Threads

It’s one of those days that just doesn’t get light.

I imagine these only happen where we are in the middle of the Black Country, I know it’s not true, but it fits with the tale. We are in the middle of this island, as far from the sea as we can be, and at this time of year, as far it seems, from the light as we can be too.

I am cold.

And instead of doing some sort of activity that will get me moving and warm me up, I too become an island. My outlying regions see the light, but most of me doesn’t as I hunch over first my sewing, now my computer, and later my sewing again.The centre of my being is a shape filled with concentration, like that focus of light in the history paintings that says “Look at this bit, this is where it’s all going on!”

I feel grimly romantic. My needle threaded with sparkly lengths stabbing the old derelict underwear in my hands. There is the darkness of this once-black garment, oddly, the fact that it is no longer black, makes it seem darker. And here I am, forlornly cheering it up with twinkle. Optimistic, but resigned to the truth. It’s knackered and no amount of sparkle will make it otherwise. It is clinging on… or rather… she is clinging on…

I’m clinging on too… I’ve had a new haircut, and bits of it have been dyed purple. Or Aubergine, I was told. Aubergine seems overly cheery, fancy, putting on airs and graces it hasn’t got. But it’s too late, even if I call it purple, it still smacks of middle aged woman clinging on.

 

I don’t often go to work these days. By go to work, I mean arrive at a certain place by a certain time and stay as long as someone else expects me to. This doesn’t mean I’m not happy to do it. Indeed the work I’m turning out for today is part of the “get a cheap studio” deal. So I am absolutely happy to do it. But the day has a different feel about it. First off -I set the alarm. I hate being late. I am the person that will sit reading in the car park for an hour rather than be late. So alarm is set, I have an early night but spend the whole night waking every couple of hours thinking “the alarm will go off in a minute”. My sleep pattern is so much better since I stopped having to set an alarm most days. I also set out the clothes I am going to wear in the morning before I go to bed. This is ridiculous as I’m not exactly an elegant woman, I am a jeans and jumper and converse or boots sort of woman. Nor do I possess a lot of clothes, there aren’t that many decisions to make, especially when you take into account my colour coordinated laundry programme. All the red and purple stuff is waiting to be washed, so that’s not on the list of possibles. But even so, I’m not a “morning person” so indecision overwhelms me and the choice between green or navy t shirt under blue or slightly darker blue jumper becomes impossible. So, clothes laid out, alarm set, I can go to sleep. Ish. I could mention here that at the moment we have a small mouse problem in the loft above the bedroom. Thankfully all my fabric stash is in well sealed plastic boxes. But my husband’s 40 year collection of Walsall Football Club programmes is perilously exposed to nocturnal nibblings. We have set traps and poison but the little bastard still eludes us. We are contemplating a shot gun, from the bed, at regular intervals. It is only the prospect of the aforementioned fabric stash crashing down on our heads that stops us.

So this morning, here I am sat, an hour before I need to go, dressed in the pre-arranged clothes, breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, make-up on. I feel bleary, not at all alert.

 

Contrast this to my usual pattern: I go to bed when I’m tired which is generally between 12:30 and 2 am. I love that quiet time (when all I can hear is the sodding mouse). I sleep now, about 6 or 7 hours. When I had the proper job it was rare I got more than 3 or 4. I sometimes get up straight away or sometimes I read in bed for a while. I get up when I feel like it, and eat my crumpets while I read emails and check out Facebook etc. I drink a bit of tea, and generally finish the mug! By this time I do feel alert and ideas for the day have started to push through the fog. Then I will gather my things together and go to the studio for a few hours and work and play to my own direction, coming home when my brain has stopped.

Through these relatively recent habit developments I believe I have rendered myself totally unemployable.

And this makes me completely content.

And this makes me completely broke.

THREADS has been nominated for an award!

I’m chuffed to be on the list!

If you like what you see and read here, please take time to vote and spread the word!

Thank you!

click here to vote

 

I was told I would probably be able to drive about four weeks after the op. Well it is four weeks today and I’m not. Well… a nearly-lie… I drove about two miles yesterday. It wasn’t good. Felt decidedly wobbly, even though I had my husband with me. We swapped. I’ll have another go tomorrow. It is as much about confidence as it is about the state of my knee. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a confident driver, not like the ridiculous woman I heard say “oh I’m not very good at reversing!” (to be honest I think she should have her licence revoked until she is). What I mean is the confidence in my own body to do what I ask it to. I’m not quite there yet. Also, not doing it for a month makes the re-start very self conscious, I find I am explaining to myself in my head where the windscreen wiper controls are. But I’ll get there too… like my physio, a little bit more each day…

 

All this leads me to my studio. I found myself also losing studio-confidence as I hadn’t been there for a month either. I had forgotten how I did “studio”. I started to feel weird about it. As if, unlike bike riding, I would forget, and end up letting it go, unable to find that feeling I had grown to love.

 

Anyway… today I was given a lift in, and my husband helped me carry back some of the stuff I had taken home. We carted the stuff up the stairs. I walked up very slowly, good leg first, one step at a time… this is really pissing me off now, but if I try to lead with the “bad” leg, it all goes horribly wrong.

The room was dark and icy, the Farmfoods Christmas decorations through the window made it seem worse, not better.

I dumped everything on the table and Mike left me to it.

Kettle on. Heater on. Lights on.

I started to unpack things… the red bra, the wired up white bra, some paper, and some drawings, sketchbook, and a variety of Apple products.

As the kettle boiled I plugged in everything to charge, fired up the bluetooth, connected everything together… “Can you hear me Houston?”

I made the tea and cracked open a packet of jaffa cakes.

 

I sat on my quilt-covered chair and assessed the situation: I have 2 bras finished and wired. I bra finished, waiting to be wired. I have a wall chart waiting to be filled in. I have a variety of sounds, songs, lyrics, all waiting to be pieced together, and a whole lot more still to be written.

As I laid everything out before me, the room was warming up nicely. The tea was warming me on the inside. I looked around the room and all was well. It was still an extension of my brain, the things on the walls were still relevant. The music playing soothed the savage beast (Jesca Hoop).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bxpLcNod80

Two hours later, Mike knocked on the door to ask if I was ready to go home. Yes I was. Two hours, thats all. I feel worn out. This is obviously another aspect I am going to have to build up slowly. But at least I know now I can do it. I haven’t forgotten. 

 

Daft Cow, what was I thinking?