed me to get it part way through but stuck. I could just imagine Tottie turning up at that point with some useless advice. There was no way back and a good tug saw it finally outside. Getting it into the studio was via the large sliding door, but there still remains the issue of transporting to Stornoway.

 I’ve added a small tin woodshed shack at the base of the tree, and there is still some vegetation to complete the picture. Attention to detail is all important but so is knowing when to stop. Lighting and photography will be a crucial, but I’m looking forward to seeing what the An Lanntair outworkers, Jo and Moira will be doing with the school children over the next three months, as that will be the all-important other half of the show.

GONE PICKING ROSE PETALS.

 

I don’t suppose I’m the only one who finds there are times when I just need to get away; a change of scene, just up sticks and go. I’d been promising myself just that for the past couple of months, and suddenly it seemed like summer might slip by yet again without me taking advantage of living in such a beautiful place. Tottie had been getting on my nerves more than usual, and so I packed food, bedding and art materials into the van, leaving a note on the front door, “Gone picking rose petals”. I had been due to fly down to London for the opening of my exhibition, but had chickened out finding the thought of London simply too terrifying. Exactly where, or for how long I was to be away was anyone’s guess, but that Saturday morning I had indeed been invited to help a friend pick wild rose petals to make jelly. Over on the west coast it started out dull and damp at Bragar, not ideal conditions for the plucking of petals, but by late morning it had already begun to brighten up. After the gathering I headed on up to the Port of Nis to see if I could make sense of its complexities in preparation for another of my piers ports and jetties. I was away for five days in total, and managed to get a mass of information on piers down the west coast of Lewis as well as the South Lochs or Pairc area, and on the final day I headed down to Scalpay. A night spent out beyond Aird Uig at Gallan Head was wonderful. Very few of the communications building remain, but I could well see why they chose such a place. It’s not the most westerly point of the Hebrides, but one certainly gets the feeling of being at the end of somewhere, yet another Finisterre or Penn ar bed.

I kept my phone switched off since I had no charger in the van and would need to conserve the energy for photos. By the end of the five days I had a head, sketchbook and phone full of information, and really did need to get back in order to sort it all out. That evening a friend called round to check I was OK, and it turned out several people had been worried since gone picking rose petals didn’t seem sufficient. Fortunately Tottie kept her cool and didn’t contact the police to report me as missing. Gone AWOL perhaps, but when the need takes me I go, and I might well do it again before the months out. I have to admit the first night was hell. I found a beautiful spot to camp, but the back seat of the van was decidedly uncomfortable. The following evening I added a self-inflating carry mat and that made all the difference. Next time I will take a little longer to prepare my departure and yes I will give a little more in the way of explanation as to where I going and for how long. The preview opening evening was set for Thursday the 7^th and they had done me proud with an excellent on line catalogue. I was delighted to discover they had also sold four pieces before the night.

Tottie. Tom had been impossible over the past fortnight, and when he simply up sticks without a word there was part of me that was quite relieved, even though the ridiculous message stuffed into the front door letter box saying he’d gone picking rose petals did make me wonder if he’d finally tipped over the edge. On the fifth day, without any sign of life, I have to admit I was beginning to get concerned. Just a short text would have sufficed, but during my trip to Western Australia Charley had told me, when Tom took the Landrover he could be gone for weeks before news would filter back from friends that he’d stayed a couple of nights and was now heading further east to Cape Arid. He would eventually return with stories of his adventures and sketchbooks full. And so, when he did eventually return to New Tolsta he was changed, for the better thankfully. He’s plunged back into his stitching, while I’ve had to try and get on top of the garden. The big gale left the veg patch rather flat, and some of the greens that had already suffered with the cabbage root fly, were now almost ripped out of the ground. The trees took a pounding, and the tops are now ragged with a lot less leaves, while a couple of the spruces lost their growing leader completely. However, now with all the fruit picked I have the freezer full, and we certainly won’t need to be buying any jam.

 

BOXING BRIC-A-BRAC.

 

Tottie here again.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation started, or should that be argument. In any event voices were raised. I’d been up since half three trying to get some writing done (these summer nights are glorious, the sun just rolling along below the horizon), when Tom ambled into the studio to make coffee, and then came out with the same old line about nobody being interested in art. Well I’d heard it all before and usually just ignored him, but this time I’d had enough of being used as a sounding board that wasn’t supposed to respond. “Have you put the sign up?” I said knowing full well what the reply would be. His arms flew up in exasperation, “It doesn’t make any difference when I do, and anyway all they want is to park their arses on a pony.”

I decided it was time Tom should hear how ridiculous he sounded, and so discreetly pressed record.

“I just don’t get it.” Don’t get what? “Why anyone wants to sit on a horse.” Have you ever tried it? “Twice, and I came off both times. The first time was by choice, and the second, well I wasn’t the one holding the reins.” We both know this isn’t about horse riding. You seem to take a morbid delight in having so few visitors. “It’s not morbid, it’s a fact.” Well stop wallowing in it. “What do you mean by that?” Well, you make know effort, no publicity, and no public contact or on line presence, how can you expect anyone to even know you exist. And, if they did come, what would they see, the studio looks a mess, a tip with all this junk and retro garbage. Nobody going to look at old milk bottles and rusty chocolate tins. “OK, keep your hair on.”  You could start by smartening yourself up as well. Just because you’ve moved your bed into the studio doesn’t mean you have to wander about in your pajamas all day. “That’s rich coming from you, you’re always in your lounge pants as you call them, and only the other day you were saying they were trendy.” Alright, forget the pajamas, but get rid of the junk. I can hardly move in here. “But, I like the crowded look.” It’s not crowded, it’s crammed, you can hardly move. It’s supposed to be a gallery but there are more pictures on the floor than on the wall. “So what does madam recommend, that I get my mate Banjo in for a makeover?” Definitely not, the last thing you want is more junk cluttering the place, you need a total clear out of everything that isn’t related to your art.

Well that told him, and he stomped off in a huff saying he was going to do some weeding in the garden. I suggested he might try the same thing in here. “I might just do that Tottie, starting with your bloody computer.”  I knew he didn’t mean that, but all the same decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the morning, and keep well away from the topic of junk and disorderly. Now there’s a good name for a tat shop.

The following morning Tom appeared with boxes and started packing. I said nothing. One step at a time I told myself.

Tom.

Totties been on at me again about my retro stuff, and I suppose begrudgingly I have to admit she’s right. There is little point in it cluttering up the place if nobodies coming to even look at it. So today I started packing. I’m not throwing it out, who knows one day it might be worth something, but in the meantime it’s confined to the loft and I have to say the studio looks a lot better for it. I won’t be telling her she was right since it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still only had four people through this year, but at least there’s less under foot, although the way I work I’m not sure how long that will last, the workshop is a real mess and I suppose that should be next on my list to do, however that’s more a case of burning offcuts rather than boxing bric-a-brac.

 

INSPIRE OR EXPIRE?

 

 

Where do I get my inspiration from, is a question I’m often asked. Unlike the writers of Holy Scriptures there is no divine influence at work for me. It comes from so many different sources, and when combined with my own lifetime library of experience and knowledge, pinpointing where exactly that inspiration derives from is seldom obvious. I was asked this very question by a friend who was the first to see my pier and jetty embroideries. I had to think, where had they materialised from, and why now. It was back at the beginning of 2024 when attending a picture sale down in Penzance that I came across an image by Alfred Wallis. A simple but charming depiction of a fishing boat in high seas climbing an enormous wave. I had never really taken much notice of his naïve work, but the hammer price of £60,000, plus 26% commission certainly made me look again. Over the next few months I came across more of Wallis’s works and slowly it dawned on me how well this style of image would transfer into needlework. Other influences came from Bryan Pearce, (also a St Ives artist) as well as the industrial factory scenes of Lowry. When a neighbour asked me if I could use the old blankets he was throwing out I saw immediately an opportunity. Using them as the support gave me a perfect cream background to stitch onto as well as a border strip to place the title. I started first with an early simple woven blanket and then moved on to a twill weave. In both cases it was essential that the blanket was not one of the later fluffy varieties. This also fitted into my method of work using as much reclaimed and natural materials. I have also discovered during wanderings and research places I had never thought to visit.

 Survival on any island is bound to have some relationship with the sea, and so it seemed obvious that the images I would be working with would be that of the fishing industry and harbours. Stornoway became my point of departure on a journey around the long island. I had already visited many of the well-known piers and jetties, but a quick look at the ordinance survey map showed many more. When working on the embroideries of Stornoway harbour I was tempted to step back in time and look for images that dated from before the more recent developments. Car parks are not that interesting, and I wanted to concentrate more on the fishing industry, which meant looking back to the 19^th century when the herring fishing was in full swing. When looking further afield I decided to work from mobile phone snapshots. I took photos from all angles and then back in the studio I started to draw from memory, adding more precision and details from the photos. In every case I started with a bird’s eye view, imagining myself levitating so that Ii could map out the all-important harbour area. Beyond this the townscape of Stornoway provided a structural boarder, and in one image I found myself moving Lews Castle several hundred yards south in order to provide compositional interest. This idea of folding the landscape or coastline was also employed out at Point where this time the lighthouse was moved northwards into view. The images, although distorted retain the essential character of each harbour, whether somewhat abandoned in the case of the tiny jetty at Calannish, or the still busy commercial harbour at Carloway. The ridged geometric forms of the piers and jetties contrast with the rugged coastline beyond and within each image snippets of island life are incorporated. The embroidery is carried out on old blankets, another reuse of materials that fits well into my recycling way of working. It seems to me that everything can have a second life, or rebirth before finally expiring.

I see its been some time since my last post, and they say no news is good news, but I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work. In my case no news means I’m way too busy to communicate, and so over the past month I’ve been nose to the grind stone, finishing off my latest needle works. I have ten going on show this summer down in London and have been thinking it might be a good opportunity to try out the cheaper flights to Inverness and then onward down to London. I tried discussing the idea with Tottie, but she’s way too busy with her book. She let me read the first chapter, which was a big mistake on both sides. I admit my comment about it being a bit slow was somewhat tacked less, but I do think she’d be better sticking to short stories. I suggested I could illustrate them for her, but the look she gave me was enough, no words needed. So, a little time away would seem like a good idea. I have at last got all the peats up on the top side of the bank and despite us have quite a bit of rain they should be drying well and ready to come in by the end of the month.

 The December exhibition at An Lanntair is progressing well and the miniature library has worked well. I’m now in the process of creating a miniature tree house, which might be a bit of a challenge getting it out of the work shop. Chaos is my usual way of working, but I really could do with a larger space for this particular project.

On the studio opening side it looks like last year’s least visited attraction award was well founded. I had my third visitor of the year this week.   

        

 

MARRIAGE OR MURDER.

 

17^th April. Peat cutting with Tottie.

Tom.

Considering it was such a beautiful afternoon I thought I’d ask Tottie to join me out on the moor for a spot of peat cutting. I fully expected her to say she was far too busy with her novel, but no she jumped at the chance to get out of the studio. Maybe inspiration wasn’t flowing, or being inside on such a perfect day had dried up the creative juices.

The top section of the bank had already been cleared of turf so we got straight into cutting. That was me up top cutting and Tottie down at the peat face throwing. Turned out she was natural, you would have thought she’d been throwing since childhood. I would never have thought it, but she was like a duck to water, and no gloves. I didn’t like to say anything, but she’ll be needing some hand cream tonight. She was hurling them out as quick as I could cut them, and although I deliberately kept them a bit on the slim side I was soon cutting normal sized peat with a few stonkers to see what would happen. She seemed to rise to the challenge, and away they went a good three meters or more landing perfectly alongside the previous ones. We cut and threw 260, my usual being 200, but during that time I only heard once that familiar flop of one peat landing on another, her accuracy was that of an expert. I may yet have to marry her, you wouldn’t want to let a peat thrower of that quality slip through your hands. As usual she had her phone with her and took one of me looking suitably knackered, but when I suggested I should take one of her she refused point blank. “Not without my face on”. I’ll never understand women who need to put their war paint on every day. At least with Tottie it’s not an everyday occurrence, and I prefer the honesty of the natural look.

Tottie.

Tom invited me to join him in a spot of peat cutting this afternoon. He certainly knows the way to a woman heart, such a romantic, how could I resist. There was no instructions from him, but the lack of criticism seem to suggest I was doing a reasonable job. I rarely hear any compliments from Tom, so after half an hour, when he said “that’s a brilliant job” I nearly lost my footing in the slimy base of the trench. I must say I rather took to it and I soon found that if I kept my eye on the place I wanted the peat to land it more often than not hit the spot. I could have kept going a lot longer, but Tom tires easily these days. Maybe next time he’ll let me have a go at cutting, although I hear that’s a job usually done by the men. Well I suppose that figures, it does look a lot easier than throwing. I’ve always thought we were the stronger of the sexes, but just how we allowed ourselves to become the work horses of men evades me.

 

April 20^th

Tom. That bloody woman, she’ll be the death of me. Invades my body, literally takes it over at times. She’s changed the shape of it entirely. There’s definitely a lot more of me, and practically all of it is fat. How do women exist in such a form? We all know about the bingo wings, but what’s the stuff on the inside of your legs for. Just as well it’s soft and smooth, for if it was sand paper I’d be sparking at every step. Allowing her out on the moor was a big mistake, although at the time it felt so good to see those peats flying through the air. It didn’t dawn on me that it would be me who had to pay. It’s been four days now and I still feel like there’s a knife about to cut me in two, and then just when I least expect it, it does just that, felling me as my legs crumple. So, now any notion of marriage is out the window, and murder would seem more likely. My days have been spent either in bed or sitting stitching, and even that has proved tricky. So, I’m glad I decided to move a bed into the studio, it seemed the only solution and what better final resting place. Getting in fuel for the little stove is still a nightmare. I will have to fabricate something on wheels, but for now small quantities in a bag for life is working. Stitching has slowed down, however I am making progress with the latest of Rodel. I wanted to include the church, and in doing so have produced something that looks more akin to a walled Buddhist monastery in Himalayas than a church on Harris.

 The harbour walls are of stone and that has meant a more random stitching and varying colours from the seaweed fringe to the sun-bleached silver granite. There’s a long way to go yet but having already framed up ten works I feel there is enough for an exhibition this summer. I would have liked them to have been seen on the island, but I fear that won’t be possible as they are due to go south at the end of May. The December exhibition at An Lanntair is ever present in my mind and to that end the second Victorian dolls house is reaching completion. There are days when I exist only in miniature, and night when dreams seem to have slipped sideways into a bazar Alice in wonderland kind of reality that is further enhanced by the return of a heavy head cold.  

 

               

 

 

 

 

         

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

LIVING WITH TOTTIE.

 Tom

Tom.

I suppose it’s only to be expected, that every time I have a booster implant of female hormones she seems to push her way to the forefront of my consciousness. I hadn’t heard from her for a couple of months and it seemed that perhaps I had left her back on a beach in Western Australia. I could well see how that climate would suit her, and while I remained cool and calm drinking in all the emotions of the familiar revisited, she was constantly telling me to look at this plant or that bird. I understood her excitement of hearing a kookaburra for the first time and her delight at the chorus of magpies that came to the back door each morning and sang for their porridge oats. She must have taken thousands of photos, while I found solitude in my sketchbook.  Leaving was way beyond difficult and I don’t think I was much of company as I retreated into a protective shell of silence. I’m sure I’m not the only one who is crap at goodbyes. Arriving back in the UK at the end of January was like being hit in the belly with a wet fish, but once again it was the constancy of my work that saved me. I had in my little bag three needle works that required stretching and framing and a fourth well on the way to completion. They are all destined along with others for another London show this summer. The latest series of piers and ports of Lewis are I think some of my best work to summer. The latest series of piers and ports of Lewis are I think some of my best work to date, and there are days when I think I could even be considered to be an artist.

.

Late February was kind and for once the magnolias flowers in my brother’s garden remained unblemished, the purest of white against clear heavenly blue skies.

In early March the drive north started crisp and dry, the van already half full with stuff and another doll’s house project collected en-route. As if I didn’t have enough projects this year. When finally I opened my front door it felt cold and damp, and it took a good week of the Rayburn being lit before things started to feel normal.  

   No sooner had I arrive back than the gallery in London were asking if I could construct a bespoke box for the £2000 tea cosy they had sold. I’m not sure if this is some sort of record for a tea cosy, but it must certainly be a record for a cosy made from recycled Harris Tweed yarn. It just goes to show that if you put in the hours, and push the limits of accepted expectations, then anything is possible. The weather has been glorious and by rights I should have finished peat cutting, but it is clear I will once again need to call on friends for a helping hand. Tottie refused point blank when I suggested she might enjoy a few hours out on the moor, couldn’t risk ruining those beautifully manicured nails. Shame, since I think like most women she would have been really good at throwing peats. She seems to expend her creative energy in writing, although how she can do that while listening to Celine Dion I can’t imagine. The diva it transpired has to be played at full volume. Fortunately my stitching doesn’t require total silence. Gardening has been a delight and the recent fine spell has meant contented days of pottering around, while Celine is well and truly muffled by the double glazing of the studio. Living with Tottie has been somewhat of a challenge. You see that’s the thing with Tottie there are no half measures. When she left for Australia she gave up renting her flat and now thinks it’s just fine to shack up with muggins, in the same bed for God’s sake! Talk about hot flushes. She really isn’t much good around the house either, although she has made a great effort in the bathroom and religiously removes all her stuff after she’s been in there titivating. I suppose it’s so small there really is no place for all those lotions and potions. Tottie is not what you’d call a practical person and the best she can do is stay out of my way.

 

Tottie.

 I can’t believe this weather. Here was me ready to be plunged into dull wet days on my return, and for the past couple of weeks it’s been clear blue skies. I thought that might have put Tom in a better mood, but he’s so touchy and argumentative. I suppose I should be grateful for roof over my head, but then he can hardly chuck me out. We did however agreed that at bedtime a truce of any hostilities would be declared, but now he’s installed a single bed out in the studio. Says it’s in case he feels tired during the day, but he’s sleeping out there! And just what sort of a truce is that? I’ve started a series of short stories, and I have an idea for a novel with a certain element of magic realism. For now though I thought you might enjoy this non PC shorty, which incidentally has nothing to do with Tom’s recent increase in girth.

                 THE FAT MAN.

All eyes were on the fat man. His rotund form had long ago ballooned both above and below the waste, totally enveloping the hand crafted leather belt, and leaving the mountainous gut marooned above the lower foot-hills of rolling thighs. This was serious obesity on a scale that fully merited the "fat bastard" label that was passing through the minds of the passengers waiting for the Jetstar flight number JQ803 for Sydney. The Fraser Coast and Hervey Bay in particular had a lower than average obesity problem, which only served in highlighting this particular wobble bottom lard arse. The massive bulk lumbered across the waiting area struggling with his seemingly disproportionate hand luggage case on wheels that swung out of control like a deflated spinnaker alongside the full wind-blown sails. His stumpy arms rode out at an angle of forty five degrees over the burgeoning rolls of fat, dangerously over inflated and just waiting for that mischievous child with a pin.

  The second thought that crossed the passenger’s minds was, "Jesus I hope he's not sitting next to me". The great bulk had now dropped onto the end of a row of upholstered bench seats. The fat arse spilling out in all directions confined only slightly by the single arm rest that now disappeared into the folds of fat. Several of the passengers had realised they now shared a common point of focus and they exchanged looks of understanding comrades. There was no sympathy here for the oversized, no understanding of a possible glandular problem, and no pity for a fat man. Nobody wanted to be wedged in their seat by an overspill of blubber, clamped by a rubber rissole or squashed in any way by this elephantine form. Other passengers fumbled with their boarding passes, checking their seat numbers, as if there they might find some sort of comfort or reassurance. That, just maybe they would find some special stamp indicating that they were indeed seated well out of the way of any supersized barely human forms. The fat man's colossal blue cotton shirt was stretched way beyond the call of the manufactures specifications as buttons and stitching alike strained under the immense force of constricted fatty tissue.

   Then out of the mouth of babes, the spider limbed blue eyed princess of a child turned to her mother saying, "Mummy look at that fat man". All eyes including that of the mother now transferred their attention to this girl who dared to utter such a politically incorrect statement. There were looks of hypocritical disapproval as well as smirks of mutual unvoiced self-recognition. Now nobody dared to stare at the fat man. Their eyes became fixed with exaggerated intent on reading their magazine, their papers or the list of today’s specials on the chalk-board above the buffet shop counter. They desperately hoped that the flight would not be fully booked and tried in vain to estimate their numbers in relation to the size of the seemingly too smaller craft that sat waiting for them on the tarmac. Perhaps with luck this hippo of a man would be allocated a full three seats between window and isle for surely two economy seats would not be sufficient.

   The plane was now refuelled and ready for boarding. No need to repeat the announcement as all the passengers on hearing their flight number rose as one leaving the fat man still glued to his seat. All seemed intent on boarding before the great bulk as if this in itself would be enough to ensure a safe non wedged seat. The fat man gave a sigh and looked to the floor in defeat. He would await his rightful place, last to board thought the other passengers.

   Not so. The fat man placed one pudgy hand on each knee and pushed himself into a more or less vertical stance. Then taking grip of his hand luggage he ambled towards the check in desk ignoring all the fellow passengers standing in line. Faces turned hostile and disapproving. Who did he think he was, this lard arse trying to queue jump? What does he think he’s doing ignoring us all as if he owns the place? The stewardess would sort him out soon enough, put him in his place, and make him wait at the back while she catered for the seating arrangements of the slimmer customers.

   The fat man was now at the desk and in one easy movement swung his hand luggage onto the counter.

"Good morning Carol", his surprisingly cheery voice boomed from way down in his cider barrel of a chest.

"Full quotas for the Sydney run this morning".

"Yes Sir", replied the pinch faced and over powdered stewardess.

The fat man was unzipping his luggage and the queue was getting more hostile as they shuffled forwards as if to prevent any possible chance of the fat man pushing in before them. He could wait his turn. His rightful place was at the back.

    He pulled out a jacket from his small black zippered bag and at first the gold braid was not apparent, but as he slipped one arm in and Carol proceeded to help him with the other the epaulets became visible to all. Then from his bag he produced his cap a disproportionately small topping to this vast hayloft of a man. He turned to the queue of staring faces and with a large grin and the slightest of bows forward that remained muffed within his bulk, he introduced himself. "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, Captain Willkie, your pilot for this morning’s flight". 

               

 

 

 

 

         

 

      

 

           

 

 

 UP-CYCLING OR DOWN-CYCLING?

That is the question, whether it is sufficient simply to paint it off white, and pretend that you’ve transformed your grandmother’s old sewing table into a sheik bedside lamp table, or whether one would do better to lavish a little TLC on it and continue to use it for what it was intended. Banjo Beale in his book Wild Isle Style quoted me as cheekily reversing the sense of up to down cycling, but I was serious, deadly serious. I have seen some horrors in my time, and sometimes the sad looking items of furniture are pleading with me to rescue them. We used to term these pieces hospital jobs in the antique trade, since the time taken to bring them back to their former glory far outweighed any monetary recompense. One such piece was a rare late 17^th century oak chest of drawers, which had been painted pink, covering the original English chinoiserie lacquer. It took many hours of patient scraping to restore it to its former glory, and for many years it stood in my studio on a high stand and appeared in many of my early paintings. Today it sits lower on bun feet, gracing the back wall of my parlour.

A couple of weeks ago I found this child chair in Bethesda charity shop in Stornoway. It had the look, but, oh dear, what indignities had been lavished on it in the name of up cycling. The ubiquitous coat of pink paint along with over stuffed seat and back, with a totally inappropriate chequered gingham cotton had transformed it into a sad sack that would now, even with a price tag of £2 be very unlikely to find a buyer. But then it caught site of me and knew that all was not lost. Here was a man who could see its potential and would be prepared to give it a new lease of life.

I can only imagine that it was the person’s first encounter with a staple gun, since they had gone totally berserk with the new toy. There were literally hundreds of staples and it took way longer than I had envisaged to remove them.

 The end result was a cane back child’s chair from around 1900. The caning had long since gone, but I had another idea for that. I reupholstered the seat with a piece of my own tweed, making sure to leave the original show wood, and on the back using the original cane holes I wove in four ply wool. This I consider to be up cycling in the true sense.

 Another example was a couple of bedroom chairs I rescued from a local house. One had been chucked out into the garden because it had a major infestation of wood worm in the back. Unlike the supermarket bargains of buy one and get one free, I was about to get two and make one.

 The front legs of both chairs were in good condition and so I decided to transform them into an upholstered stool. Once again I used my own tweed, adding a cluster of five buttons to ensure the stuffing stayed in place.