Whilst visiting Madrid in September, I visited the Richard Rogers & Architects exhibition at the La Caixa Forum, in the gorgeous museum and galleries quarter of the city. The Caxia Forum is a recently opened public gallery, which is worth visiting just for its oddball good-looks and verdant vertical garden alone.
After watching the tour de Spain zip by on the Paseo de Prado, we mooched inside - I thought that I'd died and gone to heaven...so many teeny-tiny, perfect maquettes, so little time!
I was absolutely blown away by pretty much everything that I saw. Although perhaps not as sprawling as some of his other designs, I fell in love with this building, the Bordeaux Law Courts. It's so quirky (I mean this in the best sense of the word) and curious and almost cartoon-like, which is something that you just don't expect from a court of law. The alien-like pods are actually courtrooms, naturally lit from above. And I think that it looks all the more curious for being situated so close to the medieval city wall.
Following on from yesterday's stuff I found on my computer post, check out these pretty scans that I took from a stack of vintage sewing magazines. The magazines were given to my friend last year, when the company she work for closed. She used to make fancy dress and theatrical costumes, which I think is an amazing job! I adore these pictures, and need to do something with them. As Worzel once said, I'll put my thinking head on.
Whilst backing up my photos this afternoon, I came across this set of lovelies. They were taken by my uncle Jimmy some time in the early seventies. They're of my mum, dad and cousins, set in and around the estate that my mum and dad grew up on. I love how happy they all look, and my mum's pixie cut, and my dad's amazing tie.
I saw this Grizzly Bear video by Allison Schulnik posted to a friend's blog, and was so mesmerised that I almost forgot to breathe. It was tailor made to make me happy, as it contains three of my all-time favourite things: tiny creatures, forests and Plasticine. Not only is the video magical, but the song is a bit special too.
Today has been a dramatically blustery, stay-in-and-do-projects kind of day. I was pleased about this, as I've been waiting for an opportunity to become better aquainted with my new, vintage sewing machine - the Singer 201. It's so pretty and shiny and old, and totally alien to the ugly hunks of white plastic that I've used in the past.
I found this on a website about vintage sewing machines:
The 201 has gone down in history as Singer's finest model. Although technology has moved on, quality has not... Even today many professional sewers seek out this elusive model as no new machine can come close to this beauty for reliability and stitch quality.
I feel very lucky to own one; it was the best present ever!
But like most things beautiful and elusive, it is also high-maintenance: before you can get going, there's a Krypton Factoresque threading exercise to complete, and the manual - although pretty as pie - is unclear at best and bewildering at worst. I had to 'trial-and-error' it into action.
That said, the sense of satisfaction when I finally sewed a perfect row of bright red stitching was lovely. After practising on an old tea-towel, I laboured long into the afternoon, and made a panelled cushion in suitably vintage fabric, which has been pressed, perfumed and stashed away in a box marked 'Christmas presents'.
Chiz Turnross's 1000 Bird Paintings is one of the most beautiful and unusual exhibitions that I've seen in a long time. When I walked into the gallery at Bradford 1, I was totally overwhelmed by - and immediately fell in love with - this marvellous, multicoloured menagerie. The little beauties filled my heart with pure, undiluted glee! And surely that's a good thing.
I object to wintry commutes. They violate my fundamental human needs, these being: the need not get molested (i.e. hugged) at the bus-stop by a spittly, hairy-eared old man who looks alarmingly like Count Olaf; the need not to skid on drippy bus floors, grazing my knee so badly that loose skin pokes through my tights like dandruff; the need not to listen to the snarky, back-seat ferals and their imbecilic phone music; the need not to have a diseased woman do a tongue-out cough in my face; the need not to slip on a pint of sick outside of the Citizens’ Advice Bureau (my particular favourite). Winter mornings were definitely sent to destroy me - I'm literally one gulp away from tears some days.
Thankfully, I work from home most Fridays, and so such crimes against gentility are never an issue. There are no mad dashes to propel myself from bed to drizzly bus-stop (via ice-cold bath shower) in thirty minutes flat. Nope. Wintry Fridays are a treat.
Today started with a mug of tea in bed, which I drank sleepily whilst watching Everybody Loves Raymond. Molly snoozed at my side. Although busy, I interspersed my very hectic and stressy 'to-do' list with some gentle pottering: I made rhubarb crumble and custard for lunch, watered all of my plants, and learned how to thread my sewing machine. The peace and quiet is a luxury - it means I can get things done without the distraction of other people's blah. And most gorgeously, Molly is so happy to have me around that she follows and settles wherever I go, like a grey mist. She's Little Lamb to my Mary, as you can see from the photos. I love that snoring fluffball.
My stomach was gurgling horribly and graphically all morning. It always does. This is fine when I'm at my desk - within dead-arming reach of potential smart alecs - but in a two-hour, off-site meeting, it's a touch embarrassing.
Thankfully, the building was smack-bang in the middle of town, where mediocre lunchtime fare is never far away. Whilst meandering down a road I never go down, I stumbled across a no-frills Persian restaurant. Peering through the window, I saw that they had more staff than customers, and dusty, plastic fruit dangling from the walls; never really a good sign, but the menu looked lush and so in I went.
I ordered the homemade falafel and houmous, which was served up with the best, fresh flat-bread that I've ever tasted. So yummy. However, this is no happy-ever-after ending; everything went tragically downhill when I saw 'yogurt drink' on the menu. No further description. Shall I chance it? I thought. Would it be something savoury like salted lassi (adore), or something sweet and thick like mango lassi or strawberry Yop (also adore). I ordered it blind, figuring that whatever came would be delicious. But when it eventually arrived... Oh my god! It tasted bad. So bad, in fact, that I feared I'd fallen foul of a mean prank. I stopped short of spitting it back into the glass, and wiping my tongue on the serviette.
Bafflingly, people actually drink this stuff for pleasure. When I arrived back at work, I Googled 'Persian yogurt drink' and discovered that it's called a doogh or a dugh, and contains nothing but carbonated water, yogurt and salt. But I swear that mine was laced. It tasted like three-day-old Lambrini leftovers mixed with a gob of yogurt and doused with salt. Like fizzy, alcoholic vomit - glammed up with ice and a straw. I'm actually shuddering at the taste memory; it's been ages since I've had an eye-wideningly-awful taste sensation like this one. So, what have I learned? I've learned that curiosity doesn't always bring rewards. Sometimes it takes a running jump, and bites you hard and square in the mouth with its fizzy teeth.
Holy moly! I almost died with happiness when I spied this looky-likey gargoyle inside York Minster. I love Alan Partridge with all of my heart, and so I found it amusing to the max. My sister found me giggling to myself whilst taking the photo; it's a bit blurred because I couldn't steady myself.
Made me want to eat a cup of beans, with a sausage for a spoon.
This is my gorgeously scratchy and deliciously cranky cat Sonny. He would totally have your face off, but I love him entirely, and am thinking of him this weekend as the bangers and rockets go off all around me. Despite his violent and confrontational demeanour, Sonny is a secret softy - he hates fireworks and thunder, and hides in cramped, dark spaces for protection. I used to make him cosy, hidey-holes.
He'd lived with me since he was a tiny scrap, but he moved to Skipton a couple of years ago to live with his dad. It was for the best, as he was constantly bullied by the mean ferals that live nearby. I still think of him as partly mine, though. I texted Sonny's dad (he's a human dad, not a cat dad) to see how he was coping with the fireworks, and he said that he'd gone missing somewhere in the house. Poor Sunshine. Lots of love to him, and to all of the other animals scared out of their tiny minds and furry coats by Bonfire Night.
Incidentally, this doesn't include my cousin's ultra-crazy Staffordshire Bull Terrier, who has been tricked into eating a diazepam laced Mars Bar and is probably having a dandy old time of it.
I hate Tuesdays. Four sluggish hours of back-to-back meetings swallow up my lunch hour entirely and leave me zombiesque by five. Thankfully, this Tuesday I had something nice to look forward to: post-work food, drinks & live music. Meeting friends straight after work is such a treat. Especially when I'm spectacularly overdressed in red heels and an Alice in Wonderland dress.
After a very expensive but oh-so-worth-it bottle of tart Cantillon Kriek cherry beer in North Bar (thank you and sorry, P+S!) and a mean Bloody Mary and plate of pumpkin and potato gnocchi in The Reliance, we headed off into the glossy, rainy night.
Our destination was The Brudenell Social Club, a tiny, DIY music venue on the outskirts of Hyde Park. l have a huge soft spot for its run-down, shabby glamour - mirrored, fairy-lit pillars divide the room, and there are faded fabric flowers in the bathroom. The on stage, painted backdrop is a shooting star trailed by streams of multicoloured glitter; above it, in lovingly painted hand, it reads Welcome to the Brudenell Social Club. It's nice, and I always feel safe and cosy there.
We were there on Tuesday to see Blue Roses - the project of Shipley singer-songwriter, Laura Groves. On her MySpace, it says that she likes to 'make choirs of her voice'. And she did this beautifully, with lots of lush harmonies and otherworldly echoes, whilst also playing either the piano or the guitar... a very, very talented girl (she's only 21). I was captivated. It also helped that she'd drafted in a violinist to twang double-time at my heart strings. Her melodramatic arrangements made me think of Kate Bush and Bat For Lashes: high-pitched and ethereal and a bit spooky. Definitely my thing. Blue Roses get the double thumbs-up from me. I've listened to the album a lot since, and have singled out Does Anyone Love Me Now, Moments Before Sleep, and Rebecca as particular favourites.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
