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.

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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.