DISCUSSION OR ARGUMENT

 Tottie reporting for the Western Isles Wanderer, but for how much longer, is the question uppermost on the rest of the office staff’s minds. I’ve had a real week of it, not all bad. The boss had me off doing a tour around several producers of gin on the islands. A dream job you would think, and yes my tipple of preference is a G & T, but by the end of a four day tour I was convinced you could make gin out of anything, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear someone was now producing Ye Olde Bootlace Gin in a stunningly beautiful designer bottle. I tried to keep an open mind, but I’m from the juniper generation, when gin was gin and yogurt was natural or nothing.

I never realised how fascinating a family tree could be, and I’ve already discovered an entire branch of the family I had no knowledge of. Unfortunately the boss caught me trawling through the 1905 census and today a written warning landed on my desk. I can’t see the problem as long as I do the work, but then he’s a bully and likes throwing his weight about, of which he has plenty to spare. They don’t call him Wobble bottom Bill for nothing. Last night I dreamt I’d discovered someone drowning on Garry beach. There was frantic splashing going on but it was only a few yards out. When I took a closer look it was old Wobble Bottom himself sinking slowly into the sand, and I just watched as he disappeared beneath the waves. I’m thinking it might be time to move on from WIW, do a bit of free lancing, or maybe try my hand at writing a novel. I’m sure I’ve got a cold coming and should probably take a day off, but I can imagine what Bill would make of that so perhaps I’ll just show up and breath a few of my germs over him.

 

Tom; I’m not sure what the difference is between a heated discussion and an argument is, but I certainly had one of them with Tottie. She’s become one of my very few sources of news from the outside world and this week she was full of excitement at the possibility of Tesco opening on Sundays. “At last we’re moving into the 21^st century”.

I freely admit I probably lost my cool. I understood when the Sunday ferry crossings started particularly for members of families working on the mainland wanting to return home at the weekend, but are we that wedded to supermarkets that we can’t survive a single day without them. They’re open from six in the morning to ten at night, six day a week for God’s sake! I was on a roll and there was no stopping me. I’ve never seen the attraction in shopping although I still prefer my own choice when it comes to fresh fruit and veg. Who am I kidding? Apart from bananas and garlic most of that is pre-packed, so I might as well get it delivered.

Meeting up with Tottie mid-week for a coffee has made a welcome interlude, a wee brush with the outside world, but after today that might require a cooling off period.

She said it was time people were released from the tyranny of Presbyterianism. I knew what she mean, but that’s not what Tesco are talking about, and how long before the Coop follow suit. Not content with losing our village shops; there were at least three in Tolsta before supermarkets arrived, and now we are being made to get rid of everything that makes our island different in the name of progress. It’s not progress, its money. Must we be bowing down to worship at the altar of Tesco.

Typical of Tottie, she had the last word trotting out that well-worn phrase that I’ve come used to hearing from other friend, “We can’t all be like you Tom”, adding “If you had your way they’d be closing the churches on Sundays as well”. Snookered, my only escape was to complain about the price of the coffee that would be costing more than a month’s supply of medium strong, freshly ground, Italian inspired coffee. She came back as quick as a fly to a rotting corpse, “Yes Tom, and you bought that at Tesco”. We sat in an awkward silence looking out across south beach as the ferry came in to dock.

“Anyway this coffee’s rubbish” I resumed trying to move on.

“A bit like this conversation then” she fired back with a large grin.

I held up my hands in mock surrender “OK, you win, Tesco wins, truce. At least out at New Tolsta I will be able to remain oblivious to the delights of progress and the 21^st century. I paid and she returned to the office. The following day I got a text from Tottie, “Off work, got a stinking cold”. “SNAP!” I texted back. The reply was almost instant, sharp as a razor, “Yeah, and I could only have caught it from you, or Tesco, or both”. 😄 For once I was pleased to see that emoji. Having spent the past two days tucked up warm in my studio, the latest needlework of Pabail Pier on the Point peninsula is nearing completion. As usual the pier has taken centre stage and the bay framed by the crofts sweeping down from the village, and out to sea the distinctive shape of Eileen Mor Phabail that ensures we can be nowhere else.   

 

 

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

BIRTHDAY CAKE AND CARLOWAY

 

What goes through that woman’s head, not a lot, or way too much of the wrong thing. Having missed making it out to New Tolsta on the day she then four days later sends a cake out on the bus of all things complaining of a heavy work schedule. That sort of thing could only happen on the islands, a birthday cake delivered to the door, but when I saw the cake I realised why nobody had devoured it on the way.

A shop bought caterpillar chocolate cake, looking like it should carry a government warning, as all foodstuff intended for children warrants these days. And now having looked at the box it actually does carry a warring of sorts for high sugar and saturated fats. The list of ingredients looks like it could compete with the list of casualties on the Titanic. What’s beeswax and carnauba wax doing in cake, and radish concentrate, for God’s sake! Despite that it tasted quite good, but in order to fit into the cake tin I had to have a second slice, not a good move, felt seriously sick for the rest of the evening. Does Tottie want to add diabetes to the rest of my ailments? This morning I put a slice out on the bird table, but the blackbird that keeps an eagle eye on everything I put out took one look at it and flew off.

I had my monthly bloods taken yesterday and a frank conversation about my weight, not that it seem to be going up much now. I referred to my legs and stomach as being fat covered and wondered if this was what women of a certain age had to contend with. I was told they preferred to call it a soft covering, which does sound a much nicer way of putting it, but it’s still fat to me. In the afternoon I had jag in the rear to top up the female hormones for another six months. The old gender issue is getting increasingly confusing for me, and I’m not the only as I was told that in the Stornoway Nicholson Institute there two students who identify as rabbits. Well that’s fine as long as they don’t go breading like rabbits, and don’t come round here because I’ve set snares in my garden but as yet caught nothing.

I must not forget the creative side of my life, for it is that which keeps me sane, or at least that is my perception of things. Last evening I completed a blanket embroidery of Carloway pier. Still a busy place and providing an interesting dual aspect composition. I’ve got another three lined up as subject matter during my time in WA, but there are another dozen or more that require investigation on my return.   

REAL MEN DON'T USE EMOJI.

 

 

TOM. It’s 3.00 pm and I’ve just realised it’s my birthday 71 years old and don’t feel a day over eighty. I dare not look at my emails or Facebook page for fear of what I might find. Why am I suddenly receiving a deluge of messages adorned with those ridiculous yellow sun faced emoji? I don’t know what half of them mean, and on my mobile phone they are way too small to make out anything, other than most of them are yellow and round. The red heart I suppose is obvious, but there’s another thing that looks like a pair of garden shears. It’s used most frequently by a friend who like me is a keen gardener, so maybe she means happy gardening.  I’m getting most of them from women friends, sometimes without a single word of explanation, and Tottie is one of the worst offenders. You would have thought that her being a journalist would mean she would be able to find the correct words to explain herself rather than resorting to a symbolic cartoon language that means nothing to me. Have our lives become so hectic that we no longer have time to put down in words what we mean? Will our ability to express ourselves in the written form become like the hand written letter, a thing of the past? I’ve seen children marvel at the speed with which I write, stopping only to dip the pen back in the ink. The hand eye coordination is extra ordinary, but now I marvel at the dexterity of young people’s thumbs on their smartphone keypad, my own being way to big and arthritic to achieve such accuracy. It gives me great pleasure to see a page full of my handwriting and know that a computer could not understand a word of it. Our daily lives seem full of passwords and security codes. Whatever happen to our beautiful unique signature?

I can at least count my blessing in that Tottie also seems to have forgotten my birthday, but then again why should she remember. We have at last seen the sun with clear skies for the past few days. So good to be able to put the washing out and forget it. Apart from Tottie I’ve had two visitors this week to the garden. The first was a heron that I surprised down in the vegetable garden. I can’t think what it was doing there other than enjoying a bit of shelter behind the beech hedge. As it struggled to make a vertical take-off I was reminded just how large herons are when seen at close quarters. The second visitor was a rabbit that hopped across the gravel in the front of the house and disappeared into the bushes. I’ve seen it again, but it is the first I’ve seen in five years since the dreaded miximatosis was released. I have mixed feelings about their return. A rabbit-free period has meant tree planting has been simple with no guards needed, but today I discovered an ornamental rowan tree I’d grown from seed had been neatly nipped off at ground level. If they are back then I would prefer that they stay down on the machair and do not become regular visitors to my garden. It’s looking like meat might be back on the menu. As for visitors to the studio I don’t expect any more as I’ve put the sign back in the shed, and my mind is taken up with preparing to leave in mid-October. I’ve purchased a small bag with wheels and extending handle that will be my walk on cabin luggage. There will be no other, and in it I hope to pack as much making materials as possible, a change of clothes, slippers, toothbrush and all important medication. I’ve learnt from previous trips to Australia that clothing is not a high priority. I see people struggling with massive suitcases and feel sure that half the stuff they’ve packed will return unused. I somehow can’t see Tottie as a minimalist when it comes to clothes. I don’t think I’ve seen her in the same outfit twice this summer. Having enough variety of embroidery wool is all important to me, and this time I’ve put in a few scraps of blankets to continue my harbour views. I also put a couple of bits of mattress ticking to serve as the background for some wacky birds.

 The drawing of these was achieved with the aid of five years old Eppie, who had the simple task of drawing a squiggle that would start and end in the same place. I then had to turn it into a bird. It surprised me as I rotated the page as to just how little additions were required to achieve this. Both the Toucan and peacock were fine examples and will now go on to become ticking samplers.. 

 TOTTIE. Tom has had a bad week and although he didn’t want to talk about it, it didn’t take long before the full story came out. He’d received details by email to pay back his friend in Australia for his flight to WA. The email was hacked, the details changed and the money subsequently and innocently transferred to a third party. It took the best part of a morning in the bank to sort it out and they admitted it was a very sophisticated scam, but Bank of Scotland came up trumps and the money was refunded. I couldn’t therefore make out why he was still so upset, surely getting the money back was something to be celebrated. He explained that it wasn’t about the money, and that it was the fact that someone had intercepted his emails. He said through tears that it felt like a physical violation far worse than any robbery. I think emails will now be a thing of the past for Tom. Sadly this sort of hazard will continue into the foreseeable future and is only set to get worse with the intervention of AI. I have however discovered that the friend he will be staying with is also a Nadin like me. I wonder why Tom didn’t tell me that earlier when I was delving into my family tree. I must do some more digging, but work keeps getting in the way. The boss caught me researching the family name on line, and followed it up with a little lecture entitled “in your own time Tottie”. I almost forgot it’s his birthday, but I’m not even sure if I should send him a cheery message acknowledging the day, since I know he doesn’t do birthdays. Oh, I can’t just ignore it now I’ve remembered. A few big smiley face should do it.😄😊😀👄

NOT SECRETS AND HOT FLUSHES

 

Tom. I really don’t get it, here’s me being stuffed full of female hormones that gives me hot flushes, and now Tottie tells me she’s been on hormone replacement therapy to combat the hot flushes of menopause. And like most women she always refers to it as going through the menopause, well there’s certainly no going through anything for me, I’m stuck with it for what remains of my life. There really was no point in thinking I could keep my trip down under a secret from Tottie. What makes this Island life so special is that everyone knows everyone. And they also know what you’ve done, are doing or about to do. As soon as she heard I would be going to Australia there was talk of a gathering for dinner to send me off. She has become my most regular visitor throughout the summer, to the point that I can now tell simply by the scrunching of the gravel along the back of the house that it’s her. She has this sort of provocative mincing walk as if she’s never out of high heels and I’m wondering if that’s why they call her Tottie, as she totters along. I can expect a little triple knock and a coo-coo at the studio door, not dissimilar to one of those Black Forrest Cuckoo clocks hitting the hour.

There have been others who have ventured as far as the studio door, and I usually sit tight, continue stitching and listen to the voices as they discuss the £5 entry fee. Thankfully very few decide to risk it. Today was a good example, and the first time I’d bothered with the sign for over a week. Two lots called by, and neither made it inside the door. To be honest if I saw a sign asking for an entry fee I’m not sure I’d bother either, but it has meant that I’ve achieved a lot over the past few months. The running total of visitors now stands at 14, but it has been good recently seeing customers coming back annually as well as one couple from Cornwall who hadn’t been here for nine years, well before the studio was even built. For those who decide that to pay £5 is too steeper a price to view my artwork, even if it is refundable with any purchase, they leave the poorer having no idea what I do. For those who pay up and leave empty handed they have at least had an experience and leave the richer for it, but for those who make a purchase and reclaim their entry fee, I hope they will never regret it. I sometimes wonder how I’ve got by over the past thirty five years as an artist, but somehow I’ve managed with a combination of a frugal lifestyle and luck. There is rarely a day goes by that I don’t create something and the production has been immense. I know some artists who struggle to keep up with demand. Thankfully any demand for my work has remained very much within my bounds of creative production, which has allowed me to keep a considerable amount to adorn the walls of my own house.

Tottie. At last a few days of summer just to remind us what we should have had, but even then it didn’t last. I could hear Tom somewhere in the undergrowth sawing down a New Zealand holly bush, cussing a swearing. Tom doesn’t do politically correct, which is hardly surprising as I think the last TV comedy he saw must have been “Till death us do part”, and his language really is quite colourful at times even when stitching and he’s stabbed himself with a needle or the yarn has managed to knot itself. I coughed loudly but it did nothing to arrest the train of expletives as clouds of dead seed head fluff rose from the trembling bushes. He eventually came out dragging a large bunch of severed branches and gave his customary greeting, “Oh it’s you, I thought I heard a car”. I feel sure one day he’s going to follow that up with a blunt “What do you want?”

He does however always seem pleased to take a break from any strenuous work, ripping his support corset off, saying let’s have a cuppa. This time I got a look in his workshop, and I have to say I’ve never seen such chaos.

It seemed impossible that my beautiful Hebridean chair was created in such a messy space and how he ever manages to produce anything is a miracle, but the new frames he’d made for the harbour needle works are extremely effective with a clever bit of simulated cross grain veneering. He made it sound terribly easy with a red oxide undercoat and a black top coat that he’d simply scratched and smudges with his fingers.

 He seems to have several pieces of stitching on the go, but then he explained that most of those will be completed while in Australia. I don’t think he was going to say a word about OZ, but I’d already hear the rumour. He showed me the tiny bag he’s taking with him. Just cabin luggage, nothing else and that will probably be stuffed with needle work bits. I suppose you don’t need much in the way of clothing and with his hot flushes even less. He gets a bit touchy about those and when I said I was getting hormone replace therapy he said “you want to be careful you don’t end up like Mrs Thatcher and loose the plot.”

 

 

 

      

 

           

A VERY STRANGE SUMMER.

 

 

 

I’ve just had my twelfth visitor of the year and now feel I do merit that rather strange accolade of the least visited attraction in the Western Isles. I’m sure most places have noticed what a wet summer can do for trade, and I have to admit I’ve stopped bothering to put the open sign up even if the sun does show its face, telling myself I’m far too busy to be having interruptions. 

The garden is already looking somewhat autumnal but with some late colour and there is still time for a second spurt of growth, and many of the trees are already showing signs of that. I’m taking the odd day off for a jolly to look at a few more piers and harbours dotted around the island. I drove over to Point which everyone told me was not worth the trip and found it fascinating. I suppose that’s the artist’s eye. Both harbour and light house will provide valuable material as will the pier at Bayble. I’ve also had a Tottie free week, but that doesn’t mean to say she hasn’t been sniffing around when I was out. She said she was doing some delving into her family tree. I’m being careful not to let her know about my trip to Western Australia, and I’m certainly not about to tell her I’ll be staying with my friends Charley and Lara Nadin. I’m sure she’d also be volunteering to house sit while I’m away, thankfully I’ve already got that one covered. 

Tottie. I’ve hardly moved from my computer this week as besides work I’ve been researching my Nadin family tree. Turning up some interesting stuff world wide.

Since Tom told me of his cancer I’ve made it a point of calling in on my way to or from the beach. He’s not always in, but when he is he seems relaxed to the point that rather than stopping to make me a cup of tea he asked me to make him one and bring it out to the studio, while he continues on with his new project. I find it hard to believe Tom has only had thirteen visitors (not counting my own) but then this summer has been exceptional and continues to be so. The accolade of the least visited attraction on the Western Isles has been well earned, and the point was driven home on my most recent visit when I walked straight into a cobweb across the door and a second brushed my face as I wandered around. I know Tom is not one for dusting, but when spiders start to take over one must begin to ask questions. He no longer bothers to put his open sign up and I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t a little depressed. However he seems remarkably cheerful and becomes quite animated when talking about his latest embroideries depicting local harbour scenes. I’m not sure that these explain totally his upbeat mood. Maybe his upcoming London show is giving him a wee boost, I don’t know. 

Anyway that show is certain to be a head turner  as it was back in 2019 when he exhibited them at An Lanntair in Stornoway, but this time these biblical images are being offered for sale. They represent two and a half years of his life, and as he put it the most intense period of embroidery work he has ever done. Even he admits difficulty in imagining just how he produced the body of work. They are remarkable and will be exhibited under the title “The Master Works”. I couldn’t get a price out of him, but it is obvious that one would require deep pockets. It is indeed refreshing to see someone prepared to raise the bar and demand to be correctly paid for such extra ordinary work. For too long has the skill of needle work been unappreciated and undervalued. Looked on as women’s work it is easy to see how this has come about.

        

 

 

 

      

 

           

 

 

 

TOTTIE AND TOM

 

 

Tottie.

I couldn’t resist it, when I saw Tom’s open sign up and a car pull into his drive. I thought it a perfect opportunity to earwig on his sales technique, or rather lack of it. In my opinion it is rarely a good idea for an artist to try and sell their own work, which is better left to the professionals. Having said that if you can’t get a gallery to take your work then there’s not a lot of choice. You could stick some on the walls of a local coffee shop who will rush you a cool 30% commission and have in the main even less idea of how to sell art than the artists themselves. Tourist offices may like the work but will baulk at the price an artist wants, and often ask them to produce something cheaper, like between £10 and £20. The result is more often than not a debasement of their skill down the slippery slope into key rings and fridge magnets. Having said that I quite like fridge magnets and my own is covered with an extra ordinary array, but heaven knows what I’m supposed to do with all the key rings. I’ve been given so many over the years by friends returning from exotic holiday locations, that what was the tea towel draw is now practically full of key rings.

I parked fifty yards up the road and made my way around the back of the house. I must say despite the awful weather Tom’s garden is looking wonderful. No sign of the visitors so they must have gone in, as I approached the studio I could hear voices and the door had been left open, perfect. I remained in the entrance and earwigged. I noticed Tom had covered up the £5 entry sign with an Open Studio brochure so presumed he was waving the fee as a sort of special concession. There were as far as I could tell four people and they sounded genuinely impressed and interested in what they saw, but it didn’t take Tom long to start burbling on about something totally irrelevant to do with flat-pack furniture, wastage of materials and what people chuck out. I don’t think he gave a moment’s thought to the fact that those he was preaching to were quite likely the very people who had a home furnished entirely from IKEA. He then started to explain his method of working in wool which even I found difficult to follow. I felt sorry for him and as I headed back to the car I wonder if I dare suggest perhaps a short course in sales techniques. Not sure how he would take that, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Tom. Fortunately I’ve had few interruptions this week, and even though it was the final week of open studios the two lots who called in had done so purely by chance. I should have left the five pound entry sign visible, but I thought maybe this week I’d get some people genuinely interested in buying something. It wasn’t to be. Interested and appreciative they certainly seemed to be, but even after I’d reinstated the entry fee and a third lot came in they were happy enough to pay for the experience and go away empty handed. I found it extra ordinary that they could not find a single thing that they would want, but then it dawned on me that perhaps people no longer want things, they just want experiences and preferably ones that they can take photographs of. They whip out their mobile phones to snap pictures of my paint pallet or a bunch of wool and only rarely ask before doing so. I made the mistake of going into town this Thursday and discovered another boatload of tourists had landed. The streets were lousy with them pointing their phone and cameras at everything that did or didn’t move, including myself being in tweed jacket and walking with my shepherd’s crook I must have appeared to be that rare form of native islander. Others with zoom lenses snapped at the castle through a gap in the trees, but even photo-shop would have trouble cheering up the grey morning. 

 

I’ve got a new line on the go. It all started when I was looking for some rag to rub off some of the dirty varnish that I used on Tottie’s Hebridean chair. I discovered an old blanket that I’d obviously thought worth saving for something, but with a large rip down the middle it was certainly well beyond use as bedding. It was the weave that took my eye and the fact that it was the least fluffy of blankets. I saw immediately that it would be ideal as a background for stitching. Made in two halves on a narrow loom it had a black band at either end. I’d been reading an article about Alfred Wallis the naïve artist from St Ives, whose work now makes tens of thousands of pound. The poor man would have ended up in a proper’s grave if it hadn’t been for a fellow artist Adrian Stokes, and his work, which at the time was looked on as trash by many was saved from being binned. I’d also been reading the recently published book “A Considerable Town”, all about Stornoway, and I was fascinated by the old pictures of the harbours area and how that had grown over the years. When I looked at the blanket it seemed a perfect support for some black and white, or rather black and cream images. I started playing around with some sketches of south beach, and although I would have liked to include the remains of the old castle, I also wanted to include the old fish market, but by the time that had been built the pier had already been extended over the remains. So, I opted to use Lews Castle by moving it a few hundred yards to the south. With a chunk of blanket stretched I started the embroidery. From the start it felt good and the composition soon came together. It’s not always obvious where and when to stop stitching, how much detail to put in and to what extent I should use other colours. All the wools were Harris Tweed yarn, and I found two tones of grey plus a stony colour for the castle and green for the trees gave the image some depth without overcomplicating it.

 As so often happens with new projects I was keen to press on to a second the moment the first was off the support. For this I turned to an east facing aspect of North Beach harbour and Lassy Corner, which allowed me to include part of Bay Head and the sail lofts. Again the image became crammed with boats, but nothing like the amount that appeared in early photos. During the slow process of stitching I have already formed an entire series of images in my head. It won’t stop at just one blankets worth since I’ve already been given more old blankets with the same flat weave. Nearing completion is a third image of South Beach, which this time does include the last corner of the original castle. Wealth from the herring industry brought many changes and with the castle gone the unique octagonal fish market succeeded as a worthy focal point. That too has gone, but its replacement has little architectural or artistic merit, although I’m sure that won’t stop them being recorded by boat loads of visitors. I can imagine before long, just as happened with Stonehenge the Calanish stone will get worn down by all the added traffic. Security fencing will be erected, payment to be made at the new visitors centre, and we will no longer be able to wander amongst or touch them. Much like my own studio really. Now Tottie would call that going off on one, but I do love a good rant and affectionately call them The Venerable Tom Hickman’s pulpit moments.

 

FREE DELIVERY.

 

 I’ve delivered the chair, thank goodness there was only one flight of stairs up to her flat and I made sure she took the bottom and got most of the weight, while I just did a bit of balancing. In the past I’ve always preferred to carry things myself as often unexperienced help proves more awkward, but these days I’m happy for any help I can get, even Totties. Nice enough flat, quite roomy, but definitely not my sort of décor. She’s not the tidiest of people either, but then who am I to talk. No sooner had we put it down in the place she’d cleared than out with the mobile phone and I had to have my photograph taken, felt a total lemon and can only hope she doesn’t go putting that on line. She’d made scones, or at least she said she had, maybe she’d bought them because they were good, very good. Maybe those terrible sugary things she brought with her last time were just an off day. Maybe she can cook after all.

She wanted to show me what she’d found on line about Tom Hickman the bare knuckle fighter. Well, I’d seen that years ago and often wondered if there was any connection. For a bare knuckle fighter he was surprisingly quite small, which fits along with the cleft chin I could imagine some sort of very distant relative. I’ve always had a thing about hitting anyone in the face, just could not do it. We had boxing at school and I made sure I didn’t get picked to fight, but you can’t hide for ever and the PA teacher had noticed pairing me up one day with my best friend Garry. We danced around tapping each other as the rest of the class jeered, but in the second round Garry got annoyed that I wasn’t really fighting and so he started to hit me, hard. I protected myself the best I could and backed off, but that only made things worse. At the end of the class the teacher asked me why I hadn’t fought. I told him I simply could not hit anyone in the face, it seemed too fragile. That was also the day that I lost Garry’s friendship, he felt I’d made him look foolish.

When, years later I read the obituary of Tom Hickman the bare knuckle fighter it seemed to explain a lot. He’d been out drinking with a friend and on their way back his horse drawn gig had overtaken a farm cart. The wheels had caught and they were overturned killing both him and his friend. It said the cart wheel went over his face, not a feature remained, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Did that go any way towards explaining? It certainly felt very strange.

 

Tottie. The scones were a success, but I think I was a bit quick off the mark getting him to pose for a photograph in his chair. Still it makes and interesting comparison with the early 19^th century Tom Hickman. I’m afraid I didn’t follow his school day memories of boxing as I was still worrying if the scones would pass muster, and that chair is just perfect, and the cushion. He just pulled out a couple of bits of offcut tweed and made the piping as well. That man seems to turn his hand to anything and whatever he touches turns to gold. I think I might need a wee stool if I’m going to take up my harp playing again. Should I ask him or should I buy one. I’ll maybe leave it for now, don’t want to seem too pushy.