Mooooo!

When I moved in, I didn't realise I'd be cleaning cow slobber off the windows!

Seal spotting

Kim's still on his school break , so we decided to do a bit of seal spotting on the north Cornish coast earlier this week. It was a grey, blustery day over at Gwithian but we were well rewarded for our little effort of getting to the top of the cliffs, where we saw around 50 grey seals lounging on the beach below us...



Okay, so from this high up they look like slugs, but they certainly sounded like seals! I was sorry I only had my rubbish camera phone with me and no binoculars, but it was still a sight not to be forgotten. And it certainly got Kim all excited - and away from the dreaded video games...

She sells seashells

Need to clear your head?

Well, how about this for a location to do it in?! This is Gwithian on the north Cornish coast and luckily it's only a short drive away. I spent an hour or so beach combing for driftwood with Chantal this afternoon and it was the best cobweb remover going - and it's free! Well, that is apart from the council's plan to fleece everyone: "Oooh, it's Easter let's make a load of money out of the tourists and charge an arm and a leg to park a car for a couple of hours, that'll pay for the dustmen for a few years".

Then it was back to the cottage on the cliffs for lunch - and evidence that spring has well and truly sprung... Chantal was not amused. The frolicking lambs had breached the hedge into her garden from the neighbouring field, again, and munched their way through all her lovingly tended seedlings. She's considering eating meat once again. Personally, I think she ought to consider cannibalism and taste the farmer...mmmm!

Pissed off

I am pissed off with the world and its wife telling me what I should be, what I should do and how I should live my life. I AM AN ARTIST. I will live my life as an artist and if the rest of the world doesn't like it, the rest of the world can sod off and get over it.

Mother's Day Menu

• Breakfast in bed: fruit tea and a large slice of home-made caramel slice (also called millionaire's shortbread)
• Elevenses: Thornton's chocolate-covered Turkish delight (generously shared with offspring)
• Tea: home-made American pancakes and maple syrup followed by pain-au-chocolate, accompanied by fresh coffee and orange-juice avec bits in
• Dinner: several large slices of home-made caramel slice served with plenty cups of fruit tea
  
• Next morning: guaranteed eruption of spots and the onset of tooth-decay, accompanied by a mild nausea and only a vague recollection of what a real meal tastes like...

Better than Narnia

Today is a good one. I had enough energy to go and sort out the airing cupboard, which is huge and full of junk. And, as you would expect with this kind of domestic bliss, I came across a long-forgotten gem. Several years ago my mother gave me a set of four encyclopaedias, called The World of the Children, she said she bought them for me when I was a child, and sure enough I found them tucked up in a box at the back of the cupboard. I flicked through the pages and the smell took me instantly back to sitting under the stairs (not in a cupboard!) devouring facts (so few of which stayed...) and looking at pictures of amazing things I'd never seen, or was ever likely to. I lingered over the books, when I should have been getting on with the sorting out, and came across a chapter titled Section Twelve: The Fine Arts, Chapter 4, Beautiful Pictures. Of course I had to have a read. And this, dear readers, is what I read...

When photography was invented, artists turned in disgust from painting Nature and concentrated on doing things the camera could not do. ...they became very vague about their aims, different groups of artists having different ideas about what they ought to do; and some artists to-day are doing very queer work because they have queer ideas as to what is good art. Many strange pictures owe their existence to the idea that design is the important thing in a picture - design and not subject-matter. But many painters of queer pictures have been unkindly treated, and so you can now see queer pictures, that besides being designs, are expressions of dislike and contempt for ordinary people. Much of the work of Rouault is of this kind.

...The age of bizarre patterns masquerading as paintings will probably pass away and then artists will be found to have intentions again over and above those of mere designers.

I love it! I think it's where I must've got all my balanced views from... A quick look at the date of publishing reveals that this gem went to print in 1964 (Caxton) and was written by one Stuart Miall. Funny how I remember Rouault (link to info on Tate's website), but not Miall.

Finally...

For the first time in months (what four or five?) I've updated my website - woohoo!

www.stephanieboon.co.uk (just in case you'd forgotten!)

Something a bit weird has happened today. After three months I finally got around to loading Dreamweaver and an ftp program onto this laptop. Then I sorted out the inevitable headache that goes along with that, mostly to do with the fact that I can't remember all the passwords on the web hosting account... Then this evening, I actually managed to re-get-my-head-around how I edited the Java script on my site to create the slide show on the home page, and I've FINALLY updated the bloody thing. What I can't understand though, is why have the brain cells come together now? I've been in a cloud of mushy thoughts for months and quite frankly think I'm still in the pea-soup; if you'd asked me yesterday how to mess about with Java I'd have asked what the hell you were asking me for...hmm. Well anyway, that's the homepage sorted for a month or two, but what about the rest of it? I kinda updated the exhibitions page and the cv page, but quite frankly I don't know what to do with the rest of it yet...turn it all pink maybe? I've got loads of images to add, but god I'd rather just make some more!

Talking of which, I've been boiling up wax again over the last few days making something for Chantal for Unspoken (see the website!). I managed not to burn myself either. Something's definitely wrong. It could be that I've forced myself to stay awake for two days now; needless to say I'm feeling somewhat sleep deprived, which may of course account for the peculiar behaviour. Or, now you might want to sit down for this, it could be because I've been feeling just a teensy-weensy bit happy over the last couple of days. Don't ask me what's brought that on, I'm just hoping it might last a day or two more...just think what else I could get done.

Wet feet

When your feet get soaking wet it's great to know your friends will help you out. Chantal lent me a pair of socks, while mine were drying on her stove - and then she made me a pair of make-shift wellies! Stunning! (And they worked brilliantly.)

The chickens'll get you...

I've been gripped by Hugh's Chicken Run over the last couple of nights, as have millions of tv viewers, apparently. Have you seen it? If you eat meat you should watch it. I don't normally get on my high horse about vegetarianism (or anything else, ever, obviously...ha, ha!), but honestly, after watching this if you don't turn to free-range chickens or become veggie over night you should be bloody ashamed of yourself. It's absolutely shocking that there are people out there that couldn't give a toss how their meat is reared, and, as Kim said, how would those people like it if they had to 'live' cheek by jowl, crapping on each other, unable to stand up... Erm, does sound a bit like inner city life doesn't it? Well, at least they've got telly; the chickens have nowt but ammonia sores and death to look forward to. So buy free-range or don't eat meat at all. There, I've said my piece, now I'll get down before I get started on battery eggs...you wouldn't would you? Please tell me you don't eat those?

Join the 'chicken out' campaign to get chickens free-range by following the 'sign up' link below:

Some pretty pictures for the new year

Bonfire smoke getting caught beneath the trees in Mylor

Very still water and crystal clear reflections on Mylor Creek

January sky from my bedroom window the other day

Kim on an early evening walk today

Bloody hell!

It was the 2nd January and look what was on the shelves in Woolworths in Truro. Something is wrong with the world.

Jesus, this morning I've woken up with not one, but two black eyes and a lovely greenish bruise across the swelling bridge of my nose. Kim says I'm going to look like I'm wearing a mask, one that I can't take off. Then he laughed a wicked, evil laugh, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaaaa...

Funnily enough I don't feel like celebrating anything. Maybe I'll feel a bit happier when the sodding fireworks stop going off, but I doubt it. So I'm going to bed. Night.

If you thought you'd come to this blog for something interesting you've come to the wrong place, and if you thought I was miserable last week you should hear me now. Now I have a black eye, a forehead like John Merrick and an arm in plaster. This space is for miserable gits only. Actually it's probably only for this particular miserable git. I don't actually know why I'm bothering to type anything, cos I've got nothing to say, except that the half bottle of wine I've had hasn't been enough so I'm off to finish the other half. Maybe if you come back in the new year something exiting will have happened for me to tell you about, and maybe pigs will fly.

Sorted!

Ta daaaaaa! We now have a very festive looking sitting room
and Kim is just waiting (should that be hoping?!)
for Father Christmas to arrive with some pressies!

Aaaaaw, me and Kim after a hard day mooching about!
You might think the smile has something to do with feeling festive,
but it's probably got more to do with a big glass of gin!

At last!

It's official. It's Christmas eve and I really am beginning to feel a bit more festive. Time to put on the cheesy Christmas music, drag in the Christmas tree from where it's been languishing in the garden for a week and cover it in kitsch crap, ooh! And while I'm at it I think I'll open a bottle of something and a tin of something too. Lovely. Byeee!

Getting creative

Above: Kim with some of his festive creations: a fantastic Father Christmas model that he made at school and a gingerbread house that we decorated together this evening... I wonder if it will last through 'til Christmas day? Hmmm, ok so so far I've demolished a box of Roses in about 5 days and a whole Camembert cheese in 2, now I'm working hard on half a bottle of gin in an evening, but please a gingerbread house? I'll definitely leave that one for Kim - and maybe a bit for Father Christmas himself!

Christmas spirit? What's that?

I was beginning to feel marginally festive yesterday, but it seems the feelings were fleeting and this afternoon I'm back to being my miserable self. What was it about yesterday that had me feeling a little bit of Christmas cheer and what is it about today that has dissipated it all again? Hmmm...

Yesterday I got up early (for me anyway) and managed to get to Tesco by 8.15 in the morning, thinking I'd be clever and beat the crowds. I got that one completely wrong: the car park was already full and when I got inside it took me an hour and a half of battling with old ladies' trollies to get round. It was interminable, just like it should be. Bloody idiots fighting over sprouts, babies screaming (wouldn't you?), people blocking the bloody isles talking - with smiles on their faces, stressed looking staff dressed as elves and fairies (why?!). By 9 o'clock the shelves were emptying fast. I bullied my way to the check out to be greeted by a sodding male voice choir, all bright and breezy and raring to go - at that time of the morning. Their keyboard accompanist started to play some irritatingly 'jolly' tunes, inducing a stream of-under-the-breath verbal abuse from me to them, as well as the damn self-service checkout which wasn't checking out as quickly as I'd like to enable me to escape the hideousness of it all. Finally, I entered the fray to exit the car park where there were more bloody idiots, driving round in circles looking for non existent spaces. By this time I think I'd begun to go grey.

After that I decided to hit the town centre and do some last minute shopping for the Christmas stockings. Oh God. I took one look at the sea of faces and headed straight for a cafe and a large dose of caffeine and brownies. I'd need it, I concluded. I sat there shell-shocked, pretending to read the Guardian, but all the while listening to the conversations going on around me, wishing my life was as interesting as the couple's sitting next to me, who were discussing a travel documentary they were going to make for ITV. Bugger off now I thought and let me wallow in my own boring life and all its failings. (For it has many, does it not?!) I drew it out as long as I could, but the time came when I had to brave the streets again or become a permanent fixture.

Before I could get into shopping mode though, I decided I needed to go to Boots to weigh myself, just to check whether the consumption of a whole tin of Roses in less than a week, had done the amount of damage it felt like it had. I was very pleasantly surprised to learn that the answer is no! Still 8 stone 12, great! However, I was mildly alarmed to be told my the stupid machine that I had shrunk two inches in height since I last used it. Apparently I am now only 5' 4". Bollocks am I. And no I wasn't wearing heals last time. And nor did I have my massive amounts of hair tied up on the top of my head. The machine was obviously just having a bad day too, but why it felt the need to take it out on me I don't know. So I flounced off, sort of. Then I did the rest of the stuff you usually do at the last minute, including wandering around aimlessly wondering why the hell you're there in the first place.

After I'd got home and stuffed the fridge, the really festive feelings began to emerge when I went over to Chantal's, who's home is brimming with decorations and good humour (I did recognise it when I saw it, honest). She's got her woodburning stove chucking out loads of heat, the tree lights twinkling lots of pretty colours, and a strange-looking angel that appears to be wearing sparkly star-shaped nipple-tassels, and not a lot else. Apparently she hadn't noticed its wanton attire. I know how the poor little angel feels. While Chantal was out doing something with a rake I got the low-down on her feelings about New Year from her daughter. From the looks of her fantastically bedecked cottage on the cliffs you'd never guess she was really a miserable old curmudgeon like myself. Apparently she won't be responding with joy when her daughter texts her 'happy new year' from a party somewhere, Chantal will simply text back: 'it's not new year'. She has yet to divulge when it actually is, in Chantaland. (Note: she's not from China!) After chat, coffee, gossip and planning for a project next year, Chantal used all her powers of persuasion to get me to go to a party in Falmouth - she didn't have to try very hard as you'll guess. It wasn't your usual festive party, but an artists/craftsman's bring and buy sale. Needless to say no-one was particularly interested in the drawings of dead birds I brought along for the occasion. Although, if the delectable Annie (pictured left) got a sniff of the real thing I'm sure I'd be well in the black by now! She's a seal-point Siamese (apparently), who's just had a hair cut - awwww! She was incredibly soft and very friendly, but I'm not sure Chantal trusted her funny little face one bit! Someone remarked that she looks like Bagpuss without the stripes; I think she looks like she's just run into a wall. Sitting on the floor in our hosts' living room was yet another very festive experience. The huge Christmas tree filling the bay window was dripping with tinselly stuff and underneath there were immaculately wrapped presents, the wine was flowing and so was the laughter. Then I realised, we still haven't got our tree up - I never bother until Christmas eve, for fear of getting fed up with it before Christmas and I still haven't wrapped up the presents. I have no doubt I'll be doing that after Kim's gone to bed on Christmas eve, probably about 3am. By the time I got home I was feeling a bit mellow and sad to say good bye to friends even just for a few days! The sadness lingered and I began to come down to earth again, where I've stayed all day - most of it in bed either sleeping or trying to sleep. I did go out for a run though, and decorated a gingerbread house with Kim, today's highlights. And tomorrow? I don't know, I'll probably stay in bed most of the day, get up to put the tree up, go back to bed, get up when Kim goes to bed, wrap presents and go back to bed again. Meh, as someone I know would so very aptly put it. Right, I'm off to pour a gin and tonic, maybe that'll help?

I feel sick

It's a week before the festivities should begin, but already I've been stuffing myself with chocolate. I couldn't help it. I needed comfort, having lost a prize I really wanted, and there was a big tin of Cadbury's Roses on top of the cupboard, staring at me, lulling me into its colourful, glitzy interior. And of course I've been making truffles, as I do at this time of year, so I've had a go at those too. Now I feel sick. Not in the sense of being sated on something delicious, but in the sense that I really deserve to feel ill; why else would I have eaten that much sugar if I didn't want some kind of poisoning? I feel like I've put on 5lb in the last 5 hours and I'm already feeling guilty about the run that I need in the morning, but don't have time for because I'm supposed to be going for Christmas lunch with friends, where I'll no doubt eat more of the bloody truffles I made. What about the three hours between breakfast and lunch you might ask. Ask away; I'll be too busy running around buying more Roses to fill up the tin to hide the fact that I've eaten most of them to go for a run between breakfast and lunch. And before breakfast? Bugger that, I've got the school play to attend in the evening, I'll need to get as much sleep as I can so that I don't fall asleep then. More guilt. Why do we have to suffer 2 hours of interminable torture for the two lines of glory given to each of our children? The sad thing is, even the kids can't stand sitting around for 117 minutes with nothing to do but listen to the other kids' 3 minutes of fame either. So who is all this crap really for? I think it's for the teachers...look what we've got the little monsters to do, aren't we clever? No you're not; you're a pain in the bloody arse. And it's because of you that I'm about to go and eat the rest of that tin of chocolates, aaaargh!