A lesson for Max

The best mail received this week:

She's ready for her close up

This afternoon we headed to The Glebe gardens for a photo shoot: we had a bunch of photographic equipment (complete with photographer), Sharon's lovely Nosey Rosie clothing range, some fabulous children, balloons and a dinky toadstool.

We were ready.

My designated role was as Holder of the Gargantuan Chocolate Bar. It was, sadly, not real: a 5 foot slab of polystyrene, covered with gold foil. Very Cadburys.

Coincidentally, most of us had been in The Glebe on Sunday - that sunny, temperate afternoon. Today was... not that. The weather had been slowly turning all day, but the process sped up upon our arrival: colder, darker, windier. We stuck at it for nearly two hours, and the children were phenomenal throughout; I reckon we managed to get through about two-thirds of the shots. Weather forecasts, local sages & oracles are being consulted for Round Two.

We had some good fun though :-)

Shoulders of Giants

I watched some of the Oscar speeches this morning; it seemed that a common theme was 'those who have gone before' - trailblazers in the form of parents, teachers, activists, spouses, icons and all the 'without whoms' (I'm not naming winner-names, in case anyone out there is managing to stifle their ears to the results until the edited highlights screen this evening).

Anyhoo (and let it be said, I'm a total sucker for this gratitude/those-who-teach-me-have-my-everlasting-respect stuff), I happily blinked tears watching it. I found it heartwarming, that - at what is potentially the most egocentric moment of a person's life - they'd see themselves as part of a continuum, as interconnected - the result of the work and lives and love of so many others, past and present. Lovely flavour of awareness and humility to the evening. Inspiring :-)

Okay, back to work.

weekend beckons

Just about to pop up some popcorn for lunch and get back to scribbling.

And maybe it's because I know family members are over in London for a wedding-tastic weekend, or maybe it's the irrepressible sunshiney-ness of the day, but there's a whole long-weekend feel to today. I reckon one more pot of coffee, and then there'll be a little chime tinging beer o'clock...

Have a lovely weekend, all X

World Book Day

In the lead-up to World Book Day, a local school had invited Sharon Rose & myself in to talk about Nosey Rosie. And so off we set yesterday morning, with hats and books and stickers, and a vague sense of where we were going.

The plan was that we'd speak to two classes, but as we finished the school asked if we could stay and speak to another two. Opening up the floor to children is always a blast. The conversation and questions - as always with children - were surprising and delightful and unimpeded by limitations and expectations.
Will there be a Nosey Rosie cartoon?
It was my birthday yesterday.
Will there be Nosey Rosie dolls?
My name is Ava!
Will Nosey Rosie get a baby brother?
My granny has a magnifying glass.
Kept us on our toes. Then we talked about reading and drawing, knitting and crazy hats...

As we were leaving, the headmaster made his way through the throng of children to us, smiling: 'They tell me Nosey Rosie is very nosy'.

Word is out :-)

The Kitty Who Cried Wolverine

The kitties are playing Henny Penny.

In their new all-grown-up (as if...) phase, they get to go outside for a couple of hours each day. They disappear out of sight immediately, and I turn from the window and tell myself that there is no indigenous population of wolverines in West Cork, that animals should go outside, that a life lived in fear is a life half-lived...

Throughout their Big Wide World session, they thunder in to the house, mewing and yawling - as though they're saying 'The sky is falling' or 'Dubh's been run over!' or 'Max has just been gored - come quick!!!'

It's all very Skippy: 'What's that? Timmy's stuck down the well? Broken femur, you reckon?' The first few times I went out to check on the absent kitty - expecting to find Cujo snarling in the back garden. Or, you know, a wolverine. But no...

So here I sit, working away. They take turns racing in, all 'the sky is falling', snuggle up earnestly for two seconds, like they're just making sure that House Life is as they left it, then off they go, completely happy.

Sigh. Little darlings :-)

Digger Mania

Forget the Beacon, forget Lough Hyne (however you spell it), the place to be on a sunny afternoon is pierside, watching the diggers. For your viewing pleasure, there are two projects that you can alternate between: the new Slipway (which only gets worked on at low tide) and the Smushing Up of the Wrecks (which also pauses occasionally - for example, when they realise that they haven't thought to put any protective barrier around the smushing area, and there's bits of boat drifting off to become Area Rubbish).

Locally, it's all the rage, but there was surprise when the Smushing digger attraction featured on the news last night - both the 6pm and the 9pm - in the midst of reports on worldwide calamities and rising death tolls. This afternoon in Bushes, discussion of the interviews was... colourful.

I passed by on Sunday, made my way between the parked cars filled with people, watching the work in progress as though it was a sunset. And in a way, I guess it was...

Entertaining spaces

I spent most of Friday in the V&A Museum, in their newly revamped Medieval & Renaissance galleries. Such a thoughtfully considered space, filled with a zillion treaty things: mermaid capitals and fantastic salt cellars and sumptuous tapestries and reliquaries and illuminated manuscripts and champleve enamels and lions and tigers and bears oh my...

Anyway, I'd recommend it. That's all I'm saying. Most treaty.



And from there, I met Sara and we headed for London Bridge, to gather under the arches for Southwark Playhouse's Henry V. On arrival, it turned out that for that evening, we would be mostly French. So we sat with the blue team, lining three sides of an enormous board game (the red English squeezed along the fourth side). Clearly, tonnes of thought had gone into how to communicate the heavily-edited script with a small cast, and while several things didn't really work, it was great to see them tried at least. Despite shortcomings, I thoroughly enjoyed the wacky take on Hal growing up, as trains rumbled overhead. It suited us perfectly that evening.

And the Battle of Agincourt was a skittles match. Can't beat that!

Friendward Bound

Bag packed. Over the last few months plans were made and shifted: weather conditions, birthdays, holidays all needing to be navigated around. And now there's fruition.

"The language of friendship is not words but meanings." -- Henry David Thoreau

Will be offline for a couple of days X

Carved deep

There are two perfect weathers in which to visit the grave of a loved one.

One is on a calm, clear, sunshiney day, where the view from the grave looks glistening and beautiful, and the fresh flowers you've brought are simply zesty with life and energy and hope; they positively affirm - sing out - that everything continues and heals and grows. And it's all about peace and coming-to-terms and gentle tender pain; all very Simba/Circle of Life stuff.

The other weather is like today: dark, louring clouds, whipping wind that feels like it slices through flesh, shoulders shivering and teeth chattering with cold, freezing rain filling your bones with that damp chill that takes hours of warmth to undo. The whole landscape is dark and morbid, and the flowers - filled with the colours of spring and hope - are already being torn and crushed before your eyes. It's a different experience of grief and loss - I guess Ruskin would be talking about 'pathetic fallacy', about how we recreate in the world a mirror of our own feelings.

The two same-but-different experiences reminded me of 'The Prophet':

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.