#even before my mum died i’d resigned myself to a life of caring for her and working to support her

[bibuddie]

just remembered i’m finally starting my dream degree in a little over a month and got the urge to giggle and kick my feet

[buttercupsfrocks]

So, tumblr, by popular demand, (Hah! Get me!), here’s a loooong post on my living room display cabinet.

I started collecting 1930s ceramics when I was 17, shortly after my grandfather died. My dad, as his only child, was given the job of sorting through the contents of his flat, which is how I first came into possession of a couple of Art Deco nicknacks - a plastic jewellery box, which sadly fell to pieces, a chrome and enamel powder bowl, and an electric clock with a peach mirror glass face. Also this amazing uplighter seen, along with the clock and few pieces from the china collection, in the living room of my previous flat. 

But back to my mid teens. At around this time I saw Cabaret on the big screen for the second time, and resolved shortly afterwards to reinvent myself as a Sally Bowles/Louise Brooks hybrid. 

Thus the 30s became my thing. For life it turns out. Since I was still living in my childhood home in my tiny childhood bedroom, it started with beads and earrings as I didn’t have room to collect much else. The necklace I’m wearing here was one of the first things I ever bought – from the long gone Twentieth Century Box in the King’s Road – and the dress belonged to my great grandmother. 

At some point though I bought this little Art Deco jug, which proved to be the thin end of the wedge. I knew it was a piece of cheap tat – it didn’t have a stamp on the base and cost a mere £1.75 from Camden Market – but I loved it then and I still do, crazing, cheap lustre finish, indelible stains and all 

Before long it had found a friend in a Shelley jug and they’ve been together ever since. I acquired a few small pieces of Carlton Ware here and there, as it was cheap and commonplace, but the china collection didn’t really get going in earnest till I came face to face with these ...

... and these...

... Paragon cups, saucers, and tea plates. It was the delicate flower handles that did for me. My heart literally stopped when I spotted the whole lot filling a display case on a stall in the Barrett Street Antiques Market in St Christopher’s Place. I’d never heard of Paragon, which is comparable in quality to Shelley, before; and I’ve only ever met one other person who avidly collected it. The colour work here is a combination of basic transfer and hand painting, and I’d never seen anything so beautiful, nor coveted anything quite so desperately, in all my puff. Back then were three trios in each design, and they would have cost entry-level graphic designer me two weeks wages so it was a no go. I chatted to the dealer for ages, heaved a sigh of resignation, and left. Then fate stepped in in the form of some freaky, life-changing events: 1) My paternal grandmother died and left me five grand, and 2) The company I was working for decided on a radical restructure and I was one of those made redundant. I decided to use the money to start my own business – an illustration agency – and marked this momentous decision by returning to Barrett Street to buy the Paragon. I didn’t have the space to display it all until I moved into my own place a couple of years later but there was no looking back once I did.

Most of these pieces are made by Paragon too, the exception being the Royal Doulton cup and saucer on the right, which was a gift.  The un-lidded sugar bowl on the left cost me two quid in a car boot sale while the lidded one in the front cost me under a fiver from another late King’s Road haunt called Eat Your Heart Out. With two notable exceptions, I’ve never parted with serious money for any of this stuff. I also rarely buy to sell, so not all of my collection is in perfect condition. Obviously it’s great when it is, but the cumulative effect of seeing it altogether is way more important. And the cumulative effect is pure joy. Which puts me in mind of the book I mentioned a couple of posts ago, which posits the idea that liking colourful stuff is not a mark of shallow, unsophisticated character, and that joy is not something innate without stimulus, but rather a reaction to the objects and environments that surround us. This resonated deeply with me.

I used to write in an alcove in the L-shaped hallway of my previous flat. It was a nicely decorated hall. Yellow-gold marbled wallpaper with paintwork a shade lighter and a yellow gold carpet to match. The light was good too. But I didn’t have many pictures in those days so the walls were blank apart from my grandmothers mirror; nor were there any shelves on which to house books or display tchotchkes. One day I started writing in my living room instead, which contained all of these things including my trusty display cabinet, and I realised I felt creatively stimulated; galvanised even. From then on I’ve always worked surrounded by colour, pictures, objects and books.

So, on with the show.

This adorable little person is a powder bowl from Germany. I don’t often go for figurative ceramics but I completely fell in love with her. She came from a junk shop and cost me about  quarter of what she was worth at the time I bought her. Behind her is a Parrot Ware biscuit barrel, a gift from my potter friend Steve, who is also an avid collector of ceramics, and has contributed many pieces to my collection over the years. Behind that is a Parrot Ware plate I found in a junk shop in Lye in the West Midlands. To the left of her is a Paragon chintz ware trio, another gift from Steve. 

The coffee cup and saucer is the only piece of Clarice Cliff I own. It was a present from a family friend back when I first started collecting. Then, as now, Cliff, Susie Cooper and Charlotte Rhead were the big names and overpriced accordingly, so I decided to concentrate on the more affordable end of the market. The hand painted Poole vase is, I think, from the 60s, as is the Royal Winton plate behind it, but I think they blend in well enough. The same can be said about this Brentleigh Ware breakfast for one set...

It came from a car boot sale many years ago. The rain was chucking it down and the sellers were so desperate to go home they practically gave it to me. How could I refuse? 

This is the only glass piece in the cabinet. I’ve occasionally seen these swizzle sticks for sale individually but this is the only set I’ve seen with the matching base. Behind it is a pair of hand painted Czechoslovakian vases of the type that Cliff clearly ripped off. For that reason alone I feel they should be worth a whole lot more than they are. Russian folk art, as reinterpreted by the likes of Natalia Goncharova for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes, was also a huge influence on the Art Deco movement. The majority of my pieces are simply 30s as opposed to full on Deco but the colour palette is often in keeping.

The green cheese dish is a Royal Winton piece I bought in the 80s, while the yellow one, a more recent acquisition from a charity shop, is Crown Ducal. Which brings me to something else. Video may not have killed the radio star but eBay definitely murdered the antique market. Some time in the mid 90s I consciously stopped adding to the collection. It was harder to find at a reasonable price and I also felt I’d reached Peak Thirties so to speak. Contributor No 1: Knowing how much I loved the period, my stepgrandmother had promised me a pair of French bronze book ends when she died. And although my mum and stepfather were divorced by the time she did, he honoured her promise on the understanding that I’d never sell them.

(AS IF!! These are the balls-out Art Deco bookends of my wildest dreams. I will never, ever sell them. Excuse the dust, by the way. These live, along with a lot more china, in my hall book case, and are lucky if they see a duster once a year.)  

Contributor No 2: Prior to working in the World’s Loveliest Gift Shop® RIP, I worked for Steve for the six years he had one. But whereas Lynne restored and upcycled vintage furniture as a sideline, Steve's was vintage ceramics. His brother, who is also an antique dealer, occasionally sold stuff through the shop too. One day I came into work and had an instantaneous repetition of my Paragon experience. 

This immaculate, unused Deco-tastic tea for two set is the reason I painted my living room purple. It’s most likely Czechoslovakian too, as indicated by the tiny plate. Too small to be a plate for cake or sandwiches, it was most likely for lemon slices, lemon tea being the norm in that part of the world. The moment I clapped eyes on it I was a gibbering wreck. I didn’t care how many days pay it would take me to work off the debt; it was indisputably Meant To Be. 

Having thus snapped up the tea set and inherited the bookends, I decided I actually had sufficient on the 30s front, much to the consternation of my friends. But a handful of years later things began to change. eBay had stuck the boot in so hard that the vintage china dealers, who had previously pushed up the prices to you’re-’avin’-a-laugh-mate heights, started to throw in the towel on their businesses. And vintage ceramics started to show up in charity shops and car boot sales again – at it-would-be-churlish-not-to prices. 

I started to find pieces like this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

...going cheap as chips in the chazzas. 

And those dealers who had somehow managed to weather the storm, were no longer charging stratospheric prices. (Unless they were flogging Cliff or Cooper or Rhead), so I was able to add things like this...

...and this...

...to the mix without feeling the pinch.

Should I emerge from this period of history with body and soul intact and raise the collateral I’m hoping to, one of the cosmetic changes I’d like to bring about in my home is to replace the built in hi-fi cupboard in the corner of the living room with another display cabinet, so I can move some of the china that’s languishing elsewhere in the flat into the living room too. Yes, I know it’ll end up looking like the ceramics wing of the V&A, but, frankly, what’s wrong with that?

Poor abandoned things. 

Can’t you see they’re gagging to come and join their friends?

I imagine you’re losing the will to live now so I’ll sign off with my two Beswick fish, which are from the late 60s/early 70s and, despite having no connection with my other treasures, have lived on top of my display cabinet for aeons.  Group similar colours together and you can get away with murder. Toodles!

[pasdhospitalite]

Context to the video ‘Not Coping (Conversation over Lunch with Mum) Video 1/1 on me, her, and MND’

In the video (please read the description on Vimeo and then this before watching AND before reading this - trigger warnings are on the video link page) my mum is surprised because she doesn’t think I’m a panicky person. I explain to her the trauma and panic I kept secret when I knew she was terminally ill. I knew this for sure about 5 years ago exactly (November 2013) although the official diagnosis came two years after that (late 2015). The context of this video discussion is that my dad died suddenly on 22nd October 2013 and my mum went for what she thought was a relatively routine nerve conduction study to get to the bottom of why she had a weak grip and muscle wasting in her right hand (we thought nothing of it) a week or two after my dad’s funeral.  As soon as that study was done and I saw the reaction of the consultant and his refusal to tell us what was wrong with her I knew something was wrong. I pressed him and he said “she has generalised muscle weakness that she’s not noticed. I will write to your GP and I cannot diagnose her”. I categorically do not recommend self-diagnosis or diagnosing others. But I went home and started researching. I did not yet recognise that my obsession with diagnosing her and processing her terminal illness before the official diagnosis was a symptom of my ill health at the time.  But I went home and started researching. I still had institutional log in access to academic journals because I’d taken an immediate, and what I thought was an indefinite leave of absence from my PhD at Royal Holloway upon the death of my dad from a sudden heart attack. I concluded that she had Motor Neurone Disease and, based on her age and accounting for large data sets in studies into MND and mortality that she had 2-3 years to live at best (only 10% of sufferers live a decade or longer with the disease and they tend to have been diagnosed at a younger age) and that she had the worst disease imaginable. I was not and still am not a doctor and so this diagnosis and its obsessions was a mistake. But it has been born out in reality. She has now been living with MND for 5 years. Don’t diagnose yourself or others around you. Wait and see until you’re given an official diagnosis. You can deal with whatever it is and carrying a burden of thinking that you or a loved one has got something awful wrong with them before you actually know for sure is quite literally (I choose that word carefully) unbearable. 

Putting that advice aside (I hadn’t taught myself it back in late 2013) my mindset at that time was that my dad had just died suddenly (I was grieving) and that I’d ‘found out’ that my Mum had an awful, awful disease and only had a few, increasingly unwell years left to live. The progression of the disease results in progressive and near total paralysis and respiratory failure with no effect on cognitive functions (usually). I resigned myself to quitting my PhD, or radically reformulating after her death, moved home from Oslo, and threw myself into being a chef at a Michelin starred restaurant in East Yorkshire. I knew I needed to work and to do things with my hands and to be part of a team. And I knew that the trauma I was experiencing would only get worse (or thought I knew) and I couldn’t even face the idea of reading a book or writing or researching or thinking about banal corporate art in airports, or returning to a different country away from my mum during the process of her dying. And I knew that she was dying 18 months before she got the official diagnosis.  In the video I discuss how I COULD NOT HANDLE (the only time I’ll ever capitalise for effect, I promise) all of this knowledge and grief and the anticipation of trauma pressing on me. We discuss coming to terms with terminal illness (there’s a lot of happiness still to be had) and not bottling things up. I’m currently detoxing from benzodiazepines and I explain how I started using drugs like that in the video too. The video is mainly audio and out of focus. 2 years ago I started trying to make a ‘proper’ film about my mum, bought a v expensive DSLR and audio recording kit and was totally paralysed by the responsibility I felt to make the right kind of film. All that thinking was total bullshit internalised on the basis of what I thought was expected of me. Fuck that. This is important too for context of starting, just starting, to make work about me and my mum and MND: On New Year’s Eve of 2018 (nearly 3 weeks ago) I started to draft a Facebook post thanking the people really close to me for giving me joy this year. I realised I could not do this without explaining why I’ve needed so much support over the last 5 years. So before I knew it I’d written 2000 words and the fireworks were going off on the TV and the essay had turned into the detailing of my dad’s death and my mum’s diagnosis so that the people I was thanking could understand why their support and inspiration has been so important to me, and especially how the joy and pain I have experienced in the last 18 months has been so important to me as healing. I’d also gone off on tangents, written really angry paragraphs about a perceived lack of support from Royal Holloway in the two years after my dad died (they terminated my PhD on a technicality) and still not gotten to thanking anyone.  That essay of trauma and thanks would probably reach 10,000 words and nobody would read it. I’d put it on social media and tag all the people and then they’d feel obliged to read it and that might be a burden. Plus, I’ve decided that having conversations like this with my mum is a better way of exploring issues of anxiety, depression, substance abuse, terminal illness, bereavement, family addiction, panic, perhaps undiagnosed PTSD on my part, and love, and joy, and pleasure. (We’re doing really well, by the way) I am only able to do this because I have got much better mental health now because I sought help after a panic attack in Spain (discussed in the video). But I am also fully aware that I am also only able to do so because of the amazing support I have received over the past 5 years from family and friends. I believe in situating one’s knowledge and that means acknowledging what makes it possible for me to be able to speak, to film, to function, to not collapse. It is especially over the past 18 months that I have met fearless artists who speak from the heart and seem to be brave without limits. I realised that I could be brave too and just say whatever I wanted to say about my life however I wanted to and that I couldn’t care less if anyone thought I was stupid or my speaking had no value or that I wasn’t worthy of being heard.  But I do care if this kind of story telling is useful for other people dealing with similar issues. I don’t want to cause harm. If you think I’m causing harm I want to listen to you. Please contact me.  So, here is all that thanks without that bothersome tagging that can seem as much selfabsorption as genuine and radical gratitude. I’m thanking these people either because they have always been there for me and are unequivocal friends who I can rely on and put my life in their hands if I need to, or because they’re amazing role models and have given me hope and fire and zest and inspiration. I’d become a person who hid for a few years. I’m not hiding any more.  It’s no coincidence that the majority of people I’m thanking are woman. I hope I can give as much as I can take. Thanks to, in no order of importance, Tom Williams, Rosalind Williams, Claire Stansfield, Jon Stansfield, Phil Johnstone, Cogs Stansfield (no relation, I think...) Dan Morris Lea, Natalie Morris Lea, Kathryn Thomason Stripling, Richard Thomason-Stripling, David Parkinson, Rachel Houmphan, Max Houghton, Lewis Bush, Jane Thomason, Grace Oni Smith, Jasmine Johnson, Vivienne Griffin, Lisa of @BlueBagLife (sorry I don’t know your surname!), and Rachel Pimm. I’ve hyperlinked to your work to point anyone who might have gotten this far to how AMAZING it is!!! If I believe people should insist on welcoming an unexpected guest three times then I should give thanks three times too. Thank you, thank you, thank you. There’s joy in the video. If you’ve got this far I hope it’s useful. 

[lady-stardust7-blog]

Seclusion: Chapter 2

Summary: Belle French arrives at a secluded cabin in the Scottish Highlands, expecting to spend a week there by herself. What she doesn’t realise is that Euan Gold has had the exact same idea.

[Chapter 1] [read it on Ao3]

Chapter 2/6

“So, what did you have planned for the day?” asked Belle, towel-drying her hair as she walked out of the bathroom. Although a towel was safely wrapped around her body, Gold immediately turned red and looked away after the half glance he made towards her. She smirked as she continued her route to the bedroom to get dressed, and left a slight crack in the door so that they could carry on their conversation.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat. “I didn’t have anything planned. But if you wanted, I could drive us over to Inverness. It’s only about twenty miles or so. We could have a wander down the high street, get something to eat by the coast.”

Belle almost tripped over the skirt she was putting on.

“You want to come with me?” she asked.

“Oh, er… I mean - if you don’t want me to, I could just do my own thing,” he stuttered. “I just thought it would be easier because it saves you spending a fortune on a taxi.”

“No, no,” she interrupted, popping her head through her shirt and coming back out to join him. “I’d love for you to come too. And Inverness is a great idea! Well, I’m all unpacked, let me just dry my hair and I’ll be ready.”

***

Soon enough, Belle and Gold had arrived in the small city. The car journey had been fairly easy, they had sunk into a comfortable silence whilst Belle had finished her book and Gold concentrated on reading the signs. He parked the car and Belle got out first, eager to see everything.

“First things first,” said Gold, pointing to an old-yet-classy looking building. “I think there’s a stop we need to make.”

She followed him through the entrance and immediately fell in love with the warmly-lit interior. Cluttered bookshelves filled to the brim, on every wall and in between. A spiral staircase led to the balcony above, which went all around the shop and consisted of yet more books. The smell of coffee from the in-store cafe teased her nostrils. She turned to Gold, who looked a little amused at her wonder.

“How did you know I like books?” she asked.

“You finished reading one in the car. I gathered you’d need to replace it. Have a browse, I’ll get us a hot drink,” he explained, before walking over to the barista.

Belle didn’t know where to begin, so she worked her way around from the entrance, studying each shelf in turn. Gold promptly returned with a coffee for them each, but soon the cups were empty and he instead found himself with a dozen books in hand while Belle continued her search.

“How are you going to narrow it down?” he questioned from somewhere behind the pile. Belle frowned slightly in confusion.

“Narrow what down?” she replied. She didn’t wait for an answer before she dived straight back into the bookshelf.

A quick trip back to the car was necessary in order to drop off the huge collection of books she had just bought. Once they were locked away, Belle looked back to Gold for what to do next. He was still massaging his biceps from the long haul.

“I sometimes get a little carried away,” she said, apologetically. He waved a hand in dismissal.

“It’s no matter. There’s a restaurant nearby, right beside a loch if you’re hungry. It does excellent Scotch pies,” he suggested, and Belle agreed.

They took a table outside by the loch, illuminated by candle light. Once the waiter had departed with their order, it was just the two of them, surrounded by the peaceful sound of water in the evening air.

“So, do you come to Inverness a lot?” she asked, resting her head on her hands as she studied the man before her.

“No. This is the second time, actually.”

“What do you normally do when you visit your cabin?”

“The reason I purchased that cabin was because it was away from everything else, not because I wanted to see everything else,” he said, dryly.

“So you just lock yourself away?”

“Basically,” he answered. “I normally keep myself busy. Work on little projects, catch up with some reading, that sort of thing. What about you, anyway? You live in Australia?”

“Originally I did, but my dad moved us to America years ago after my mum died, and we’ve been there ever since.”

“And what happened with your fiance, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Belle wasn’t sure if he was actually interested, or whether he was asking purely out of courtesy, or to avoid the awkward silence they would otherwise be in. But after the waiter had placed down their drinks, Gold looked straight back to her, as if he was hanging onto every word.

“It’s a long story… well, actually, it’s not,” she added, on second thought. “I don’t know. We were just very different people. I realised I was with him for the wrong reasons, and that wasn’t me. There’s more to life than… just settling down and closing your eyes.”

“Such as?”

“I want to see the world,” she said, her heart filling with excitement just at the thought. “I want to learn new things, meet new people. There are so many languages to learn, and so many sights to see. I don’t want to miss out on that, just for the sake of conventionality.”

“That’s very ambitious.”

“What about you? Have you got a wife?” she prompted, realising that she was spilling her personal life to a man she knew nothing about.

“A long time ago,” he admitted. “She left me, for somebody younger and more attractive.”

That surprised Belle - Gold wasn’t an unattractive man in the slightest. He clearly took care of himself, and the way that he held himself in a three-piece suit oozed confidence. If anything, his age added to his allure. He didn’t seem bothered or insecure about the situation, however - simply resigned, as if talking about somebody else’s wife.

“But you’re an attractive guy,” she argued. She hadn’t realised the potential weight of her words until she saw the affect it had on Gold, who blushed for the second time that day.

“Thank you, but apparently she didn’t think so,” he said, stiffly. “I have a son, too. His name is Neal, studying Literature in London.”

Belle loved the way that his eyes suddenly lit up when he mentioned Neal, and so she began to ask more about him. Soon, Gold seemed like a completely different person, smiling and reminiscing about his boy. He even pulled his phone out to show her photographs of him.

They continued smiling and exchanging casual details about their lives over their food, when Belle suddenly became aware of how dark it had become around them, and then came the realisation of how tired she was. She tried to stifle a yawn, not wanting Gold to think she was yawning at him. He noticed regardless.

“I bet you’re knackered,” he said. “This must be the middle of the night for you, what with the time zone you’re on. Come on, I’ll drive us back.”

They paid the bill and made their way back to Gold’s car. Once they were inside, the heating quickly warming them up, Belle felt herself drifting off. What felt like seconds later, she felt Gold tapping her gently, stirring her awake. He guided her back to the cabin and whilst she was getting changed in the bathroom, he sorted out the bedding. When she came out, he had the sofa all laid out and ready to sleep in.

“I’ll sleep here,” he announced. “You can have the bedroom. You look like you need a decent night’s sleep.” She smiled gratefully, and then he suddenly looked embarrassed as something dawned on him. “I, um… didn’t bring any pyjamas.”

At the look of shame on his face, Belle couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He looked like a child who had just admitted to drawing on the walls.

“In all fairness, I didn’t realise that I would be sharing my cabin with somebody else,” he said, defensively.

“It’s fine, Euan, it really is. I’ve seen it all before. I’m not gonna be offended if you sleep in your underwear,” she reassured him. He didn’t look much less embarrassed but he nodded. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, you could borrow one of my night gowns,” she teased, but he didn’t seem to find it funny.

“Goodnight,” he said, shortly, and she retired to the bedroom. Once the door was closed behind her and the light was off, she sank underneath the covers. The warmth soon enveloped her, and she appreciated the feel of the fresh linen against her skin. She was just on the verge of letting sleep take her once more when she heard a noisy huff from the living room.

She ignored it, and turned to go to sleep again. She allowed her mind to wander back to the cute cobblestone pavements they’d walked down earlier, and the beautiful way that the street lamps were reflected in the rippling loch as they tucked into their warm food. It was almost like she was there once again, when - the sound of springs and a loud huff intruded through her ears again.

She could hear Gold tossing and turning every thirty seconds or so, often with a loud sigh of discomfort to accompany it. Eventually, she’d had enough. She got out of bed, turned on the light and opened the door. Straight away, Gold looked up to see what was wrong.

“Is the sofa uncomfortable?” she asked, bleary eyes still struggling to adjust to the light. She could make out his guilty expression through the beam of light that escaped the bedroom.

“A little. Sorry, I’ll try and keep it down,” he mumbled.

“It’s a double bed in here. You can just come and share it, we’re both adults,” she suggested. He sat up properly whilst he considered it, giving her a brief glimpse of his chest as the covers slid off of it.

“Are you sure?” he hesitated.

“‘Course not. Your back is probably gonna need the support of a comfortable mattress after you struggled to carry those books for me earlier,” she smirked.

“I didn’t struggle,” he grumbled, as he held his pillow over his torso and followed her into the bedroom. She almost joked about the vein in his forehead that had risen as he carried the books to his car, but decided against it. She couldn’t hurt the man’s ego when he was already feeling fragile about being in his boxer shorts.

“I don’t normally do this on the first date,” she joked, once they were underneath the covers together. She heard Gold chuckle next to her.

“Goodnight,” he repeated, and that was the last thing she heard before she finally fell asleep.