April 23, 2014

Yarn Adventure and maybe some ranting


Fiona and I had a Yarn Adventure today.  And about time too:  we haven’t seen each other since November.  Life:  what a ratbag.

Admittedly there is usually a high gremlin count when Fiona and I get together but today they weren’t half trying.  We were going to set off at two, which in our case usually means before 2:30, well, maybe, if we’re lucky.  Fiona usually texts me as she leaves the house*.

No text.  Well, whatever, and we got on with hurtling and then with feeding me**.

Still no text.  Prepare to feed critters, since I was going to put it down as I left.  Sometimes this intrigues hellhounds sufficiently to stimulate them to eat.

Still no text.

Dither.  Feed critters.***

Okay, now I’m worried.  I have checked Pooka several times.  Nothing.

I’ve hung the laundry and washed all the lunch dishes† which is of course nicer to come home to but WHERE IS FIONA?

Pooka barks, and I make a slightly dish-soapy dive for her.  I have the feeling my texts aren’t getting through, says Fiona’s voice.  I HAVEN’T HEARD ANYTHING FROM YOU SINCE LAST NIGHT TILL THIS PHONE CALL.

Well, I’ll be there in three minutes, she said.  And as she rang off, Pooka chirruped and SEVEN MESSAGES POPPED THROUGH.  ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH.

The day improved from there however.  Our chosen yarn shop was having a MOVING TO NEW PREMISES sale and . . .

Fiona, as we know, has a slight Sock Yarn problem.

Fiona, as we know, has a slight Sock Yarn problem.

My problems are perhaps more general.

My problems are perhaps more general.

I’ve been wanting FEARLESS KNITTING for yonks but, you know, it persists in being full price.  The dark auburn yarn is Debbie Bliss Winter Garden which I have also wanted for yonks but it’s too frelling expensive, and the green and gold down front is Louisa Harding Grace Hand Beaded which etc.  And the other stuff is just . . . um . . . shiny?  And when a pattern book only costs £2 you only need to like one pattern in it. . . .

* * *

* This text will read ‘I’m running a little late because . . .’  Mind you, if she’s not running late, I’m in deep trouble.^  Today’s non-arriving text however informed me that her car had broken down and she was negotiating to borrow her parents’.

^ The hellhounds would like this.  It might mean I didn’t have time to FEED them before I left.  The hellterror, of course, would chew her way through the front door and come after me if I tried any such thing but I wouldn’t DARE.  Also feeding the hellterror is easy.  Open nearest tin, throw contents in general hellterror direction, add a handful of kibble if you’re feeling persnickety, and don’t stand too close or she’ll eat the toes off your shoes.  The hellhounds . . . it starts with cutting up the chicken scraps SMALL ENOUGH that Chaos, in particular, who has prehensile lips, can’t just hoover up the chicken, and you need to stir the kibble in really well because any that has not been touched by the magic chicken-stock wand will be instantly rejected as dry and tasteless and beneath delicate hellhound dignity.

Unfortunately for them, however, I had allowed time for the careful creation of appropriate hellhound comestibles.  It didn’t work though.  They still didn’t eat it.+  That look in Chaos’ eyes says:  if you didn’t mix it in so well I’d’ve at least eaten the chicken.

+ Do I have to bother to tell you that the hellterror ate hers?  No?  I didn’t think so.

** Moans of protest from the hellterror who is, furthermore, sitting on my feet, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten her.  YOU JUST ATE BREAKFAST TWO HOURS AGO.  YOU ARE NOT STARVING.  Also, sitting on my feet is counterproductive.  You are heavy.  You are obviously getting plenty to eat.^

^ I was out hurtling hellhounds recently.+   People frequently stop us to be goopy over them.  Mostly their admirers stick to telling me how beautiful they are, but occasionally someone wants to find it funny that we’re all skinny and leggy.  Hellhounds are also now quite grey in the face so we’re all skinny, leggy and old.  But some dork came up to us the other day and was in grave danger of rupturing himself over the sheer hilarity of owners who look like their dogs.++  I stared him in the eye.  I have a bull terrier at home, I said.  I did not mention the ‘mini’ part.  He stopped laughing and edged away prudently.

+ In my life I can always say I was out hurtling hellhounds recently.  And hellterror.

++ I wondered what his frelling problem is.  I have no idea, of course, but he was a big flashy maybe forty-ish dork, and looked a bit like someone who was maybe rolling into midlife crisis and in a mood to be snarky about some post-menopausal hag who is refusing to stay home with her TV and her memories but is out cluttering up the pavement wearing jeans, All Stars and long hair, and walking her dogs like she thinks she still has a purpose in life.  I don’t like big flashy forty-ish dorks who think looming over me and being scornful is a fun thing to do.#

# Speaking of testosterone poisoning, yesterday I was creeping up the hill to the mews in Wolfgang, which little journey is another of those absolutes in my life, going at 30 mph which happens to be the speed limit.  And I was passed by five motorcycles.  FIVE.  Streaking past, whing whing whing whing whing.  What the what the what the I can’t even.  And there is all this bushwa about how cars are supposed to be careful of motorcycles.  I don’t know if this is nationwide or just around here, but there are posters all over the landscape saying THINK BIKE.  How about if BIKERS think at all?  I’ve been a motorcyclist, as long-term readers of this blog know, and it is absolutely true that people driving cars can be amazingly stupid and dangerous about bikers and this is a large part of the reason I stopped driving a bike while I still had all my body parts intact . . . but the frelling majority of the motorcycle accidents around here are caused by male bikers being assholes:  yesterday at least I was only going 30.  Being passed by some dinglenut on a 60 mph road that is only just two lanes wide with hedgerows on either side . . . going around a curve?  Yes.  I have.

*** Ecstasy of the Hellterror.

† Except, of course, hellhound bowls, since they haven’t eaten anything.

The day after


I’m a little . . . slow today.  I almost never drink alcohol any more which means that when I do, um, the earth moves.  So to speak.  And I had three glasses of champagne last night:  my LIMIT is two.  Well it wasn’t my fault.  Peter barely drinks any more either, so we asked for one glass of champagne and one empty glass, in which we would decant a few mouthfuls so that he could toast me*.  They brought us two glasses of champagne and then made Peter’s complimentary when we explained they’d made a mistake.  Well I couldn’t waste it, could I?  The problem being that it was already there, and later on, when they came around and asked me if I wanted a second glass . . . the answer had to be yes, didn’t it?

This is why taxis were invented.  It’s also why we only go out seriously about twice a year.

I realised the enormity of my peril tottering out to the taxi, which involves stairs down from the restaurant door.**   So hellhounds got a rather brisker and more elaborate final hurtle than usual and I drank a double potful of peppermint tea.  And I don’t have anything tacky and vulgar like a headache today but I am . . . a little slow.  Although I nearly survived a touch of Stedman Triples on the two this afternoon.  <geekspeak alert>  I assumed we’d ring a plain course since I am even less safe on the two than the treble, and then frelling Frelling called a bob and I got through it and someone else went wrong.  Fine, I thought, it’s Sunday service, if we try again this time it will be a plain course.  NO.  WRONG.  And I got through two frelling affected bobs this time before . . . I came unglued making the bob and forgot to go in slow.  RATBAGS.  I ALMOST DID IT.  But even almost, when you’re talking about a touch of Stedman Triples for service and especially the day after your birthday when you’re feeling a little slow . . . is worth celebrating.

Or that’s my version.

 * * *

* Only toasts in champagne really count.  Even a good red wine is not an acceptable substitute^.  Anything but champagne is like ringing a false quarter [peal]^^.  Even if the method was flawlessly called and struck for the entire duration it doesn’t count and you don’t get to send it in to be published in THE RINGING WORLD.

^ Peter’s thing is big fat leathery Rhone wines, and when I still drank enough ever to be willing to waste a few alcoholic tokens on anything that wasn’t champagne I liked it too.

^^ You can ring a false peal but that doesn’t bear thinking about.  A quarter is only forty five minutes or thereabouts which I think is quite long enough AND I WANT IT TO COUNT.  A peal is three hours, frequently plus,+ and three-plus hours of intense concentration, not to mention the standing up and yanking on a rope part, and it doesn’t COUNT?  I would totally take up bungie jumping after a disaster like that.

+ I’ve said this before:  I don’t plan ever to attempt to ring a full peal:  I haven’t got the stamina.  Fortunately I don’t even want to.  It’s funny though, one woman’s manifestation of madness is another woman’s achievement and satisfaction.  I imagine there are a lot of peal ringers out there who would consider Street Pastoring a completely bonkers way of ruining your circadian rhythm.#

# The perils, speaking of perils, of being a Christian.  I’ve also told you that at St Margaret’s evening service, communion is passed around.  The priest starts the basket and the goblet at one end of the front row, and then that person turns and offers it to the next person, and so on.  But you break the bread for and offer the goblet to your neighbour, and you say a few words—these tend to vary but I think everyone says something—as you do it.   I don’t actually like this system;  communion is SERIOUS~ and I want a professional in charge, not us kittle cattle.  But the saying of a few words as you pass the wine is somewhat dependent on the bread having NOT instantly adhered to the roof of your mouth with a superglue-like tenacity.

Tonight it barnacled on like it was going for the Olympic gold in attachment.

Fortunately you’re not expected to mumble your words very loudly and of course I have a funny accent.

~ Although at least us Anglicans don’t have to believe in transubstantiation.  Brrrrrrrr.

~~ Although there may be something in the trans-something theory because I have noticed that all bread used for the Eucharist takes on an uncanny genius for cleaving valiantly to the roof of your mouth—the Wonder bread squares of my generic Protestant childhood, the standard tasteless church wafers and the somewhat variable productions of St Margaret’s.  I’m sure there’s an important theological point here.

**  Aggravated by the ninety-seven yards of skirt on my dress and the fact that my lady shoes did, in fact, have teeny-weeny heels, although everything has heels if you wear All Stars all the rest of your life.

The dress with the extreme skirt is my favourite dress in the universe and I haven’t worn it in two years because . . . the moths got it.  I won’t use standard laboratory-made toxic chemicals for anything if I can help it, partly for green reasons, partly because of the ME, and cedar oil does work against moths but you have to keep topping it up, and there are no balls in my life that I don’t take my eye off some time, and this includes the generously reapplying cedar oil to the animal fibres in the cottage attic ball.  It’s still my favourite dress, however, even with moth holes, and I finally thought FRELL it, it’s pretty dim in the restaurant and if we pay the bill who cares if the old dame’s dress had moth holes?  Very Ms. Havisham.    So I wore it.  And I was thinking, next time, Doc Martens and then it becomes a look, especially with my getting-on-toward-disintegration black leather jacket.  I’ll have a thoughtful stare at my All Stars shelves but I think for this purpose I need proper stomping boots.  I have some flowered Docs that I think might do the trick. . . .

The Tourmaline Ring


So it’s twenty and a half years ago.  Peter and I have decided to get married.*  All the important stuff has already been decided, like that I’m going to emigrate.**  But that means we have to get married:  the fiancée’s visa only lasts for six months.  That’s not a problem:  we’re both old-fashioned:  we want to get married, and I’m the kind of old-fashioned that furthermore wants a proper ring to go with the deal.  Hey.  I like jewellery

            I’d originally assumed we’d find one suitably old and hoary and glamorous and possibly mad in an antique shop somewhere for an engagement ring;  wedding rings to be practical need to be plain and could be dealt with separately when we knew what the flashy one looked like.  We spent some time in this pursuit*** but we were finding nothing nearly unique and fabulous enough, I had to finish DEERSKIN and we wanted to get on with the moving and the new life and so on. 

            I can’t now remember who recommended this jewellery designer to us.  But we went to see him and explained we wanted something definitively Maine for me to wear in England.  He suggested Maine tourmalines—I think I didn’t know about Maine tourmalines at that point—and we eventually agreed that he’d design and make not only an engagement ring with the tourmalines, but wedding rings that would all fit together as part of the same design.  Peter felt this was mostly my show† and I did try to tell the bloke the sort of thing I liked:  flowing lines, mainly, swirly or woven or floral.  Maybe sort of art nouveau.  I liked the stuff in his shop.  And I liked the idea of the Maine designer working with the Maine tourmalines.

            We went back to see the stones when they arrived.  I don’t know if the designer bloke asked for triangular, or if that was what he could get.  Okay.  This would make it unusual.  And pink and green are excellent.

            We never saw any designs.  We saw the rings themselves when they’d already been cast (if cast is what I mean) and although they weren’t finished yet it wasn’t like we could go backward and say, uh, no, I meant Charles Rennie Macintosh, not Cecil Balmond.††   The wedding rings had these little hooks in the middle like the two ends of a twist tie bent together—and with the squared-off ends sticking out up and down your finger.  Can you say CATCHES THE FRELL ON EVERYTHING?  My tourmaline engagement ring fit down over the top ensnaring bend of my wedding ring, but that still left the sharp bottom edge to cause havoc and mayhem.  They were certainly . . . different.  But they were not sensible, and while many of the details of that whole era of the beginning of my life with Peter are blurry with exhilaration and terror, I do remember Peter telling the bloke that he works with his hands a lot, he spends hours every day in the garden, doing carpentry and cooking and he needs a ring that won’t get in the way.

            The man smiled and nodded.  These creative types.  They’re so in their own little world.†††

            But part of the swoop and breathtakingness of a runaway romance like ours is that you do kind of want it to glide as far as it can before it founders on some ineluctable aspect of ratbagging reality.  The wife in the attic.  The outstanding warrant.  The gerbil fetish.  The chocolate addiction . . .  And I don’t think the designer bloke was cheating us in any overt way:  I think we paid an honest amount for his time and his materials.  He just didn’t listen. 

            Almost the first thing we did after the wedding was over was . . . run to the nearest ordinary jeweller and buy two utterly plain smooth gold rings and wear them.  The barbed designer versions came out for fancy occasions and the rest of the time lived in my jewellery drawer.  Sigh.  This had not been the plan . . . and while the plain gold ones worked fine as wedding rings‡ I was rather wistful about my Maine tourmalines wasting their glory in a drawer.

            I think it was around our tenth anniversary that Peter said, for our twentieth, we’ll have the tourmalines reset.

            So that’s what we did.  And this time we went to a jeweller we’ve been going to for . . . twenty years.  He listens.  He made my fabulous silver whippet belt buckle.‡‡  And we saw designs.  We saw several designs.  I wanted my new ring to look like it fit next to the plaited-gold-with-tiny-diamond-chips ring that was my fiftieth birthday present‡‡‡ and which I now wear as my wedding ring.  And it does, doesn’t it?

            This time it worked. 


Mmmmmm. ::Beams::

* * *

* And our friends and family are all going, what?  Well, it was a somewhat precipitate decision.  We’d known each other maybe sixty hours in total.^   

^ I’ve told you how we met, haven’t I?  I was on a Literary Tour of England and he was one of the speakers. 

** Somebody had to.  Peter originally suggested we divide our time, but I knew—and I’m sure I was right—we’d both hate it.  And Peter had lived in this area of Hampshire over forty years at that point, had four kids, the first two grandchildren, three brothers and their families, eight first cousins and . . . I had a whippet, and a background as a peripatetic military brat. 

*** This was the occasion of one of our most important Bonding Moments.  THELMA AND LOUISE had been bigger than god, Spacelab and Boris Yeltzin for months, and it was playing at a theatre in Portland, Maine, where we’d gone to cruise antique jewellery shops.  I’ve told you this too, haven’t I?  We walked out.  We walked right after the dumb one spends the night with Brad Pitt the robber on the lam AND THE MONEY IN THE FRELLING DRAWER while the smart (!!?!??) one goes off to have a deep, sensitive evening with her supportive boyfriend.  

† He’s got a much better eye for jewellery than he thinks he does—see:  silver whippet belt buckle, below—but it’s true that this was my Big Symbolic Thing about leaving Maine to live in England with him. 

†† http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-14027083   Okay, I don’t know what Balmond was doing twenty years ago.  Designing engagement rings, possibly. 

††† I do wonder if Designer Bloke already had this idea in his mind and he wanted to use it, whether the triangular stones inspired it, or what.  But he sure wasn’t too interested in the interface with his clients. 

‡ Anybody aware of the standard behaviour about such things of English gentlemen of Peter’s vintage will be gobsmacked that Peter wears a wedding ring at all.  Well.  Yes.  I don’t think it ever occurred to me that he wouldn’t—I wanted us both to wear them—and that’s what happened.  It wasn’t till later that I realised that Peter was humouring me about this too.^

            ^ I tell myself that if I have to choose I’d rather he wore a wedding ring than remembered to shut the door behind him.+  I perhaps tell myself this rather often.  But romance over practicality?  Sure.  Why do I have sixty rose-bushes in a garden the size of a large ping-pong table? 

+ This includes refrigerator doors.  Just by the way.

 ‡‡ I hope I’ve told you this story.  I told Peter I wanted something significant and wearable for my fortieth birthday. 

‡‡‡ Also bought in Maine.  Hmm.  My sixtieth is next year . . .

Skiving off*


They sang COLD HAILY WINDY NIGHT.  Steeleye Span, that is.  Tonight.  At the concert Fiona got me by the hair, forced** me into her car as I moaned feebly:  I have to work!  I have to work!***, and made me come to with her.†  I could be happy just looking at Maddy Prior’s clothing. ††

            I had brought my leg warmers.  That is, I brought a remarkably-crinkly-at-one-end skein of bitchy, tantrum-prone††† yarn, a pair of needles‡, and an increasingly battered-looking pattern, including the crib sheet Fiona wrote out for me MONTHS ago.  We had allowed lots of time to get lost in which we then didn’t need‡‡ so I had a good half hour to get started again.‡‡‡  Aaaaugh.  CountingAaaaaugh.  And Fiona would keep trying to talk to me.  What do you think this is, a social occasion?  Just because she can knit an incredibly frelling complicated frelling sock pattern on forty-seven double-ended needles and look around at the crowd and chat to her neighbour, who is laboriously going, one, two, three, purl, one, two, three, knit, DOESN’T MEAN EVERYONE CAN.

            And just by the way, some of what Peter Knight does on that fiddle isn’t possible.§

            At the end Fiona said, so, are you glad you came?  There must be more Steeleye sheet music out there, I said, having had trouble not joining Rick Kemp for COLD HAILY.§§  I even asked Maddy herself about sheet music on the way out and she looked puzzled and suggested I write to Park Records. §§§

            And then we went back out to the car park, got in Fiona’s car and drove merrily away in the wrong direction because she had decided we didn’t need the satnav. . . . 

* * *

* It was a near thing.  Blogmom had sent along a last sale/auction order file which I had assumed was a few final sweepings-up, no big deal, and hadn’t even bothered to open it—Fiona could do it when she came.  AND THEN IT TURNED OUT TO BE GINORMOUS.  Gaaaaaah.  WAAAAAAAAH.  I knew I was not, in fact, going to get everything out before Christmas^ but I did think we were totally heading downhill for the final assault.  No.  Wrong.  So the first thing Fiona had to do, having been obliged to reveal the awful truth, was prevent me from murdering myself messily in an assortment of creative and unpleasant ways. 

^ Once again, grovelling apologies.  There Is Too Much Going On.  And I really do have to finish SHADOWS before I can no longer afford to keep the hellhounds in a manner to which they have become accustomed. 

** I would make three of Fiona.  Well, two and a half anyway.  But she’s very persuasive.  Especially when she shakes out a length of yarn in this sort of garrotte and clamps sharpened knitting needles between her teeth. 

*** And I have an opera tomorrow.  COGNITIVE DISSONANCE ALERT.^ 

^ I would like to say I’m going to a Metallica concert the night after that, but . . . no.  And the truth is I don’t think I have the—er—mettle to go to a heavy metal concert any more.  I don’t know what the audience at a Metallica concert is like these days, but back in my misspent youth+ I went to several fairly scary concerts where I was glad that my companion was a six and a half foot bloke, who, while soft-spoken and mild-mannered, looked like Mess With Me and Die.     

+ Remember that I misspent most of my youth in my thirties, so we’re talking about the eighties. 

† You realise it’s Friday.  Sacred Home Tower Bell Practise.  Only Steeleye Span could drag me away from my responsibilities.^ 

^ . . . But make me an offer.  A stroll across the Kalahari?  Sunbathing in Antarctica?  A new diving bell attempt to reach the bottom of the Marianas Trench?  Sure.  After all, Niall left me to cope last Friday.  

†† I am forcibly reminded, pretty much every time I go to a concert—or, for that matter, watch a clip on YouTube—that the one great thing about performing is the costumes.  It’s pretty much the only thing I miss about being a travelling, live-appearance author:  the opportunity to dress up. ^  And Maddy’s clothes are prime.  I was thinking about this tonight—while I sang along to All Around My Hat^^—that this is the one flaw in my choir-joining plan^^^:  choir members don’t get to dress up.  I like a long black velvet skirt as well as the next woman but Maddy’s flounced blue satin is waaaay to be preferred.  Unfortunately being a soloist involves . . . soloing.  I don’t see a way around this.  Unless that’s in a chapter in CHAOS I haven’t got to/figured out yet. 

^ As demonstrated at Forbidden Planet a few months ago.  

^^ Maddy came to the front of the stage, thrust her microphone in our direction+ and dared us to be louder than Margate. 

+ Literally.  Fiona and I were in the front row.~ 

~ Fiona orders the tickets.  I just go where I’m told.  Chiefly into the passenger seat of her car. 

^^^ Supposing my incredibly tiresome throat stops being a frail heroine and lets me return to two-and-a-half-hour practises with the Muddlehamptons.

††† Yes I am thinking about simply buying a couple more skeins of hellhound-blanket yarn^ and using that.  Wait . . . did I just say BUY MORE YARN?^^ 

^ The pink option, of course. 

^^ I was reading Yarn Harlot the other night+ about stash, one of her favourite topics, and how the fact that you have more yarn than an infinity of monkeys could knit into bobble hats while waiting for that other batch of monkeys to produce King Lear++ doesn’t necessarily mean you have anything to knit with.  Yes.  Her ratiocinations on this subject will not be mine, but in my case all my nice yarn is Waiting for Me to Learn What I’m Doing.  I can’t just carelessly pluck a couple of skeins out of some tote bag and start on leg warmers.  Horrors.  

+ In the bath, of course.  Paperback editions of Yarn Harlot are ideal for the task.  

++ Macbeth would do.  And it’s shorter. 

Yes in the right size.  Please.  

‡‡ We will come to the topic of the drive home again in a minute. 

‡‡‡ The lights went down mid-row, of course.  Oh, now I’m in trouble, I said, and the woman on my other side . . . laughed.  So during the interval I said to her, do you knit?  I used to, she said.  I keep thinking I should start again.  Don’t let me put you off, I said.  I’m a beginner, and this yarn is possessed by demons.  We parted amicably at the end:  next time bring your knitting, I said.

            Postscript:  I knitted five rows.  And then I ripped them all out again.  Sigh.  However, it more nearly resembled ribbing than my previous efforts.  It just wasn’t ribbing. 

§ This is clearly stated in chapter mrrmngph of CHAOS.^ 

^ I’m reading/listening to it AGAIN, okay?  This is challenging stuff for someone whose idea of higher maths is a touch of St Clements minor on handbells. 

§§ He may be a great bassist.  He is not a great singer.  I admit that my crossover tendencies may not always stand me in good stead when judging folk singers, but I mostly feel that to be a lead singer of anything you either have to sound great, like Maddy^, or at least have a characterful voice, like Dick Gaughan—or Tom Waits or Leonard Cohen.  

^ Although she’s still singing when a classical singer would have had to give up. 

§§§ http://www.parkrecords.com/  In case you’re interested.  I mean, yes, I could figure out the tunes, and most of the lyrics are on line somewhere, but what am I going to give Oisin?  . . . Had I but world enough and time, I might write my own accompaniments, of course, but they would be a little non-standard.


Rose Dreams



An annually dreaded moment happened today:  the arrival of the new David Austin Rose Catalogue.  It’s not like I don’t have both his and Peter Beales’ sites favourited*, and it’s not like they’re not both places I go when I’m cross/tired/cranky/frustrated/procrastinating. **  But there’s something about a shiny new paper catalogue. . . .

Ooooh. Aaaaaugh.

 This particular rose, the lead-off for this year’s introductions, is called ‘William and Catherine’ (Catherine??).  Snork.  I may have to give it/her/them a go anyway.   Austin is claiming that it/her/them is ‘extremely healthy’ which would be a first in a repeating white rose.


 I grow St Swithun (on the left) and Tess of the d’Urbervilles (on the right).  I do not yet grow Teasing Georgia or Snow Goose (in the middle).  Yet.


 I grow Mortimer Sackler–that’s the flowering pink triffid on the right–in a pot by the front door of the cottage.  Apparently I will be in trouble soon.  I have noticed she’s a little more exuberant than I was entirely planning for.  Oh, I also grow Scepter’d Isle–middle on the left–and Wedgewood, bottom left.  And clearly I have to add Maid Marion–top left.  I missed her last year somehow.   One of the nice things about keeping a list–of, say, roses to be acquired–on your iPhone is that it keeps looking short even when it . . . isn’t. 

. . . . But this also brings me nicely to what I’ve been meaning to blog about for several days and things keep intervening.

            There are two high-ticket items in the auction.  One of them is the personally tailored masterwork by that hitherto little-known composer, Robin McKinley.***  The other one is the limited-edition ROSE DAUGHTER illustrated by Anne Bachelier.  


And before you freak out because you’re not high-end gallery-art collector types—with which I sympathise:  keeping oneself in reading books† tends to be quite enough—I wanted to flash a few of the illustrations at you.   I think those are all the plates on the CFM site, but I think they look a little bland lined up in rows like that, if you don’t know Bachelier’s work and don’t know that ‘bland’ is approximately the last word applicable.  They’re much more fabulous in situ in the book.  Bachelier is not to everyone’s taste—but then neither am I, and neither is anyone whose work is genuine and individual—but I adore this book.  As an explicit rendering of my ROSE DAUGHTER, no, it’s not, but if you’re asking me it’s not supposed to be.  What it is is a magnificent dreamscape of Beauty and the Beast with my ROSE as a jumping-off place—or a jumping on place, where she can bring her vision back and tie the red thread of story to it so all may follow. 

Roses. Well of course. It's a slightly shiny, jacquard-y fabric, like expensive bed linen.


Title and facing page. They're all already signed, but Your Name Is Added Here.


First page.


Random gorgeous picture from the middle somewhere.More random gorgeousness.


The glasshouse. (And yes, all the illustrations are tipped in.)


Oh, and yes--ahem!--I own one or two of the originals. (Don't strain your eyes. It's Purcell's Evening Hymn.)

* * *

* http://www.davidaustinroses.com/english/Advanced.asp?PageId=1988


** Now joined by Etsy http://www.etsy.com/ and Ravelry http://www.ravelry.com/ , both of which wave cheerfully and say, hi, hellgoddess!, when I go there.  Well, ‘Robin’ was already taken when I needed a username.  A username I could remember.    

*** But four of you are going to club together and commission me to write something for French horn, bodhran and two mezzo-sopranos, right?  Fine.  Just don’t make me learn to orchestrate. 

† And yarn.^ 

^ A friend has just been yanking my chain about my knitting needle collection.  Feh.  I’ll do a knitting-needle post some night and you’ll all just crumble away with admiration.+ 

+ You non-knitters . . . I don’t know . . . you’ll have to go bowling that night or something.

Okay, I knew I was pushing it.  WordPress has eaten one of the photos and added its caption to the previous photo.  ‘More random gorgeousness’ was another photo.  But it’s late and I’m tired and I’m not going to try to re-insert the missing photo, and WordFrellingPress won’t let me cut the superfluous text.  At least the formatting is back (I hope):  it disappeared the first time I hit the ‘publish’ button.


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