Took some time to go to Port Bruce on Saturday afternoon, after two extremely taxing days. It was an emotionally/physically exhausting experience that I may some day be able to talk about. Right now, I'm just glad it's over, and I'm trying to move on, best I can.

I had seen this paddler/fisher far out in the lake earlier, and while I had my back to Lake Erie most of the time I was there (standing knee deep in calm water looking for lake glass), I did turn around in time to see him paddle through the light's reflection. I thought the water was warm, though others were complaining about the cold. Almost fell in a couple times, with both cameras strapped to me. lol I have noticed a very strange phenomenon this spring/summer along the shore of Lake Erie. Both at Port Stanley, and Port Bruce, there is an almost complete absence of seagulls. I've never seen anything like it. I saw starlings, grackles, and crows, but, no seagulls. Weird. I should add, the water level is generally about 3-4 feet lower than you see here. We have had a lot of rain in the Great Lakes Basin this year.

1/52

 

It's not that I've come to love photography any less. It's simply become that my days are so busy I am physically, emotionally, mentally drained at the end of each day and can't bring myself to think up of new ideas, be creative and do something.

 

While my schedule would not allow me to do another 365, I'm going to do a 52 weeks. In this, I hope to achieve making something new and great every week so I don't fall back into the slump of "I'll just shoot next week" or "I can always take pictures tomorrow"

I'd like to take this chapter of The Captain and The Engineer (TCATE) to wish all of my amazing Crewmates: Happy Pride Month!

 

And to celebrate I am officially shoving our star lovers out of the Rainbow Closet!

 

Vincent is a demisexual, cisgender male. Physically he has a more effeminate, slender shape and a slightly deeper voice than most people expect. However he is known for being able to imitate a woman's voice convincingly well and HAS been mistaken for a woman before. He has been in one relationship with a woman (his wife) and had two crushes on fellow young men in his teenage years that never grew into anything more. Vincent has always known that he's different and it would take someone special to love someone like him. He found love once and doesn't believe he can find it again. He would rather be a bachelor than to be with someone who can't accept and love him for who he is.

 

Aiden is a pansexual, cisgender male. He has always been sure of who he is and knew he'd never be ashamed of it. Aiden has never been in a relationship before but he had a crush on a young woman several years his senior when he was a preteen (who very gently told him they couldn't be together). His crush of Vincent has turned to presumably unrequited love but he still holds hope that his captain will one day feel the same. Aiden believes "all asses are created equally" and it is the soul that matters more than the face.

  

Representation matters and it lets people know they are not alone. That's why I write what I write. I want to make a difference; even if its in some small way. It is my wish for you, my Crewmates, that you can learn as I have: that its okay to be different. Its okay to love who you love. Its okay to be your true, authentic self and be unashamedly you!

Let your colors fly (whatever colors they are) and be proud forever and always.

 

Happy Pride Month! ♥

 

NOTE: The story of The Captain and The Engineer will continue in the NEXT chapter!

 

NEXT PART:

www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/53003592018/in/datepo...

 

To read the rest of the story, here's the album link:

www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/albums/72157717075565127

 

***Please note this is a BOY LOVE (BL/yaoi/gay) series. It is a slow burn and rated PG13!***

 

Special thank you to my husband Vin (Be My Mannequin? Pose Store) for collaborating with me on this series and co-starring as the Captain.

 

DISCORD SERVER: That's right! The Captain and The Engineer has a Discord Server! If you wanna join and chat with other crewmates and see what's new and happening before it gets posted to Flickr, click the link!

discord.gg/qBa769TAC4

 

***NEW!!!!***

 

The Captain and the Engineer now has a FACEBOOK PAGE! Please come Like, Follow, and join the crew! Thank you so much for all your support!

FACEBOOK PAGE:

www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61558531406088

 

France. 2016

 

© All rights reserved. All my images are copyrighted. Any unauthorized use is strictly prohibited. No image can be copied, reproduced, shared, altered or used in any way, both physically or electronically, without my prior written permission.

I like this kind of style. I happen across these huge urban monstrosities that dominate modern urban life and I want to pay more attention to the things above. The metaphorical power on high, physically dominant. High capitalism housed in huge structures. While us, below.

Winter’s Touch Septum

 

Includes:

Unrigged Septum Piercing

Physically Based Rendering + Blinn-Phong Materials

Texture HUD With Four Metals

 

Available under the Anthem tree, discounted to L$50 only for Anthem!

i'm drained. physically and emotionally. i had a great hike with cherron (which accounts for the physical exhaustion) and then helped counsel a friend this evening (the emotonal)... and now, all i want is sleeeeeeep.

Excerpt from blog.waterfrontoronto.ca:

 

Recently, Waterfront Toronto awarded a commission to Berlin-based artists Hadley+Maxwell to create a new sculptural installation for the corner of Front Street East and Bayview Avenue in the West Don Lands community. Installation of this new public art work is expected to be completed in late 2016, after the Pan/Parapan American Games. The site is part of a series of “continuous urban rooms” that will define this section of Front Street East. This new commission joins two previously announced public art projects in the same area, which include work by artist Tadashi Kawamata and the Canadian duo Jennifer Marman and Daniel Borins.

 

Hadley+Maxwell’s work for Front Street will bring the past to life by fragmenting and rearranging parts of monuments, sculptures and architecture from all over the City of Toronto. Based on the idea of follies – fanciful and purely decorative structures that were popular in 18th and 19th century landscape gardens– this project reimagines a ‘garden of follies’ using features from the built environment that are normally inaccessible. The artists will incorporate elements from monuments that are normally high above the street and physically out of reach, bringing them down to street level where they can be celebrated and enjoyed. The work will build a collection of characters that creates a sense of play, inviting us to explore and interact with our city’s history.

 

The sculptures will be created using a “cinefoil” process, which uses a thick aluminum foil material pressed against an object to take its shape. The aluminum impression is then used to create a mold and cast a bronze version of the original. In the case of Hadley+Maxwell’s work, this often means envisioning how parts of an existing work can create a completely new sculpture. The project site and surrounding landscaping will be designed to flow around the work and build a sense of movement.

 

With this new public art work, Hadley and Maxwell are tackling the idea of the monument and asking us to question the way we think about public art. This installation will create a unique urban experience along the promenade, engaging passersby with a landscape of sculptures that relate and respond to one another. Imagine the much-loved Guildwood Park in Scarborough, with its forgotten monuments and statues, updated and translated into a walkable, downtown streetscape.

 

Hadley+Maxwell have been exploring these ideas in their artistic practice since they began working together in 1997. Canadian, but currently Berlin-based, these two artists have exhibited their work in cities all over the world, including Amsterdam, Taipei, Seattle, and Rotterdam. Many Toronto art lovers will also remember their immersive installation for Toronto’s Nuit Blanche in 2012, ‘Smells Like Spirit’. Their body of work includes video and sound-based work and examines the representation of popular culture and ideas of personal/private life versus public appearance. An important aspect of their artistic practice is that process of creating art is as important as the art object created.

Revolutions are external and internal, national and international.

A personal revolution spiritually, physically and emotionally. can normally occur if the real desires are there.

History is full of national revolutions that were sometimes successful.

Winners take over Governments.

Losers are incarcerated or killed.

Who can handle true LIBERTY under a rule of law? Unless handled carefully for all, LIBERTY is lost over time, right?

________________

www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/mark_twain.html

Mark Twain , USA Philosophizing Writer Quotes

Born November 30, 1835; Died April 21, 1910

 

To be good is noble; but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble.

 

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

 

Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered - either by themselves or by others.

 

What would men be without women? Scarce, sir, mighty scarce.

 

When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.

 

EXPLORE # 322 on July 5, 2008; # 340, 465, 483, 493 on Friday, July 4, 2008

Monday, 20 July 2020: our temperature early afternoon is 20C (windchill 20C). Sunrise is at 5:46 am and sunset is at 9:38 pm. Sunny.

 

Two days ago, 18 July 2020, it was such a beautiful day and a very rewarding one. My destination was, for me, an exciting one - an old ghost town that I had never seen before. A long, return drive of 454 kilometres on a pretty hot day was needed, in order to check out this new location. To do a long drive like this, I need to do it when the evenings stay light as late as possible, to make sure I don't have to drive in the dark. Completely tired out at the end of the day, but it was a good tiredness - and, more importantly, a journey that made it so easy to physically distance.

 

My favourite kind of day always includes a bit of everything - old barns, birds, landscapes, skies, wildflowers, and anything else. This day delivered most of those treats.

 

Leaving home by 8:30 am (later than I had hoped), most of my drive was highway travel. Not my favourite, but kind of necessary in order to get so far. Roads were fairly empty, which always makes a drive more pleasant, especially when I know I might want to stop to take a photo at any time.

 

It was definitely a Meadowlark day and it was nice to see one of them with a beak absolutely full of insects for its babies. Other birds included a few familiar species, but ones that are always good to see. I saw one Common Nighthawk this time, unlike the five I saw recently, but one is always enough and greatly appreciated.

 

"Common Nighthawks eat flying insects almost exclusively. The Common Nighthawk hunts on the wing at dawn and dusk, opening its tiny beak to reveal a cavernous mouth well suited for snapping up flying insects. It often takes advantage of clouds of insects attracted to streetlamps, stadium lights, and other bright lights. Nighthawks eat queen ants, wasps, beetles, caddisflies, moths, bugs, mayflies, flies, crickets, grasshoppers, and other insects. They may also eat a small amount of vegetation. Though they forage in low light, they seem to locate prey by sight, possibly with the help of a structure in their eyes that reflects light back to the retina to improve their night vision. They occasionally forage during the day in stormy weather, but seem to never forage at night. Common Nighthawks may forage near the ground or water, or more than 500 feet into the sky." From AllAboutBirds.

 

www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Common_Nighthawk/lifehistory#

 

Once I got into unfamiliar territory, I had to travel quite a distance before seeing any new-to-me old barns or homesteads. Found the first ones before I reached my destination. Once I reached the ghost town, I thoroughly enjoyed wandering around, taking photos. It is only a small place with a handful of old buildings, but very nicely kept. One of its main buildings is a small, country United Church, kept in great condition both inside and out. I had read online beforehand that people can go inside the church and sign their Guest Book, otherwise I probably would not have gone in. Really liked the door knobs to the front door.

 

From there, I took more or less the same route home, stopping only to photograph a few birds en route. I arrived home at 8:30 pm, with a smile on my face and eyes that were still open, thanks to taking some black coffee with me in case of emergency (i.e. unable to keep my eyes open)!

Tandra Quinn (USA 1931-2016) was a model and starlet whose stunning beauty lit up the cinema screen briefly in the early 1950s, in four Hollywood films; most notably the now-cult surreal science fiction picture, Mesa of Lost Women (USA 1953).

 

Born Derline Jeanette Smith in South Los Angeles in the Depression, her mother was determined that her daughter would not suffer the hardship she had herself experienced in her childhood; the best way as she saw it, ensuring that her child became a successful Hollywood actress.

 

Derline had an auspicious start winning Number 1 Perfect Baby in America award (as declared by the Chiropractors Association); and her subsequent childhood steps into show business were fashion modelling and attending acting lessons with the Meglin Kiddies, a famous drama studio for children.

 

However, even before these early curtain calls, Derline had suffered a tragic burning accident that would leave her physically and mentally ( she suffered a constant fight with depression) all her life; and ultimately undermine her confidence in her Hollywood career.

 

That is not to say that there was plenty of bright hope at the beginning: the startlingly pretty youngster auditioned alongside her contemporary, Elizabeth Taylor (USA 1932-2011) for the role that the 'well-connected' Taylor would win in National Velvet (USA 1944); and then had a small role as a schoolgirl in Weekend at The Wardolf (USA 1945), starring Lana Turner (USA 1921-1995).

 

After 20th Century Fox had signed her up to a 7 year contract, the spectre of her early tragedy reared its head, leading to her being dropped by the studio, after casting directors complained that a screen test highlighted an imbalance in her features, when photographed ( Derline had been told that the burns had hampered bone development). She was deeply hurt - but on screen there is no evidence that her beauty was marred; just evidence of the rife insensitivity and brutality of the studio system.

 

Happily, in 1950 she was chosen as “Goose Girl” at Hollywood Park; to 'preside over the geese in the Hollypark infield'; and as 'Goose Girl' she guested on the television show, Turf Topics, on KTTV. Publicity stills reveal her blossoming beauty.

 

Around this time the esteemed photographer Paul Hesse arranged an appointment for her at RKO to meet Howard Hughes. Hughes wanted her to pose in bright light while he hid behind a curtain, but she refused; and she would say in a 2006 interview, that she was probably the only girl ever to stand up Howard Hughes; known for his enticement of so many Hollywood beauties.

 

The road of B-movies inevitably lay ahead and interspersing modelling with acting, she tried various names including Tundra Nova, Jeanette Quinn - as she was billed in The Neanderthal Man (USA 1953), in which she played, with great sensitivity, a deaf mute - before settling on Tandra Quinn.

 

The irony was that in all her movie roles she had no dialogue, despite having an exquisite velvet voice which had impressed producers, to accompany her expressive beauty - and which, as can be confirmed by those who knew in her later years (including myself), endured agelessly.

 

Tandra Quinn crossed paths with a plethora of Hollywood stars during her brief film career; and in her last years recalled knowing Joi Lansing (USA 1928-1972), at drama school, working alongside fellow pin up model, Mara Corday (USA 1933 -), Beverly Garland (USA 1926-2008) & Helen Walker ( USA 1922-1968) in Problem Girls (USA 1953); and Dolores Fuller, Ed Wood Jr's muse (USA 1923-2011) in Girls of The Night (USA 1954). She also knew Marilyn Monroe (USA 1926-1962), with whom she shared a photographer and Rock Hudson (USA 1925-1985) & John Wayne (1905-1979) were amongst her neighbours, around 1960, whilst she lived in Newport Beach - where she would also see resident Mamie Van Doren (USA 1931-)

 

In 1954, she married a Beverly Hills builder Herbert Smithson ( who passed in 1995) who also taught tennis to the Hollywood Stars, including Gary Cooper (USA 1901-1961) and became a mother to two children. She then retired from films - and quite the entrepreneur, she embarked on various projects, never quite getting the right financial backing; but taking her all around the world - including to Australia and Tahiti. In the 1970s she became interested in gold mining which occupied her and her companion Phillip for the rest of her life.

 

As a classic Hollywood film buff I was fascinated with the B-movie, Mesa of Lost Women, which I first saw on video in the late 1990s - and was intrigued to research any of the surviving actors; especially Tandra Quinn (Derline). Research on the internet lead me to contact Derline's younger sister Loretta in California in 2005. As an artist I had created cartoon tributes featuring Derline in her heyday as Tandra Quinn ( I had even depicted her with her own Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame) - and I was eager to surprise her and hopefully uplift her.

 

She was delighted - though humbly bemused and incredulous that anyone would remember let alone celebrate her - which only warmed me to her all the more. She had virtually forgotten "that corny old movie" as she called it, until one day in the 1990s, she walked into a half price book & video store in Dallas, spotted the cover featuring her pin up pose and said to herself, " I guess I'll buy one". Lightly mentioning to the cashier that she was buying it "..'cause this is me" provoked much excitement - "you're kidding?!" - and he and his co-workers asked her to sign the cover of another tape of the movie, as 'Tandra Quinn'.

 

We quickly became firm friends, initially through long letters (she wrote in beautiful script from her Texas home…. "I came here hoping to find a cute cowboy, but…") and then later by long telephone calls - sharing care, support (we both fought depression and suffered knocks in life), our Christian faith - and laughs; always thanking God for humour. Derline had the most wicked dry sense of humour that would be accompanied by the most infectious peel of laughter.

 

Derline had suffered much hardship in her later years and ever wanting to lift her from a sense of worthlessness , I would always remind her that she was a beautiful piece of film history, from a Golden Era of Hollywood; forever preserved on film. She was usually dismissive and I so wanted her to receive more recognition; so with her permission I contacted film historians Tom Weaver and Alan 'Al' Doshna to tell then that I had discovered Tandra Quinn- and she agreed to wonderful revealing interviews with them, respectively in 2006 and 2015.

 

Tom Weaver's interview, conducted both through a meeting and telephone calls was first published in Starlog (Issue 365 - May 2008); then again ( with a 'Tandra Quinn today' photograph, showing the former actress as a voluptuous blonde) in his book of Hollywood interviews, I Talked With a Zombie (McFarland & Co. Inc, 2009). Alan Doshna's interview, conducted by phone and in writing containing even more revelations from Derline's film past was published in FilmFax (No.141 - Summer 2015).

 

Tandra Quinn is forever preserved on celluloid but the lady behind the starlet was so much more: she was a loving, caring, generous, compassionate, often ingenious and feisty human being. She had an extraordinary knowledge of health foods and was an advocate for alternative therapies (although her one personal vice was sugar - "I'm an ice cream & cookies gal!") and a great passion for fighting against injustice . She also protested against cruelty to animals in which she took an active part in highlighting in no uncertain terms, when she tentatively joined Facebook in 2011; at the encouragement of her niece.

 

Derline and I sadly never got to meet in person - though our hearts most definitely met and bonded. I am completing and posting this tribute on what would be the 73rd birthday of my late beautiful mother Marjorie J. Whatley (1943- 1981), about whom Derline showed so much interest; and compassionate care for me, in my early bereavement

 

Whilst Derline had deteriorating health problems, she hid from everyone - including her sister - how widespread the cancer was becoming, that claimed her life on October 21, 2016. She passed away peacefully in Florida as she wished (" I'm an ocean gal!" she shared) supported by her son Scott.

 

I was naturally distressed to hear this past August that she had been admitted to hospital as an emergency - and with prayers, painted this portrait tribute ( photographed just after completion), primarily inspired by her role of Tarantella in Mesa of Lost Women (USA 1953), for which she was most known; determined that it would be painted in her lifetime. Two months later Derline was released from her trial of suffering.

 

I was deeply honoured to know Derline as my dear friend; though as a film fan I would I have loved a dedicated photograph I never wanted to bother her( I have a treasured batch of letters) - so I conclude this tribute with the inscription Tom Weaver arranged for Tandra Quinn to write in the cover page of his book in 2009:

 

" To my dear Sir Stephen ~ This one of Tom's Zombies has awakened to send her love! ~ Tandra Quinn (your Derline)"

 

Peace.

 

See the complete portrait here:

www.flickr.com/photos/stephenbwhatley/29235992841/in/date...

 

Stephen B. Whatley, November 18, 2016.

 

Tandra Quinn. 2016

Oil on canvas

20 x 16in/51 x 40.6cm

www.stephenbwhatley.com

I was a bit tired physically in recent times ... in fact I prefer to relax after work with a film, rather than engage with the pictures post-production so if you find several defects in this shot, this is the raison...

The tidepools at low tide, Ruby Beach, Olympic National Park, Washington's Pacific coastline. On a sparkling day!

 

In order to get this shot, we had to take a physically challenging hike down a mile of winding steep trail and then over another mile of literally climbing over full size trees that had become driftwood (or perhaps just under salt water for 50+ years). Was it worth it? To see something as pristine as this was worth the entire trip.

 

And it was by boat to the island (mostly basalt or volcanic I think) that we spied our first two puffins and more oystercatchers.

 

For tomorrow, I'll post what we saw at this and a higher tide and then perhaps more of the birds on the island.

 

Considering the diversity of Olympic NP, let me add this in for you: Originally created as Mount Olympus National Monument on 2 March 1909 by President Theodore Roosevelt, now Olympic National Park located in the State of Washington, on the Olympic Peninsula. The park has four basic regions: the Pacific coastline, alpine areas, the west side temperate rainforest and the forests of the drier east side. While this photo was taken on the "drier east side," it could just as easily been on the entrance to the Hoh Rainforest.

 

Within the park there are three distinct ecosystems which are sub-alpine forest and wildflower meadow, temperate forest, and the rugged Pacific Shore. These three different ecosystems are in pristine condition and have outstanding scenery. It is probably the largest national park, seemingly without borders (there are four entrances, but no ranger stations and no fees), and in my experience, the least visited so expect peace and quiet in the interior(s), and a fairly strenuous trek to get to the Pacific beaches and tidepools.

I guess this would be the exact opposite of all of the color photos I've posted in the past couple of days, and it makes sense; I'm drained.

Physically, my body is revolting against my me. I ate one thing of yogurt today and a lot of energy drinks. I'm starving. I'm shaky, I almost passed out on the way back from Maine (ugh, I know), and I'm tired. No wonder, right? Your body needs food in order to have any kind of energy. I've had ups and downs with eating and it is a little scary to me that the down that I'm currently facing has had side effects that made themselves known so quickly and boldly.

Mentally, I'm... well, I don't know what I am. Tonight was a full night. I love the group that I'm in where I volunteer. The kids bring me to a place that I can't bring myself on my own. I think I've finally found my place there. I love it. I'm surrounded by people who open their hearts to each other every week. Tonight people shared some very deep thoughts. Deep and honest. It got me thinking, which ultimately made me fold into myself and think about everything that they were talking about. At one point I felt like I was so out of it, so mentally just gone that I needed to feel the warmth of the woman sitting next to me (thank you). It helped. It actually carried me home, but after that I just checked out. I look back at the beginning of the night and I was full of pep and energy, and by the end of it I was in a place I didn't want to be. Cold and alone is the only way I can describe it.

I obviously have some problems that need working on. The eating is the tip of a very large ice berg. I want to be healthy, I want to get better, I want to be able to process things, I want to feel my emotions... I want to be "normal". I just don't know how. Is that stupid? I find myself asking "why is it so hard to be normal?" It should come naturally, shouldn't it? I don't know.

Right now, I'm feeling that gross feeling. I'm holding back tears and looking ahead to what I've got going for me and it makes me want to crawl in a corner some place and just forget about it all.

 

I'm sorry to bring this up. I feel like I'm a broken record. I don't talk about this stuff to anyone, I don't feel like I have the right to. Everyone else is way more important, intelligent, and worthy. Not me. I wonder when that was programmed into my brain?

Masai Mara National Reserve

Kenya

East Africa

 

There are two hyenas, there is another one behind the one in front.

 

A hyena is more physically like a cat than a dog. Unknown to many people, the hyena spends 95% of its time hunting and not scavenging.

 

The spotted hyena (Crocuta crocuta), also known as the laughing hyena, is a species of hyena, currently classed as the sole member of the genus Crocuta, native to Sub-Saharan Africa. It is listed as being of least concern by the IUCN on account of its widespread range and large numbers estimated between 27,000 and 47,000 individuals.The species is, however, experiencing declines outside of protected areas due to habitat loss and poaching.

 

The spotted hyena is the most social of the Carnivora in that it has the largest group sizes and most complex social behaviours. Its social organisation is unlike that of any other carnivore, bearing closer resemblance to that of cercopithecine primates (baboons and macaques) with respect to group-size, hierarchical structure, and frequency of social interaction among both kin and unrelated group-mates.

 

The social system of the spotted hyena is openly competitive rather than cooperative, with access to kills, mating opportunities and the time of dispersal for males depending on the ability to dominate other clan-members. Females provide only for their own cubs rather than assist each other, and males display no paternal care. Spotted hyena society is matriarchal; females are larger than males, and dominate them. From Wikipedia.

 

Thanks to everyone who took the time to stop and look at the previous photo I posted. Tonight I had meant to post this shot and discuss my thoughts behind it at a bit of a greater length, but we shall see how far I get. I have been at the computer all day scanning and editing an image for a job, so my neck is sore and my eyes are tired, and it is a thoroughly less pleasant fatigue than the one you enjoy physically after a good hike in the woods.

 

Anyway, my attempt with my last photo was just to change the pace a little. I know part of my opinion coming up is cynicism, but also not entirely. I just wanted to take a shot at the 5-second attention span many of us use to rule our lives. Regarding photography specifically you notice this by watching a person's viewing habits. What do we do when browsing Flickr, but flip flip flip.

 

And flip flip flip.

 

I am certainly not immune to this, and have been paying a lot more attention to it lately and trying to slow myself down. It is one of the reasons I have been leaving fewer comments is I have been looking at fewer photos and trying to leave more personal comments than the usual "Excellent photo!" or "stonking good shot!". Yes that last is a nod to our good friend RC, for those of you who know who I am talking about. ;-) He is sort of the antithesis of what I was trying to encourage with my last photo.

 

Whoa, speaking of short attention spans, cannot let myself get too distracted. Anyway, I just notice this behavior in people (again myself included) and it sort of bugs me. Well ok, it bugs me a great deal. I recently rented a car for my trip up to Mt. Rainier. It had Sirius radio. Something like 156 stations to listen to. You know what I spent most of my time doing? Flipping stations!!!

 

And flip flip flip. Eventually I just turned the radio off and read a book (not while driving though). It was ridiculous. I find I do the same in hotel rooms when presented with cable television. It is almost too hard to resist. Oooh so many channels, cannot decide. I'll watch Discovery for 30 seconds until a commercial, then flip over to History. Wonder what is on AMC or HBO?

 

What I find a bit unsettling though, is sometimes I wonder if this attitude is affecting how we perceive the world, and hence the photos we take. They tend to rely more on intense colors, dynamic compositions, shock and awe. They have to, the average person only looks at a photo for a handful of seconds, it has to have a hook.

 

Nothing really wrong with that, unless you sacrifice depth to achieve it. I was browsing a really cool book of Ansel Adams' photos today over lunch (no I really do never stop thinking about photography). His photos certainly are full of drama and contrast, but they also have depth to them. They appeal to the wandering eye as well as the lingering one.

 

This is where I worry about the trends of our perceptions. We continuously think that a photo has to be vibrant, punchy, and saturated. Our black and white photos have to be contrasty and impending. And notice how these words work into our vocabulary. How often do we talk about the soft palette of colors an image celebrates? Or the extensive tonal range? What about richness without contrast? Sure, these still come up, but less frequently than they used to.

 

A couple of comments I received sparked various thoughts in my head. On the last self-portrait I posted taken at Lost Lake with my pinhole (that 4 minute exposure) someone commented on the extraordinary patience I must have. Really? Is it that extraordinary these days to be able to stand still and occupy one's self for 4 minutes? And I will even be more honest, I was not even occupying myself. I had a gorgeous lake and mountain in front of me to do it. Is it really such a gulf between 4 seconds and 4 minutes that people think I must be superhuman to bridge it?

 

And the second comment someone left on my last photo about the machine gun nature of DSLRs contributing to this drive-by attention span we have going. I think there is definitely some validity to this. The ability to fire through 1000 shots without having to stop to reload or waste film certainly plays a role. But I think this is more a matter of the egg coming before the chicken. We use digital cameras in this fashion because we want to. No sense blaming our behavior on the camera. It is not like that D70 is whispering seductively in your ear "come on, just 50 more frames, no need to stop to think or enjoy any of this. Just shoot shoot shoot." As I have said before, the important stuff all happens behind the camera. If a DSLR becomes a photo-machine gun it is because the photographer makes it one. And that photographer is just as likely to do so with a film camera too. Trust me, I know some of these people personally.

 

Anyway, these are all late night musings. Things I have noticed. I am not saying I am right. I am not saying I have a solution if I am. I am not even saying if you do this, you shouldn't. The great thing about photography is we each get to approach it how we will, and we should.

 

I have just been noticing this behavior a bit in myself and am attempting to curb it, because I feel like I get better photos when I do. If we approach the world only looking for the flashy stuff, we will find it. And we will take photos of it. But if you make an effort to move a bit slowly, to find the scenes that suck you in and hold you enthralled for minutes on end, you stand a good chance of taking photos that do the same. Isn't that what a photographer should aim for, that is, a photo that draws the viewer in and holds them enthralled. Is it really that fulfilling to take a photo that impresses someone for 4-10 seconds before they move on to the next image? I would rather take one picture that stopped someone for 5 minutes, than 30 images that stopped them for 10 seconds each.

 

Anyway, looks like I got a fair distance down after all. But enough is enough. You know the drill, got enough time for a single minute again? ;-)

 

And Brian it is ok to want to taste this, makes me want to too, so there are at least two of us weirdos out there.

Lost legs and right hand in a Railway accident some years back but how he returns today with rice purchased, holding on his thighs. That is confidence and will power.

Make-up! How I love make-up! I really love cross-dressing as a woman. Everything about doing it is such an adventure. Emotionally, physically and the performance take real effort but t is something I always enjoy doing. I always feel a real thrill and surge of excitement as I open up my make-up box, layout my lingerie, dresses and high heels and brush out my wigs. As I quietly sit painting my nails I find my enjoyment building by the minute.

 

I love the moment I paint on the first layer of make-up and start the process of attempting to look female. As a man I love to to try and pass myself off as a being a woman. I will admit, I have always envied that women can freely wear make-up if they wish to, that they have amazing hair styles and the clothing available for women is just so lovely. The high heels are impractical but as a male o female cross-dresser I am involved in creating a certain look.

 

I have often written in the past how as a younger man I had been impressed by certain performers that were female impersonators. As a teenager I loved the idea of having career where you made living by creating the illusion of being a feminine glamorous woman. In my youth such performers were very different to the drag queen’s of today. Back then being a female impersonator was all about the audience knowing you were a man but your appearance was that of a convincing female when you walked on stage.

 

I also used to love entertainers that played female roles on television and in films. I was rather smitten with the idea of becoming a female impersonator. I realise now, being a lot older, it was all motivated as a way of legitimising my inner desire to be a woman. Back in the 1970s being transgender was not widely accepted in society and I was in denial about y own desires.

 

The few times I dressed up as a girl when I was a teenager I was ecstatic. I knew I liked feeling feminine. As I’ve got older I till have the burning desire to spend time appearing as a woman. The suppressed performer within me is also excited to set this side of me free as I do find it easier to fall into feminine behaviour and thinking when I cross-dress.

 

The make-up and outfits definitely are a big aspect I enjoy. I really feel excited and confident wearing make-up and wearing completely female clothing and having shaved my body and shaped my eyebrows is all part of the thrill and emotional fulfilment that cross-dressing brings to me. As I paint on my make-up I feel changes occurring. As each new layer is added and my male skin is smoothed by the, admittedly, heavy foundation make-up I require I feel rather alive! Once I apply eyeliner, shadow, blush, and then my favourites, creamy lipstick and several coats of gorgeous mascara (I adore mascara) I become rather light headed with sheer feeling of excitement and daring at wha I am doing. Most men are happy being men but I’m definitely the man that likes to also be a woman.

 

Dressing in female lingerie, using silicone breast forms, using genital tucking and then pulling on tights (pantyhose) takes me to a point where I feel my gender is about to crossover. Before long in my head I will no longer be a man. It causes my heart to race and I force myself to get into my dress carefully. The dress is just an amazing moment for me, I find myself hurriedly donning my wig and as soon it is on a huge surge of relief and euphoria floods through me. In a moment of pure vanity, I find myself staring in the mirror and revealing in my moment of appearing as a woman.

 

Once I’ve calmed somewhat, my final touches are to slip into my high heel shoes, add some ear rings and always, always, a dab of feminine perfume. I have become Helene!

 

I love spending time as Helene, in reality she is an illusion as I am a man, I do enjoy my time in the guise of a woman though and the high it induces can last for many months afterward. Deep down I dream of having feminine skin and looking female. I don’t have feminine looks or nice skin so the use of liberal amounts of make-up is a necessity to get even half way toward smoother feminine skin. I do know some actual women who wear similar amounts of make-up as I require so that helps as I imagine, maybe hope, that as a woman I would fit in with those women who always wear heavier make-up. Knowing this women exist helps boost my confidence on the very few occasions I have gone out in public dressed as a woman. I can be one of them!

 

My main focus of this narrative is make-up. I am very enthusiastic about it and love to experiment with it and of course, as I mentioned, I absolutely adore wearring it. Make-up is fun, boosts confidence and I like that you can change the styles and colours to create a different vibe for the woman you become.

 

I also enjoy the performance of cross-dressing. My feeling is if you put so much effort into trying to pass yourself off as a woman then you should behave and think like a woman. Obviously, the big challenge here is many woman find men attractive just as many men find women attractive. Part go my performance is to see if I can behave in this way. In the pst I have been accused of being homosexual but I see it as me performing as a woman. I do not desire intimacy with men but I am willing to act like a female in conversation endearing to flirt a bit. It’s the thrill of playing the role and on a deeper level making my female side exist. I think of myself as a transvestite. I know that word is unpopular but it was a word that gave me salvation as a teenager. I live as a man but I do enjoy dressing up and, yes I am going to say this even though I am sure I invite ridicule and invite delusion, feeling I am now a woman.

 

I have found my cross-dressing is a mixed bag go emotions and motivations. Deep down I am transsexual. I don’t feel I want to change my current life though so transition is not something I would pursue. I have a love of make-up, female clothing and hair styles so cross-dressing lets me experience that. I have a love of female impersonation from my youth so cross-dressing fulfils that aspect too. I also also love the adventure of daring to try and pass myself off as a woman. To date, I feel I fail in that aspiration but I enjoy trying to achieve it.

 

The bottom line is I am a man but I like to wear dresses, female shoes and make-up (did I mention I like make-up?) and I enjoy how I feel spending time as my female alter-ego. It may have some angst, definitely some guilt as my family tolerate it but do not like it, but overall I just love being a woman when I can be.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. On Tuesday Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, discovered that Edith, Lettice’s maid, didn’t have a sewing machine when the Cockney cleaner found the young maid cutting out the pieces for a new frock. Mrs. Boothby made overtures towards Edith, inviting her to her home in Poplar in London’s East End with an air of mystery, saying she might be able to help her with her predicament of a sewing machine.

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice has decamped to Penzance for a week where she is overseeing the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting it out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she has had sent down weeks prior to her arrival. In her mistress’ absence, Edith has more free time on her hands, and so she was able to agree to Mrs. Boothby’s mysterious invitation. Even though she is happy with her current arrangement to take any items she wants to sew home to her parent’s house in Harlesden, where she can use her mother’s Singer** sewing machine on her days off. The opportunity of gaining access to a sewing machine of her own is too good for Edith to refuse.

 

So it is that we find ourselves in the kitchen cum living room of Mrs. Boothby’s tenement in Merrybrook Place in Poplar. By her own admission, it is a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of surrounding Poplar. Mrs. Boothby was just about to explain to Edith who someone called Ken is, when she was interrupted by the sound of his whistle. Moments later the door to Mrs. Boothby’s house flew open and the frame was filled by a tall bulking man wearing a flat cap with a parcel beneath his right arm wrapped in newspaper and tied up with twine.

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby gasps, releasing a fresh plume of smoke as she exhales after drawing on her lit cigarette. “You’re ‘ome at last.”

 

“’Ome now!” he replies loudly and laconically as he steps across the threshold.

 

“Well don’t just stand there in the door, lettin’ all the cold air in and the ‘ot air out!” Mrs. Boothby scolds. “Come inside wiv you, and close the door behind you.”

 

The man pushes the door closed behind him with rather more force than is required and it slams loudly, and his violent slamming makes the crockery in the dresser behind Edith rattle. “Closed now!” he says defiantly.

 

Rather startled by the arrival of this man, Edith looks up at him with wide eyes filled with concern. Without the sun from the courtyard outside blinding her, Edith can see the man towering over them is very tall and muscular beneath his clothes, and rather than being Mrs. Boothby’s age, as she thought he was at first, she finds he is actually much younger. Clean shaven, he is dressed in a long grey coat and he has a collarless blue and white striped shirt and dusty black trousers held up by suspenders on beneath. There is a bright red and white spotted handkerchief tied around his neck. His face is as white as Mrs. Boothby’s, but his face is quite unlike hers. Where her face is drawn and pinched, his is fresh and rounded. He looks to Mrs. Boothby with bright eyes which are just like hers.

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby says admonishingly. “What ‘ave I told you ‘bout slammin’ the door! Lawd you’ll frighten Old Mr. and Mrs. Blackfriar upstairs, not to mention Mrs. Conway next door.”

 

“Sorry Ma!” Ken replies in the same loud and rather toneless voice. It is then that he sees the Regency china teapot on the table. “Good pot, Ma!” He exclaims. “Good pot!”

 

“Well of course it’s the good pot, Ken. You knew I was havin’ someone ‘ome for tea today. I told you that this mornin’. You remember don’t you?”

 

“Nice lady!” he says loudly, and then suddenly he notices Edith sitting, rather frightened in his presence, in her chair. Realising Mrs. Boothby has company he quickly whisks off his cap with his empty left hand, revealing a mop of unruly curly red hair.

 

“That’s right. The nice lady I work wiv up the West End. Nah, Ken, this his ‘er. This is Miss Watsford. Edith, this is my son, Kenneth, but we just call him Ken, don’t we son?”

 

“I’m Ken! That’s me!”

 

“Yes son,” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly. “That’s you alright. You’re my big little Ken, ain’t cha?”

 

“Son?” Edith gasps. It is then she suddenly sees the gormless grin that teases up the corners of his mouth and plumps his lips and the childish delight highlighting his glinting eyes as he looks down at her. Only then does she realise that Ken might be big and bulky, but he’s never hurt another living being.

 

“How do, Miss Watsford!” Ken says dropping his flat cap on the table and thrusting the paper wrapped parcel out in front of him like an offering.

 

“Nah, nah!” Mrs. Boothby fusses, dropping the cigarette she holds in her hand into the ashtray and standing up. “Miss Watsford don’t want that right nah. ‘Ere.” She takes one of the shortbread biscuits from the plate and gives it to the bulking lad. “Nah, go sit dahn on your bed and play wiv your toys for a bit, and let Miss Watsford and I ‘ave a nice chat. Then you can show ‘er what you got when I tell you. Alright?”

 

“Alright Ma.”

 

“Good boy.” She reaches up and runs a hand along her child’s soft cheek before planting a tender kiss on it. “And later, after I’ve taken Miss Watsford back ‘ome, I’ll read you one of them Beatrix Potter books you like. Alright?”

 

“Peter Rabbit?” Ken points to the teapot of the rabbit coming out of a watering can standing on one of the upper shelves of the dresser.

 

“Yes if you want, son. Nah, go sit dahn on your bed, and I’ll call you in a bit.”

 

Snatching up his cap, Ken quietly plods over to a bed that Edith hadn’t noticed before, in the corner of the room. Around and on it sit a few precious toys: a stuffed rabbit and a teddy bear, both clearly very well loved, and a few children’s books.

 

“Son?” Edith says, her eyes darting about the room as she puts the pieces of Ken’s presence together in her mind. “Oh Mrs. Boothby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had a son. I… I…” she stammers in an embarrassed fashion. “I just assumed that with your husband passed away, and no mention of a child.”

 

“That I ‘ad no children.” Mrs. Boothby completes Edith’s unspoken assumption.

 

“I actually thought you might have had a son who… well, who died in the war.”

 

“Why would you fink that, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby gives her a quizzical look.

 

“Well, there are so many widows and grieving mothers about.”

 

The old woman sits back down again and releases another fruity cough. As she clears her throat roughly she picks up her cigarette and continues. “Well ‘how were you to know that I ‘ad a son, dead or otherwise, if I ain’t never told you. ‘Ere, ‘ave some more tea.” She lifts the pot and pours Edith some fresh tea into her half empty cup.

 

“So how old is your son, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well that depends who you ask. If you ask me, ‘e’s fourty-two, cos that’s ‘ow old ‘e is. I brought ‘im into the world in April eighteen eighty.” Then she pauses before continuing. “But if you ask any of them fancy do-gooder doctors, they’d tell you ‘e’s six, cos that ‘ow old they say ‘e is in ‘is own ‘ead.”

 

The old Cockney woman sighs and takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper and tobacco crackling as she draws deeply, the sound clear in the sudden heavy silence that hangs thickly in the room like the acrid smoke of her cigarette. Edith looks at Ken sitting in his bed a childlike smile of delight brightening his face, playing happily like a six year old holding the floppy arms of his toy rabbit, making him dance on his knee. Mrs. Boothby follows Edith’s gaze with her own sharp eyes before continuing.

 

“So, nah you see why it’s a bit easier for me not to mention that I ‘ave a son.” She exhales another plume of bitter blueish grey smoke. “Not that I’m ashamed of ‘im, cos I ain’t. “E’s a good lad ‘e is, but ‘e’s got ‘is own cross to bear. I ‘ad problems you see, when ‘e was born. I’d been scrubbin’ floors right up ‘till me waters broke almost, what wiv Bill bein’ away in the merchant navy and ‘is pay not coverin’ all I ‘ad to pay for. I ‘ad to make ends meet someow and ‘ave everythin’ ready for Ken when ‘e arrived. Anyway, ‘e must ‘ave been in the wrong position, ‘cos the midwife couldn’t get ‘im in the right spot and she ‘ad to get the doctor.” She takes another long drag of her cigarette before stumping it out in the ashtray as she blows out another plume of cigarette smoke. She takes out her papers and quietly begins rolling another cigarette. “Not that I wanted ‘im. I couldn’t afford a doctor, but ‘e’s one of them do-gooder doctors what don’t charge those what can’t afford to pay, and that was me. I needed every brass farvin’ I could get my grubby ‘ands on. They said Ken didn’t get enough oxygen when ‘e was being born and as such that ‘is mind wouldn’t develop much beyond a six year old. That bloody Irish Catholic priest offered to take Ken away.” Mrs. Boothby spits angrily before putting the cigarette between her lip and lighting it.

 

“Priest!” Ken calls angrily from his truckle bed. “Priest bad!”

 

“Yes son! The priest is bad, but ‘e ain’t ‘ere so don’t you trouble your pretty ‘ead about it.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly. She looks over at her son, and just like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun, Ken’s angry spat dissipates and he happily mumbles something to his rabbit before laughing.

 

“But you kept Ken.” Edith ventures gingerly as she watches Mrs. Boothby draw the rolled cigarette paper filled with tobacco to her lips and lick it, before rolling it closed.

 

“I ain’t no Irish trash. I’m a Protestant, not that I’m all that bovvered wiv God, and certainly not that Irish God when the priest said I should just give Ken up and put ‘im in one of them ‘ouses for unwanted kiddies with mental problems. But Mrs. Conway next door told ‘im to clear off quick smart. She told me that all kiddies is a blessin’, and she was right.”

 

“So you raised him then.”

 

“I did!” Mrs. Boothby replies proudly. “And when Bill came ‘ome from bein’ on the sea, I knew Mrs. Conway was right. Bill and I loved Ken, faults ‘n all. Mrs. Conway was right. Kiddies are a blessin’. Bill and I became closer ‘cos of Ken. ‘E still drank, but not like ‘e did before Ken were born. It were our job to raise ‘im propper and make sure ‘e could take care of ‘imself, and Bill took that serious like. They says it takes a village to raise a child, and well, I got a village right ‘ere outside this door. Mrs. Conway looked after Ken just like any uvver kiddie when Bill went back to sea and I took up charring again.”

 

“So that’s why you said you owe her so much.” Edith says, suddenly understanding Mrs. Boothby’s statement about Mrs. Conway earlier.

 

The old woman nods. “And cos ‘e was raised wiv all the uvver kiddies, they all grew up togevva, and they protected Ken, ‘till ‘e could protect ‘imself. When ‘e were older, when Bill were ‘ome, he taught Ken ‘ow to box, not to fight like some ‘round ‘ere, but just to defend ‘imself. You know what I mean?”

 

Edith nods. “Somehow, I suspect Ken wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Edith muses, smiling over at Ken.

 

“You got that right, Edith dearie. When Ken were a bit older, course ‘e couldn’t do school wiv the uvver kiddies, not bein’ as good wiv words and numbers like them, but ‘e were a big and strong lad, so I got ‘im a job wiv the local rag’ n’ bone man***.”

 

“So Ken is accepted in the neighbourhood then?”

 

“Course ‘e is, dearie. “E’s a local lad, and we look after our own dahn ‘ere. All the ladies ‘round these parts love ‘im when ‘e comes by wiv the wagon, cos they know Ken won’t try and cheat ‘em out of nuffink, and Mr. Pargiter and ‘is boys love ‘im too cos ‘e’s good for business, and they take good care of ‘im.”

 

“Did he have to go to war, Mrs. Boothby?” She looks again at the happy man now playing with both his bear and his rabbit.

 

“Fank the Lawd, no!” Mrs. Boothby casts her eyes to the stained ceiling above. “‘E were deemed mentally unfit for service,” The old woman blows out a ragged breath full of cigarette smoke before continuing a moment later. “And Lawd knows I ain’t never been so grateful as I were that day that our Ken came out baked the way ‘e did. Lads came ‘ome from the war more mentally unfit than the way they went to it. More mentally unfit than our Ken!”

 

“And some never came home.” Edith mumbles, dropping her head sadly.

 

Mrs. Boothby reaches out a careworn hand and takes hold of Edith’s squeezing it comfortingly.

 

“’Ere, let’s not get all upset when the sun is shin’ outside and Ken’s ‘ere wiv us.” Mrs. Boothby says, her voice full of false joviality as she blinks back tears. “Nah workin’ for Mr. Pargiter like ‘e does, Ken comes across a lot of good stuff. Ain’t that right, Ken?”

 

“What Ma?” Ken asks expectantly, raising his head from his toys and looking up happily at his old mother in her chair.

 

“You comes across lots of nice fings when you take Mr. Pargiter’s cart ‘round, don’t you?” she asks him patiently.

 

“Yes Ma.”

 

“Includin’ somfink you wanna show to Miss Watsford, ain’t that right, Ken?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies excitedly bouncing on his truckle bed, making the wooden frame squeak under his weight.

 

“So come show what you got to Miss Watsford then.” Mrs. Boothby says to her son encouragingly.

 

Obediently Ken tears the newspaper and twine enthusiastically from around the parcel he was carrying when he arrived home. Moving the gilt blue and white plate of uneaten shortbread biscuits to the middle of the table, Mrs. Boothby makes way for Ken’s surprise. With a groan he deposits a hand treadle Singer sewing machine on the edge of the table. Edith gasps.

 

“There you go Edith, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby says proudly.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, I… I can’t afford this on a maid’s wage.” Edith stammers.

 

“You don’t know ‘ow much it is yet.” the old woman counters with a doubtful look.

 

“Well it’s sure to be exp…” Edith begins, but is silenced by Mrs. Boothby’s raised hand.

 

“Ken, ‘ow much Mr. Pargiter sell this to you for?” Mrs. Boothby asks her son.

 

“Five bob, Mum.” Ken replies proudly, smiling his gormless grin, turning his head, first to his mother and then Edith for approval.

 

“Well that sounds a fair price from old Mr. Pargiter.” Mrs. Boothby confirms as she eyes up the machine. “So if we add on an extra shillin’ for Ken’s time, that’ll be six bob, Edith.”

 

Edith gasps. “Six shillings!” She runs her hand lovingly along the machine’s black painted treadle and admires the beautiful gold and red painted decoration. “But it’s worth so much more than that.”

 

“But that ain’t what it’s bein’ sold for, Edith dearie. It’s six shillins. You fink six shillins a good price to sell this ‘ere sewin’ machine to Miss Watsford, Ken my boy?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies, nodding emphatically.

 

“Well, you ‘eard the man. Six shillins, that’s the price then, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says with a cheeky smile. "Take it or leave it.”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, Ken…” Edith breathes with delight. “How can I say no?”

 

“You can’t.” Mrs. Boothby concludes as she blows out a final billowing cloud of cigarette smoke and squashes the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray with the others. “Nah, just pay me the six shillins when I come in on Tuesday.”

 

“Oh Ken,” Edith says, looking up at the tall man with his beaming smile and glittering eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***A rag-and-bone man is a person who goes from street to street in a vehicle or with a horse and cart buying things such as old clothes and furniture. He would then sell these items on to someone else for a small profit.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

The Singer hand treadle sewing machine with its hand painted detail I acquired from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel as part of a lot of her miniature hats from a milliner’s tableau.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of decorative “best” blue and white china on the kitchen table come from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay. The Scottish shortbreads on the cake plate have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. They actually come in their own 1:12 miniature artisan tin, complete with appropriate labelling.

 

Also on the table are Mrs. Boothby’s Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes and the kettle I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets of Limehouse in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. Yet it is in Pennyfields in Limehouse* that Lettice now walks with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. The narrow street lined with old Victorian era buildings is busy and energetic, full of people of Chinese heritage going about their business and the cacophony of chatter in a different language spoken forcefully around them is palpable. The air is filled with a distinctive smell: a combination of spices, fried food, joss sticks and coal, all not able to hide the pervasive stench coming from the busy river Thames not far away.

 

Gerald looks anxiously over his shoulder as he and Lettice walk down the street past Chinese restaurants and grocers. Asian people standing in shady doorways and walking down the street glare at he and Lettice with distrust, or in a few cases outright curiosity. “When you asked me if I’d care to go for a drive with you on an excursion, Lettuce Leaf,” he hisses at his friend. “I was expecting a trip to Surrey or the South Downs for a jolly picnic – not Limehouse.”

 

“Don’t call me that Gerald!” Lettice scolds her friend. “We aren’t children anymore, and you know I don’t like it.”

 

“Well, I don’t much like walking around here, Lettice.” Gerald hisses. “The Morris** is likely to get stolen.”

 

“Don’t be such a worry wart, Gerald.” Lettice replies in an unconcerned fashion as she strides purposefully down the street slightly ahead of her friend, gliding elegantly around the citizenry of the street, seeming oblivious to their stares. “Nothing will happen to it.”

 

“Well, the locals don’t look very friendly.” Gerald counters anxiously in a mutter between his teeth as he hurries his pace to keep up with her. “Haven’t you heard of white slavery before, darling?”

 

“Oh, don’t talk such rubbish!” she replies with a dismissive flap of her hand. “We aren’t in ‘The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu’***. We’re perfectly safe. The Chinese residents of Limehouse are relatively law abiding I’ll have you know, Gerald. Ahh! Here we are.”

 

Lettice stops in front of a large red brick warehouse with a heavy wooden door painted a rusty red colour. Gerald looks up and sees writing in Chinese characters above the doorway.

 

“It’s in foreign.” he remarks screwing up his nose with distaste.

 

“Please don’t be such a bore, Gerald.” Lettice replies, rolling her eyes. “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked you to come.” She knocks boldly on the door with her grey glove clad hand.

 

“No-one else you know with a car would have been brave enough to come down here with you.”

 

“You’re about to meet a very good business colleague of mine, Gerald,” Lettice scolds with a wagging finger. “So do try and remember your manners.”

 

The pair are silenced by a deep creaking as the door opens. A pretty Chinese face appears from behind the grimy painted door. The girl’s dark eyes are framed by a lustrous straight jet fringe.

 

“What opium den have you brought us to?” hisses Gerald.

 

“Why ‘ello Lettice!” the Chinese girl cries with a pure Cockney accent as she smiles brightly, revealing a beautiful set of white teeth.

 

Gerald’s mouth falls open and his eye bulge in shock.

 

“Hullo. How do you do Ada.” Lettice turns to Gerald, then turns back hurriedly at the sight of his obviously startled face, a flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks. “Err, Ada, this is my old childhood chum, Gerald. He seems to have left his manners in the car, I’m afraid.”

 

“Ah! Don’t worry Lettice. I’m used to it.” Ada opens the door, revealing her slim figure wrapped in an elegant red and gold brocade cheongsam. “No-one can believe a Chinese girl from Lime’ouse was actually born in Lime’ouse. ‘Ow do ya do, Gerald. C’mon in, bowf of ya.”

 

Lettice and the stunned Gerald step through the door which Ada closes behind them with a loud thud. The trio are enveloped by silence as the heavy door keeps at bay the cacophony of the street outside.

 

“Welcome Mr. Gerald, to Ada May Wong’s Oriental Emporium!” the Chinese girl says in a meek faux Anglo-Chinese accent, walking before them with open gestures as she indicates to their surrounds.

 

“Oh my goodness!” Gerald gasps.

 

Before him Gerald sees a beautiful array of imported Asian furnishings, ornaments and objet d’art all tastefully presented in a large, albeit crowded, showroom. Cabinets of Japanese tea sets and Asian ornaments jostle for space with ornately carved tables weighed down with cloisonné vases, Satsuma bowls and porcelain statues. Giant ginger jars on wooden feet stand about atop oriental carpets whilst the walls are covered in richly patterned wallpaper.

 

“So what can I do ya for?” Ada asks cheerily as she slips back behind a large wooden counter where she starts unpacking some garishly painted plates from a small wooden box. “Ere, I don’t s’pose ya want any of this cheap export ware from China, do ya?” She holds up a plate and a vase hopefully.

 

Lettice glances at the offending pieces, scrunches up her nose and winces in distaste. “No. Thank you, Ada.” she replies distractedly as she starts scanning the room for potential pieces for her newest interior designs.

 

“Nah. I thawt not. Youse a lady wiv good taste Lettice. You don’t want none of this trash. Can’t believe Dad sent this lot back. ‘E knows I runs a decent emporium, wiv discerning clientele like yerself. Nah. I’ll see if I can’t flog this lot down at Chong Chu’s restaurant down Lime’ouse Causeway.”

 

“Where is your father, Ada?”

 

“Dad? Shanghai, last I ‘eard.”

 

“Shanghai,” Lettice remarks with a smile. “How opportune.”

 

“Opportune, Lettice?”

 

“Yes, you see that’s why I’ve come to you. I’m decorating for an American woman who has been living in Shanghai for the last six months in the International Concession and has developed the taste for the exotic. She wants her love of the Oriental décor she enjoyed there reflected in her new home.”

 

“Well, youse knew where to come.” Ada beams. “So what are yer after?”

 

Lettice looks up from investigating a beautifully carved chair. “I think some dark wood furnishings and some ceramics.” She looks over at Ada. “Oh, she especially likes yellow, so any yellow porcelain would be of interest.”

 

“I’ve got a nice pale yellow celadon vase ‘round ‘ere somewhere. It’s got gold bamboo leaves on it.”

 

“That sounds promising.” Lettice remarks eagerly as she sizes up a tall blue and white vase.

 

Ada looks across at Gerald oddly as he wanders the room, silently admiring all the beautiful objects crammed into such a small space. “Why’d ya bring ya friend then Lettice? ‘E’s not much of a conversationalist, is ‘e?”

 

“She brought me, Miss Wong,” Gerald pipes up, shattering his silent contemplation. “Because I’m the only one of her friends in London with a Morris tourer readily available for her to requisition for shopping expeditions, who is willing to take her wherever she wants to go, foolishly without question.”

 

“Youse does talk then!” Ada remarks with a gleeful smirk. “Miss Wong! You’se a classy gent ‘n all.”

 

“You usually can’t shut Gerald up with his witty banter,” Lettice remarks looking back over at Gerald. “And, I’ll have you know that this is a business trip, Gerald. I’m shopping for Miss Ward.”

 

“And if you see something you just happen to like?” Gerald cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Then it will go in the rear seat of the Morris, along with anything else I wish to take away with me today.” Lettice smiles back.

 

“So, you run this import enterprise then, Miss Wong?” Gerald turns his attention to Ada.

 

“Well, technically it’s my Dad’s business, but ‘e’s always orf sailin’ ‘round the world like a pirate lookin’ for treasures for me to sell, so yes, I runs the London henterprise.” She looks down at her red fingers and polishes her red painted index fingernail with the pad of her thumb. “And I’m a pretty dab ‘and at it too, ain’t I Lettice?”

 

“You are Ada. You’re the finest importer of oriental antiquities I know. I’ll never shop anywhere else.”

 

“Gawn!” Ada laughs, waving her hand dismissively at her English customer. “Youse as much of sweet talker as me, Lettice!”

 

“Do you deliver, Miss Wong?” Gerald enquires.

 

“Of course I does! I’m a proper hestablishment.” Ada remarks loftily, sliding back from around the counter and gliding over to Gerald with fluid movements as he picks up a cloisonné vase. Lowering her lids she smiles and continues, “Why? See sumfink yer like, Gerald?”

 

“Perhaps, but I was just ascertaining whether there was really any need for me to come down here with the Morris.” He looks accusingly over at Lettice.

 

“Oh Gerald, you needed an excursion.” Lettice smiles back pretending innocence, running her fingers lazily around the opening of a large Chinese porcelain vase which she considers might make a good umbrella stand. “And I needed you for the company. Consider it an educational experience. Just think of the stories you can tell our coterie about how you visited the East End and lived to tell the tale! You’ll be able to dine off that for weeks!”

 

“That’s not fair, Lettice.” Gerald defends himself.

 

“I bet it’s true though.” pipes up Ada. “You toffs are all alike: nevva set foot past Tower ‘Ill, ‘cept when yer want a taste of the elicit or exotic. Do ya?”

 

“Do I what, Miss Wong?” Gerald asks, looking at her Chinese girl in alarm.

 

“Do ya fancy somefink exotic?”

 

“Well… err…” Gerald replies in a fluster, hurriedly putting down the vase he holds as he blushes under Ada’s sudden and obvious attentions. “Ahh, no thank you Miss Wong.”

 

“Gerald will be immune to your feminine charms and wicked wiles, Ada.” Lettice gives Ada a knowing look with her right eyebrow cocked.

 

“Oh pooh!” Ada looks crestfallen.

 

“Lettice!” Gerald gasps, blushing bright red at his friend’s indiscreet disclosure.

 

“Don’t worry Gerald. Ada’s seen far worse on the streets of Limehouse. Haven’t you Ada?”

 

“’Ave I ever!”

 

“I just wanted to save you breaking Ada’s heart.” Lettice teases her friend. “And save you both from embarrassment.” She winks at Gerald, giving him a warm smile that implies that no harm will come to his reputation.

 

“Oh, you are awful sometimes, Lettice!” Gerald huffs in a disgruntled fashion, his face still flushed with embarrassment.

 

“I know Gerald.” Lettice pouts teasingly. “But you really are too easy to bait sometimes. You make sport of yourself, really you do.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “Think of it as a payment in kind for all the times you call me Lettuce Leaf.”

 

“You deserve to walk home with all your purchases, Lettuce Leaf.” Gerald sulks, enunciating Lettice’s hated nickname especially clearly.

 

“But you’re far too much of a gentleman to that to me Gerald.” Lettice adds.

 

“You’re just lucky we’re such good old childhood chums.” He looks at her with a mixture of exasperation and love.

 

“I know Gerald, and I’ll always be grateful for that.” Lettice replies in earnest.

 

The pair smile at one another and then chuckle, knowing that all is forgiven, and that their strong bond of friendship remains undamaged.

 

“Your secret’s safe wiv me Gerald.” Ada assures him with a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Pity. Youse a good lookin’ chap.” She looks Gerald up and down appraisingly and then sighs. “We could’ve ‘ad some fun, rufflin’ a few feathers wiv yer and Lettice’s fancy friends up the West End. Still, yer can’t win ‘em all.” She puts a finger to the cheek and thinks with her head cocked to one side. “’Ere, I could introduce ya to a couple of Chinese sailor friends of mine, if ya does fancy somethin’ exotic.”

 

*The mid-1880s had seen the beginnings of a Chinatown in Limehouse in London, with the establishment of grocery stores, eating houses, meeting places and Chinese street names in the East End. It was the only place in London where Chinese restaurants could be found. By 1890 two distinct yet small Chinese communities had developed: Chinese migrants from Shanghai had settled around Pennyfields, Amoy Place and Ming Street (in Poplar) and those from Canton and Southern China around Gill Street and Limehouse Causeway. The 1881 Census had recorded one hundred and nine Chinese migrants in London, the majority of whom resided in Limehouse. By 1891 the numbers in London had risen to three hundred and two but those in Limehouse to just eighty-two. Thereafter, the Chinese migrant population of Limehouse gradually increased, reaching three hundred and thirty seven by 1921.

 

**Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

***’The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu’ was a 1913 novel by prolific writer Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward under the non-deplume Sax Rohmer that portrayed Chinese as opium fiends, thugs, murders and villains. His book was so successful that he wrote a whole series of sequels between 1914 ad 1917 and then again from 1933 until 1959.

 

You might be surprised when I tell you that you could easily fit the entirety of Ada May Wong’s Oriental Emporium into the back of Gerald’s Morris four-seater tourer. This is because this emporium is made up entirely with items from my 1:12 miniatures collection and various Asian antique miniatures, some of which I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The wooden Chinese dragon chairs and their matching low table I found in a little shop in Singapore whilst I was holiday there. They are beautifully carved from cherrywood.

 

The large blue and gold vase featuring geishas on the cherrywood table is really a small Satsuma export ware vase from the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century. It is six centimetres in height. Also Satsuma ware is the autumn leaves bowl on the counter which is three centimetres in diameter. It is from the 1920s. The blue grapevine patterned vase behind the Satsuma bowl is also a small piece of Satsuma export ware. It is late Nineteenth Century and was the first piece of Satsuma ware I ever owned. I have had it since I was eight. Satsuma ware (薩摩焼, Satsuma-yaki) is a type of Japanese pottery originally from Satsuma Province, southern Kyūshū. Today, it can be divided into two distinct categories: the original plain dark clay early Satsuma (古薩摩, Ko-Satsuma) made in Satsuma from around 1600, and the elaborately decorated export Satsuma (京薩摩, Kyō-Satsuma) ivory-bodied pieces which began to be produced in the nineteenth century in various Japanese cities. By adapting their gilded polychromatic enamel overglaze designs to appeal to the tastes of western consumers, manufacturers of the latter made Satsuma ware one of the most recognized and profitable export products of the Meiji period.

 

The various vases standing about on the floor are all small Chinese or Japanese vases that I have acquired through auction. The blue and white one to the left of the photo in front of the counter is Japanese and is Nineteenth Century. The blue and white one on a china pedestal in front of the counter in the middle of the photograph is Chinese and I believe is Eighteenth Century.

 

The little sterling silver rickshaw sitting on the counter I bought in a box of odds and ends at an auction many years ago, so I don’t know any of its provenance, other than it is marked silver and also has Japanese characters stamped into it, so it must have been made in Japan. It is one centimetre in height and only marginally longer, and it has fully functioning wheels!

 

The three vases, teapot and plate in the crate on the shop counter top are 1:12 size miniatures that I acquired at the same time and from the same stockist as the Chinese style cherrywood china cabinet.

 

The mirror backed Chinese style cherrywood china cabinet in the background I have had since acquiring it as a teenager from a specialist dollhouse supplier. The yellow and peach floral Japanese tea set on the top shelf I have also had since a teenager after I bought it at an Asian emporium in London, perhaps not dissimilar to ‘Ada Wong’s Oriental Emporium’! The blue and white Japanese tea service on the second shelf I acquired from a tea shop in Kallista in the Dandenong Ranges. The red and white elephants on the third shelf are actually glass beads and used to be part of a necklace which fell apart long before I bought them. They came in a box of bits I thought would make good miniature editions that I bought at a flea market some fifteen years ago.

 

The two oxblood cloisonné vases with floral panels on the table to the right of the china cabinet I bought from the Camberwell Market in Melbourne many years ago. The elderly woman who sold them to me said that her father had bought them in Peking before he left there in the 1920s. She believed they were containers for opium. The stoppers with tiny, long spoons which she said she remembered as a child had long since gone missing. The larger white cloisonné floral vase is from the early Twentieth Century. I bought when I was a child from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.

 

Behind the counter is a Chinese screen dating from the 1930s featuring hand-painted soapstone panels of scenes with mountains and pagodas. It is framed lacquered wood and is remarkably heavy for its size. The reverse features panels of flowers.

 

The Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling was a Chinese New Year party favour that I was given in 1981 which I kept with all my other miniatures as I built up my collection. It collapses and lies flat in a presentation box. This is the first time I have ever used it in one of my miniature photos.

 

The carpet in the middle of the showroom floor is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug made in miniature by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The wallpaper is beautiful hand printed Japanese paper featuring a pattern of cherry blossoms given to me by a friend, who encouraged me to create the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Adult male. This species received its name from the resemblance of the male's colors to those on the coat-of-arms of Lord Baltimore, not because it was first discovered in the city of Baltimore. Like all New World orioles, it is named after an unrelated, physically similar family found in the Old World.

 

Ottawa County, Michigan, USA.

 

The use of any of my photos, of any file size, for any purpose, is subject to approval by me. Contact me for permission. Image files are available upon request. My email address can be found at my Flickr profile page. Or send me a FlickrMail.

PENTAX Image

Women of Steel

 

During both World Wars, thousands of women were conscripted to work in the factories and steel mills to keep them running whilst the men were away fighting.

 

The women took on these roles, which were often dangerous and physically demanding, alongside looking after their families.

The Women of Steel are an important part of Sheffield's history and an inspiration to young people today.

 

Memorial to the Women of Steel

 

A public appeal has raised over £160,000 for a stunning bronze statue as a permanent memorial to the Women of Steel.

 

The statue was unveiled in Barker's Pool in the city centre on Friday 17th June 2016. Over 100 surviving Women of Steel came along to the unveiling ceremony and lunch in the City Hall Ballroom.

 

The statue is designed by sculptor Martin Jennings who worked closely with a group of Women of Steel to come up with the design.

 

www.sheffield.gov.uk/planning-and-city-development/urban-...

  

The artist

 

Martin Jennings is a highly renowned designer and sculpture, many of his statues and sculptures are now world famous.

Perhaps his most celebrated piece is the statue of John Betjeman at St Pancras station which is now recognised as an iconic London landmark.

 

Other works include figures from the world of politics, military, royalty, academia, the arts, industry, medicine and the law. Martin Jennings has been commissioned to design and craft the sculpture due his creative vision, and his signature aesthetic of bronze or silver sculpture which we believe will be a credit to Sheffield, its famous industry and our Women of Steel.

 

Statue

 

The statue will be unveiled in Barkers Pool, the heart of the city centre and where the infamous Blitz struck Sheffield in WW2.

The statue will be bronze in colour and human scale, celebrating the work and lives of Sheffield’s Women of Steel.

 

Martin Jennings, 7th February 2013

 

“I want the statue to represent both the camaraderie that helped these young women triumph over the exceptionally difficult task allotted to them and the pride they felt in achieving expertise in an industry that was traditionally the preserve of men.

I have modelled a welder and a riveter to stand for the many roles required of them. They are jauntily marching along arm in arm with their heads held high. At the end of the war the women were dismissed from their work in the steel industry with little thanks.

 

Now, by erecting this statue within the lifetimes of the surviving Women of Steel, we all have an opportunity belatedly to record our gratitude. There are countless war memorials to men. My hope is that this statue will help us never to forget these women, without whose courageous endeavours victory in two world wars would have been very far from assured”.

 

www.sheffield.gov.uk/planning-and-city-development/urban-...

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets, laneways and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. On Tuesday Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, discovered that Edith, Lettice’s maid, didn’t have a sewing machine when the Cockney cleaner found the young maid cutting out the pieces for a new frock. Mrs. Boothby made overtures towards Edith, inviting her to her home in Poplar in London’s East End with an air of mystery, saying she might be able to help her with her predicament of a sewing machine.

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice has decamped to Penzance for a week where she is overseeing the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting it out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she has had sent down weeks prior to her arrival. In her mistress’ absence, Edith has more free time on her hands, and so she was able to agree to Mrs. Boothby’s mysterious invitation. Even though she is happy with her current arrangement to take any items she wants to sew home to her parent’s house in Harlesden, where she can use her mother’s Singer** sewing machine on her days off. The opportunity of gaining access to a sewing machine of her own is too good for Edith to refuse.

 

Now the two women walk through the narrow streets of Poplar, passing along walkways, some concrete, some made of wooden planks and some just dirt, between tenements of two and three stories high. The streets they traverse are dim with the weakening afternoon light from the autumn sky blocked out by the overhanging upper floors of the buildings and the strings of laundry hanging limply along lines between them. Although Edith is not unfamiliar with the part of Whitechapel around Petticoat Lane*** where she shops for second hand clothes to alter and for haberdashery to do them, she still feels nervous in the unfamiliar maze of streets that Mrs. Boothby is guiding her down, and she sticks closely next to or directly behind the old Cockney char. The air is filled with a mixture of strong odours: paraffin oil, boiled cabbage and fried food intermixed with the pervasive stench of damp and unwashed bodies and clothes. Self-consciously, Edith pulls her three quarter length coat more tightly around her in an effort to protect herself from the stench.

 

“Below!” comes a Cockney female voice from above as a sash window groans in protest as it is opened.

 

“Ere! Look out, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, grabbing Edith by the arm and roughly pulling the maid out of the way, thrusting her behind her.

 

A moment later the air is filled with the harsh sound of slops splattering against the concrete path, and a pool of dirty liquid stains the concrete a dark muddy brown as it slowly dribbles down into a shallow drain that runs down the middle of the laneway.

 

“Wouldn’t want your nice clothes to get spoilt nah, would we dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns and smiles into Edith’s startled face.

 

“Was that?” Edith begins but doesn’t finish her question as she peers at the puddle draining away, leaving lumps on the path.

 

“I shouldn’t look too closely if I were you, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly in a matter-of-fact way. “If you ‘ave to ask, you’re better off not knowin’. That’s my opinion, anyway. Come on. Not much further nah.”

 

“You… you will take me home, won’t you Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks a little nervously as they continue their progress down the lane which she notices is getting narrower and darker as they go.

 

“Course I will, dearie! You can rely on old Ida Boothby. I know these streets like the back of my ‘and. Youse perfectly safe wiv me.”

 

The laneway ends suddenly, and Edith is blinded for a moment by bright sunlight as they step out into a rookery**** with two storey Victorian tenements of grey stone and red brick either side of a concrete courtyard with a narrow drain running down its centre. The original builders or owners of the tenements obviously have meant for the sad buildings to be at least a little homely, with shutters painted a Brunswick green hanging to either side of the ground floor windows. Looking up, Edith notices several window boxes of brightly coloured geraniums and other flowers suspended from some of the upper floor windowsills. Women of different ages walk in and out of the open front doors, or sit in them on stools doing mending, knitting or peeling potatoes, all chatting to one another, whilst children skip and play on the concrete of the courtyard.

 

“Welcome to Merrybrook Place,” Mrs. Boothby says with a hint of pride in her voice. “My ‘ome. Though Lawd knows why they called it that. I ain’t never seen no brook, merry or otherwise, runnin’ dahn ‘ere, unless it’s the slops from the privvies dahn the end.” She points to the end of the rookery where, overlooked by some older tenements of brick and wooden shingling most likely from the early Nineteenth Century, a couple of ramshackle privies stand. “So just watch your step, Edith dearie. We don’t want you steppin’ your nice shoes in nuffink nasty.” She gives her a warm smile. “Come on.”

 

As they start walking up the rookery, one woman wrapped in a paisley shawl stands in her doorway staring at Edith with undisguised curiosity and perhaps a little jealousy as she casts her critical gaze over her simple, yet smart, black coat and dyed straw hat decorated with silk flowers and feathers.

 

“Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out hotly to her, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her workday skirts.

 

The woman tilts her head up slightly, sniffs in disgust and looks down her nose with spite at both Edith and the Cockney charwoman before muttering something in a language Edith doesn’t need to speak to understand. Turning on her heel, the woman slams her door sharply behind her, the noise echoing off the hard surfaces of the court.

 

“Who was that, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks nervously.

 

“Lawd love you dearie,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. “That’s that nasty local Yid***** matchmaker what I told you ‘bout.” Raising her voice she continues, speaking loudly at the closed door. “Golda Friedmann goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in that fancy paisley shawl actin’ like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself. But she ain’t! She’s no better than the rest of us.”

 

As Mrs. Boothby trudges on up the rookery another doorway opens and an old woman with a figure that shows many years of childbirth steps out, dressed in a black skirt and an old fashioned but pretty floral print Edwardian high necked blouse. “Afternoon Ida.”

 

“Oh! Afternoon Lil!” Mrs. Boothby replies. “Oh Lil! I got somefink in ‘ere for you.” She opens up her capacious blue beaded bag and fossicks around making the beads rattle before withdrawing a couple of thin pieces of soap, one bar a bright buttercup yellow, a second pink and the last white. “’Ere. For the kiddies.”

 

“Oh fanks ever so, Ida!” the other woman replies, gratefully accepting the pieces of soap in her careworn hands.

 

“Edith,” Mrs. Boothby calls. “This ‘ere is my neighbour, Mrs. Conway.” A couple of cheeky little faces with sallow cheeks, but bright eyes, poke out from behind Mrs. Conway’s skirts and smile up shyly at Edith with curiosity. “Hullo kiddies.” Mrs. Boothby says to them. “Nah sweeties from me today. Sorry. Mrs. Conway, this ‘ere is Miss Watsford, what works for one of my ladies up in Mayfair.”

 

“Oh ‘ow do you do?” Mrs. Conway says, wiping her hands down her skirts before reaching out a hand to Edith.

 

“How do you do, Mrs. Conway.” Edith replies with a gentle smile, taking her hand, and feeling her rough flesh rub against her own as the old woman’s bony fingers entwine hers.

 

“Well, must be getting on, Lil,” Mrs. Boothby says. “Ta-ta.”

 

“Ta-ra, Ida. Ta-ra Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Conway replies before turning back and shooing the children inside good naturedly.

 

“Goodbye Mrs, Conway. It was nice to meet you.” Edith says.

 

At the next door, one painted Brunswick green like the shutters, Mrs. Boothby stops and takes out a large string of keys from her bag and promptly finds the one for her own front door. As the key engages with the lock the door groans in protest as it slowly opens. The old woman says, “Just stand ‘ere in the doorway, Edith dearie, while I’ll open the curtains.”

 

She disappears into the gloom, which vanishes a moment later as with a flourish, she flings back some heavy red velvet curtains, flooding the room with light from the front window. It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman stands for a moment in the pool of light, so brilliant after the gloom, surrounded by a floating army of illuminated dust motes tumbling over one another in the air. As her eyes adjust, Edith discerns things within the tenement front room: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at Cavendish Mews, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove and a sink in the corner.

 

“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. The ‘ouse is still warmish from this mornin’.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly as she tosses her beaded handbag carelessly onto the table where it lands with a thud and the jangle of beads. “Take a seat and I’ll get the range goin’ and pop the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee******! I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m parched.”

 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door.

 

Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, Edith is comforted by the smells of carbolic soap and lavender. Looking about she notices a couple of little muslin bags hanging from the curtains.

 

“Good. Nah, give me your ‘at ‘n coat and I’ll ‘ang them up.” Mrs. Boothby says. Noticing Edith’s gaze upon the pouches she explains. “Lavender to ‘elp keep the moths and the smells from the privy at bay.”

 

“Oh.” Edith replies laconically.

 

As Mrs. Boothby hangs up Edith’s coat and hat as well as her own on a hook behind the door and then bustles about stoking up the embers of the fire left in the stove, Edith says, “Mrs. Conway seems like a nice person to have as your neighbour, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“She’s a good un, that one. She takes care of all the little kiddies round ‘n ‘bout while their parents is at work.” Mrs. Boothby throws some coal into the stove and shoves it with a poker. “She’s got an ‘eart of gold she does. I owe ‘er a lot. She does ‘er best by them kiddies. Gives ‘em a meal made outta what she can, which for some might be the only meal they get. And she gives ‘em a good bath too when she can. That’s why I give ‘er the left over soap ends from the ‘ouses I go to.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby. I always take Miss Lettice’s soap ends to Mum to grate up and make soap flakes from for washing.”

 

“Ahh, don’t worry dearie. I gets plenty from some of the other ‘ouses I go to. Some of ‘em even throws out bars of soap what’s been barely used cos they get cracked and they don’t like the look of ‘em no more. Some of them ladies up the West End don’t know just ‘ow lucky they is to ‘ave as many bars of soap as they like. Nah, you keep takin’ Miss Lettice’s ends to your mum. So long as they’s bein’ used, I’m ‘appy. Waste not, want not, I always say.”

 

With nothing to do whilst the older woman goes about filling the large kettle with water from the sink in the corner of the room, Edith has more time to look at her surroundings. The floor is made of wooden boards whilst the walls are covered in a rather dark green wallpaper featuring old fashioned Art Nouveau patterns. The house must one have had owners or tenants with grander pretentions than Mrs. Boothby for the stove is jutting out of a much larger fireplace surround, which although chipped and badly discoloured from years of coal dust, cooking and cigarette smoke, is marble. However, it is the profusion of ornaments around the small room that catches the young girl’s eye. Along the mantle of the original fireplace stand a piece of Staffordshire, a prettily painted cow creamer, a jug in the shape of a duck coming out of an egg and a teapot in the shape of Queen Victoria. Turning around behind her to where Mrs. Boothby gathers a pretty blue and white china teapot, some cups, saucers and a sugar bowl, she sees a large dresser that is cluttered with more decorative plates, teapots, jugs, tins and a cheese dish in the shape of a cottage.

 

“Not what you was expectin’ I’ll warrant.” Mrs, Boothby remarks with a knowing chuckle that causes her to emit yet another of her throaty coughs.

 

“Oh no Mrs. Boothby!” Edith replies, blushing with shame at being caught out staring about her so shamelessly. “I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I mean… I had no expectations.”

 

“Well, it’s nuffink special, but this is my ‘aven of calm and cleanliness away from the dirty world out there.” She points through the window where, when Edith turns her head, she can see several scrawny children playing marbles on the concrete of the courtyard. “And it’s ‘ome to me.”

 

“Oh yes, it’s lovely and clean and cheerful, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her hostess. “No, I was just admiring all your pretty crockery. It reminds me of my Mum’s kitchen, actually. She is always collecting pretty china and pottery.”

 

“Well, who was it what told you to go dahn to the Caledonian Markets******* to buy a gift for your mum?” the old woman says with a cheeky wink. “Me that who!” She pokes her chest proudly, before coughing heavily again.

 

“So did you get all these from the Caledonian Markets then, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, looking around again.

 

“Well, most, but not all. I got meself an art gallery from the Caledonian Markets, for when I washes the dishes.” She points to two cheap prints of classic paintings in equally cheap wooden frames hanging on the walls above the little sink. “Better than starin’ at a blank wall, even if it’s covered in wallpaper. Course, some a them ladies up the West End is awfully wasteful wiv much more than soap, and just like them soap ends, I get my share. Somethin’ a bit old fashioned or got a tiny chip in it and they’s throwin’ it out like it was a piece of rubbish, so I offer ta take it. Take that nice cow up there,” She points to the cow creamer on the mantle. “The lid got lost somewhere, so the lady from Belgravia what owned it told ‘er maid to throw it out, so I said I’d take it instead. That,” She points to the Staffordshire statue. “Was one of a pair, what the uvver ‘alf got broken, so it was being chucked, so I took it. I don’t care if it don’t ‘ave the uvver ‘alf. I like it as it is. It’s pretty. The Queen Victoria teapot was getting’ chucked out just ‘cos the old Queen died, and King Bertie was takin’ ‘er place. Well, I wasn’t ‘avin’ none of that. Poor old Queen! I said I’d ‘ave it if no-one else wanted it. And this teapot,” She withdraws the pretty blue and white china teapot from atop the stove. “This was just bein’ thrown out ‘cos it’s old and they’s no bits of the set left but this. But there ain’t nuffink wrong wiv it, and it must be at least a ‘undred years old!”

 

Mrs. Boothby pulls out a gilt edged blue and white cake plate which she puts on the table along with the tea cups, sugar bowl and milk jug. She then goes to the dresser and pulls down a pretty tin decorated with Art Nouveau ladies from which she takes several pieces of shortbread, which she places on the cake plate.

 

“That’s very lovely, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith points to a teapot in the shape of a rabbit sitting in a watering can. “It looks rather like Peter Rabbit.”

 

“Ahh… my Ken loves that too.” Edith’s ears prick at the mention of someone named Ken, but she doesn’t have time to ask who he is before Mrs. Boothby continues, “That bunny rabbit teapot is one of the few pieces I got what ‘as a sad story what goes wiv it. Poor lady what I cleaned for up in St. James’, it were ‘er baby’s, from the nursery, you know?” Edith nods in understanding. “Well, ‘e died. ‘E was a weak little mite ‘e were, ever since ‘e was born, and my poor lady was so upset when ‘e died that she got rid of everyfink in the nursery. She didn’t want nuffink to remind her of that little baby. So, I brought it ‘ome wiv me.” She sighs. “Well, the kettle’s boiled now, so ‘ow about a cup of Rosie-Lee, dearie?”

 

A short while later, Edith and Mrs. Boothby are seated around Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table with the elegant Regency teapot, some blue and white china cups and the plate of shortbreads before them.

 

“Oh I tell you Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. She starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and reaches out, taking up a shortbread biscuit with the other. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, about this sewin’ machine. My Ken’ll be ‘ome soon, I ‘ope. ‘E’s a bit late today.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby, who is Ken?” Edith asks with a questioning look on her face.

 

Just as Mrs. Boothby is about to answer her, she gasps as she hears a rather loud and jolly whistle.

 

“Well, speak of the devil, ‘ere ‘e comes nah!”

 

The front door of the tenement flies open and the space is instantly filled by the bulk of a big man in a flat cap with a large parcel wrapped in newspaper tied with twine under his right arm.

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

******Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

*******The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

I would just like to point out that I wrote this story some weeks ago, long before The Queen became ill and well before her passing. However it seems apt that this story of all, which I planned weeks ago to upload today as part of the Chetwyn Mews narrative, mentions the passing of The Queen (albeit Queen Victoria). I wish to dedicate this image and chapter to our own Queen of past and glorious times Queen Elizabeth II (1926 – 2022). Long did she reign over us, happy and glorious. God bless The Queen.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The Staffordshire cow (one of a pair) and the cow creamer that stand on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the Staffordshire cow actually has a smile on its face! Although you can’t notice it in the photo, the cow creamer has its own removable lid which is minute in size! The duck coming from the egg jug on the mantle, the rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot to its right on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The Queen Victoria teapot on the mantlepiece and the teapot on the dresser to the left of the Peter Rabbit teapot come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All the other plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Spilling from her bag are her Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

The meagre foodstuffs on Mrs. Boothby’s shelf represent items not unusually found in poorer households across Britain. Before the Second World War, the British populace consumed far more sugar than we do today, partially for the poor because it was cheap and helped give people energy when their diets were lacking good nutritious foods. Therefore finding a tin of treacle, some preserved fruit or jam, and no fresh fruits or vegetables was not an unusual sight in a lower class home. All the tined foodstuffs, with the exception of the tin of S.P.C. peaches, are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. The S.P.C. tin of peaches comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin and colander in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

:-))

There is not so much me here (physically), it could be anyone, but partly it's me, I feel it.

Facebook page // Colour Shop // Web site

 

RECOVER

To recover physically, to return to acquire what had got lost.

 

RECOBRAR

Sanar físicamente, volver a adquirir lo que se había perdido.

 

RECOBRAR

Curar físicament, tornar a adquirir el que s'havia perdut.

.....

is it not obvious that physically it cannot be me?

edit: Tthat catches me....I should have clarified...of course that's me up ^ there.....lmao!

......

 

Tomorrow is Friday. *grin*

I admit, this is heavily inspired by two of Detroit's icons when it comes to the world of b/w and street photography: .brianday and .Insomniac

 

I soon realized how hard it is to focus in low light, and hats off to Brian and Jon who do it all so well... All I can do is learn from all the good photographers I'm surrounded by.

 

Today, I felt the best in almost 2 months... physically and mentally. Can't believe how many different pills I've had to take for the past 2 months..Finally finished the last dose this morning, and now can't wait to nourish my system with some beer that it has been deprived of for so long..!!! .

The presence of moments of times past are everywhere, and accumulating. What have physically replaced those moments are, metaphysically and paradoxically, the past's ruins.

 

Even with (apparently) no evidence whatsoever of those past times, they have resonances. If one pauses, attends memory's sounds, their afterimages, and finds a way, somehow, to record them, if only tangentially, one may make art from the recordings.

 

Here, for instance, one might see remembered and portended the deaths of soldiers, in this same space, in a field of slaughter one hundred and sixty years ago.

 

It may be there, here, if we exit – or enter – that door . . .

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

"Ruins, for me, are the beginning. With the debris, you can construct new ideas. They are the symbols of a beginning."

 

––– Anselm Kiefer

A giraffe, to me, seems like one of the most creative things nature has composed. Everything about them seems physically odd, yet beautiful.

The Mean-Streets-of-Chicago-

are-constantly-littered-with-

an-over-abundance-of-nasty-bits!

 

Tenorio's Tire Shop Inc.

4041 S. Kedzie Ave

Chicago,IL

 

Growing up on a farm nearly 80 years ago had many healthy benefits, both mentally and physically. The nearly two decades of my life fitting into a family of 8 kids helping my parents survive prepared me for the rest of my life.

 

For a lot of us who had similar experiences, those days also left us with various lifelong physical ailments.

 

Noise pollution wasn't talked about much back then but it walked alongside us every day. Anyone who has ever scooped ears of corn into a corn grinder run by a power take-off will never forget the deafening whining sound it created that bombarded our brain lasting well past turning off the tractor.

 

Every farm lad spent hours in the field on tractors that majored on horsepower rather than sound containment. The constant roar of a tractor assaulting young ears went on throughout long days and were normally interrupted only by a short, quiet lunch hour.

 

When the tractor was driven into the farmyard at night and turned off, the sounds still echoed in the deepest part of our brain for an hour or so until the comparative silence gradually took over.

 

Decades later, many young fellas now old and stiff, have bad backs from the jostling taking a beating sitting on bare steel seats. My own decreasing hearing can probably be traced to those days as well and at night before I mercifully fall asleep the sounds of those encounters can quickly be recalled.

 

The black and white photo of my father in the lead tractor pulling a hired helper on the second Farmall F-20 while plowing and discing a reluctant hay-field is around 80 years old and I colorized it to bring out some details.

  

(Photographed near Avoca, MN)

I never physically met him, but fell in love with Jake, fur-child of a friend, through hilarious videos, pics, and tales of antics. A copy of her Tombow marker 'painting' of him from 2014

Dick and his little Thorben about two years ago, before we met physically.

 

Riddle us this: what cerebral criminal with an affinity for purple and green loves challenging the Dark Knight with cleverly calculated crimes and puzzling plots?

 

One of the Dark Knight's most infamous villains, Edward Nygma enjoys flaunting his intellectual superiority by conducting crimes and leaving clues for Batman to piece together. While this habit constantly leads to the aptly named Riddler failing in his criminal endeavors, his puzzle-problem actually stems not only from his own narcissism and ego, but also from a deep-seeded psychological compulsion. Because of this, the Riddler often finds himself a resident of Arkham Asylum following his inevitable capture.

 

Possessing a genius-level intellect, the Riddler creates elaborate, sometimes Rube Goldberg-esque traps, and is even willing to use innocent civilians as bait. Although not physically imposing, the Riddler's brilliance, neurosis and lack of empathy make him an incredibly dangerous foe. He cares very little—if at all—about the lives of those he uses in his plots and instead only sees them as disposable pawns in his continuing intellectual battle against Batman.

 

Edward Nygma is the Riddler, a master strategist who incorporates riddles into his crimes in Gotham City, making him an enemy of its protector Batman.

 

Golden Age

 

The origin story recounts Edward Nigma's fascination with puzzles from a young age. After a teacher announces that a contest will be held over who can solve a puzzle the fastest, Nigma sets his sights on winning this, craving the glory and satisfaction that will come with the victory. He breaks into the school at night to practice the puzzle until he is able to solve it in under a minute. Due to this he wins the contest and is given a book of riddles as a prize. His cheating rewarded, Edward embraced the mastery of puzzles of all kinds, eventually becoming a carnival employee who excelled at cheating his customers out of their money with his bizarre puzzles and mind games. He soon finds himself longing for greater challenges and thrills and dons the disguise of the "Riddler" to challenge Batman, believing him to be a worthy adversary. In his first encounter with the Dynamic Duo, Riddler first tried to confound the crime-fighters with his infamous double-entry Riddle Clues and then tried to kill them both in a booby-trapped glass maze on a pier, sealing the door so they couldn't leave the structure before it exploded, only for Batman and Robin to escape and the Riddler "vanishing" after getting knocked into the sea by the explosion, leaving only his trademark "?" floating in the water.

 

Post Crisis on Infinite Earths

 

Origin

Before the Mask

 

Ed Nygma, Wayne Enterprises employee

 

Before the first appearance "the Batman", Edward Nygma was the trusted strategist of Philip Kane, Bruce Wayne's uncle and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises during Wayne's absence, despite Nygma having what was described as a "questionable past".

 

When Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham and threatened to uproot all the shady plans Nygma had for Wayne Enterprises, Nygma sent the Red Hood Gang after the prodigal son, only for the assassination attempt to fail. His position at Wayne Enterprises now compromised, Nygma departed to begin his endgame for Gotham, giving his boss Philip Kane his resignation in the form of trapping him in his office with a magnet.

 

"Zero Year"

Having strategically calculated his plans for Gotham, Nygma, donning the alias "the Riddler", cut the power throughout the entire city, telling the people that they would need to get smart or die. As the lights darkened in Gotham, Riddler kicked off what would later be called "Zero Year". Working with a vengeful scientist named Karl Helfern, Riddler sat back as Helfern collected all the materials needed to bring the city to its knees. While Helfern's motives were to hurt Wayne Enterprises, Riddler's motives were to make the city of Gotham smarter - to eradicate those that dumbed down the human race.

  

Riddler's beginning

 

As Batman was distracted with Dr. Helfern, Riddler used the time to further the survival challenge he initiated in Gotham by blowing up the retaining walls around Gotham. The approaching hurricane that the city had been preparing for was now unchallenged, and the streets immediately flooded with several feet of water. Using a special chemical developed by Dr. Pamela Isley, Riddler hastened the growth of plants throughout the city - now a dark, savage jungle under Riddler's thumb.

 

Working with Lieutenant Gordon and Lucius Fox, Batman discovered the Riddler's location after multiple difficult tasks to find his broadcasting spot, tracking him to the Gotham Museum. Finally coming face-to-face, Riddler challenged Batman one last time by demanding he answer twelve riddles. Batman went along with it for a bit, afraid that the villain would detonate weather balloons throughout the city if he did not play along, but ultimately punched Riddler in the face before the mastermind had a chance to ask all his questions. Turning the power back on, Riddler's reign was ended. Nygma, deemed too dangerous for the usual Blackgate Penitentiary, was put in a straight jacket and detained at Arkham Asylum.

 

The War of Jokes and Riddles

 

Riddler vs. Joker

 

After having been imprisoned for about a year following the Zero Year, the Riddler had become a tool for the GCPD whenever they found themselves stumped during an investigation until the day he finally escaped, threatening every guard on his way out of his cell by simply reciting the names of all of their loved ones. Hearing about a seemingly inconsistent string of murders committed by the Joker, the Riddler visited the clown, telling him he deduced that the Joker had lost his ability to laugh and suggested teaming up to take down Batman would be just what he needed. However, the Joker didn't find this offer funny and shot Nygma in the stomach, beginning the event that would later be called, "the War of Jokes and Riddles".

 

Recruiting every supervillain in Gotham they could, Joker and Riddler both amassed small armies to fight one another, leaving Batman and the rest of the city caught in the middle. For weeks the two sides fought, with Batman unable to contain the casualties caused by both armies; the Bat was forced to ally himself with one side in order to first defeat the other. Batman chose to work with the Riddler, despite Nygma having murdered Kite-Man's young son in a power play, in order to track down the Joker and finally end the war.

 

In the final confrontation with the clown, after Batman had inevitably betrayed him, Riddler surrendered and revealed that every move of the war - even Kite-Man's involvement - was orchestrated by him as a means to solve the ultimate riddle - how to make the Joker laugh again. Batman, furious over all the civilian casualties, attempted to stab the Riddler with a kitchen knife, only for Nygma to be saved by the Joker himself, an act that was so surprising that Joker regained his ability to laugh. The two criminals were both arrested and taken to Arkham Asylum.

 

Other Early Crimes

Sometime not long after the War, Joker and Riddler returned to the streets and put their past transgressions behind them. They, along with the Penguin and Catwoman, were contacted by the Designer - a new criminal in Gotham who volunteered to make their wildest schemes a reality. The Riddler agreed to the deal and asked the Designer for unlimited access to deathtraps to use against the Gotham City police. However, the Joker caused the whole deal to fall apart and seemingly killed the Designer, and the villains burned down his base to leave no trace.

 

At some point, Edward fathered a daughter known as Enigma. Later, perceiving her as less intelligent than himself, he attempted to kill her, though he was unsuccessful.

 

Nygma would later be returned to Arkham.

 

New 52

Death of the Family

 

The Strategist

 

With the Joker's return to Gotham, sporting his own cut-off face as a mask after a yearlong absence, the clown prince took over Arkham and began to spruce it up in anticipation of Batman's arrival. Nygma, still in his cell, asked Joker to let him out using the keycard of a dead guard. Considering Riddler to be a useful ally, Joker decided to challenge the Riddler in order to make sure he was at the top of his game for when Batman arrived. Tossing a toxic gas capsule into his cell, Joker told Riddler that, in order to survive, the mastermind had to figure out a way to get himself out of the cell. Without a problem, Riddler succeeded in his escape, using only one of the multiple ways he had thought of in advance, and joined Joker in his plan, being given the title of "strategist" in Joker's royal interpretation of Batman's rogues gallery.

 

After the Joker's defeat, Riddler was taken back to his cell in Arkham.

 

Forever Evil

When the Crime Syndicate arrived on Earth, the team of super-criminals liberated Riddler, as well as all the other villains around the country, after seemingly killing the Justice League. Nygma, taking advantage of his freedom, immediately invaded the Wayne Enterprises building in order to kill a security guard who had denied him a pack of cards five years ago. Alone in Wayne Tower, having defeated all the advanced security systems of the building, Riddler opened up a pack of cards and played solitaire, waiting for Batman to eventually return.

 

Endgame

During Joker's endgame, Riddler remained in his cell in Arkham Manor while the rest of the city was infected by Joker's mind control toxin.

 

When the city was saved and Batman was seemingly killed, the inmates were shipped off, and Wayne Manor was restored to Bruce Wayne, who was trying to restart his life after receiving amnesia during the Joker attack. However, Riddler, Clayface, and Mister Freeze secretly remained behind and ambushed Wayne as he attempted to move back in, hellbent on ruining his life the same way he ruined theirs by funding Batman. The villains were eventually foiled by the new Batman, and Riddler was brought back to the newly renovated Arkham Asylum.

 

Mockingbird

Using the alias Mockingbird, the Riddler gathered a group of six villains and trapped them aboard a sinking container.

  

Fighting the Flash

 

Another formidable opponent - the Flash

 

Sometime during his stay in Arkham Asylum, Nygma became interested in how to stop the Flash, considering him a new and formidable opponent. After a breakout, Nygma gained possession of the Flash villain Heat Wave after he had been left for dead in Gotham during the the Crime Syndicate's invasion. Next, the mastermind donated an army of "protection" drones to Central City through a collection of shell companies and waited until the police force fell right into his trap by activating them throughout the city. Finally, maneuvering public opinion against the Flash, Riddler secretly convinced the police force to allow the Rogues to arrest its city's hero, under the pretense that he was a threat.

 

When the Flash was finally captured, the Riddler revealed himself and took control of the drones that had been sent to patrol the city, threatening to use them to kill anybody if the Flash activated his powers. After the Flash was saved by Pied Piper from police custody, Nygma announced that, if the Flash did not reveal his secret identity to the world, he would destroy Central City by using Heat Wave, his hostage, as a human-nuke. Working together with the Rogues, who felt betrayed by the Riddler, the Flash defeated Nygma and the drones and handed him over to the Central City police to be taken back to Gotham.

 

Rebirth

I Am Bane

Riddler assisted Bane in unlocking a high tech door in Arkham, allowing him access to confront Batman.

 

Defiance, The Society

Riddler placed Deathstroke on trial for appearing to have reformed, and using Hector Hammond's abilities, he convinces the Secret Society of Super-Villains that Deathstroke is indeed evil by showcasing a simulation of the assassin killing them all right before Deathstroke himself is kidnapped.

 

Doomsday Clock

During the Doomsday Clock, the Riddler held an underground meeting with several supervillains to talk about the Superman Theory, but the meeting was crashed by the Comedian, who shoots Riddler in the leg.

 

Death Metal

After Batman accidentally unleashed an ancient evil from the Dark Multiverse, one of the cross-dimensional Dark Knights called the Batman Who Laughs came to Gotham and offered some of its villains metal Joker cards that could give them powers to bend reality. Riddler, serving time in Arkham Asylum, was personally handed a card by the Batman. Riddler used his new power to create a labyrinth around the city, acting as its first line of defense against heroes who wanted to reclaim it. His compulsion to tell riddles was again his downfall though when he was defeated by the newly formed Gotham Resistance.

 

Infinite Frontier

The Hill

A former mob hitman known as "Mr. Fun" went on a killing spree across The Hill, a lower-class neighbourhood in Gotham. The Riddler deduced the "Hill Ripper's" true identity, but rather than report it to the police he instead decided to plant riddles at the crime scene which would lead to an elaborate scavenger hunt ending at the killer's house. However, the GCPD could not solve the Riddles and, as they were no longer cooperating with Batman, the Dark Knight never found out about them. The Batgirls stumbled across his trail of clues, but rather than play his game they just trailed his henchman Killer Moth back to the Hill Ripper's hideout. He revealed the killer's true identity and escaped, but before he left he told Stephanie Brown that her father the Cluemaster was alive.

 

Skills and abilities

 

The Riddler is a criminal genius capable of extraordinary lateral thinking in decoding and formulating puzzles of all kinds. As a private detective during the time he was reformed, he demonstrated investigative skills that rival those of the Dark Knight. However, Batman's observations note that "[Nigma] exhibits personality disorders consistent with a fanatic narcissist, egocentrism, and megalomania crossed with severe obsessive compulsion".

 

Like most of Batman's enemies (and Batman himself), the Riddler has no superhuman abilities but is a highly cunning criminal strategist. He is not especially talented in fisticuffs (although his endurance has grown from having to engage in it over the years), but sometimes employs weaponry that exploits his gimmick, such as exploding jigsaw pieces, question-mark-shaped pistols, and his infamous question-mark staff, known to house a wide variety of technological devices and weapons. He is shown to be skilled with engineering and technology, having confronted Batman and Robin with unique and elaborate deathtraps. He is also well known for being Batman's most intelligent adversary, and with a flexible theme to his crimes compared to similar criminals: all the Riddler requires is to be able to describe his threatened crime with a riddle or puzzle. Riddler once tried to commit crimes without leaving any clues using self hypnosis; however, he learned too late that while he was asleep his unconscious mind left riddling clues, causing Batman and Robin to capture him. Riddler has a grudging respect for Batman in that he is the only adversary that has a intellectual genius equal to the Riddler; in the episode of Batman the animated series titled "What is Reality"? Riddler came close to defeating Batman once and for all; when Batman was forced to engage in a mind battle of the intellect versus the Riddler after Riddler "captured" Jim Gordon's mind in a virtual reality computer, Batman not only saved Gordon but also gave Riddler a riddle of his own: How could Riddler spread his consciousness 32 times more than Batman and still keep the mental concentration to keep his virtual ward "Riddlerville" together? The answer was that the Riddler couldn't keep his "Virtual World together" and instead suffered an emotional breakdown with his mind trapped in the virtual computer world until his next appearance.

 

However, the threat that Riddler actually poses is somewhat inconsistent across his various stories. His most formidable depictions emphasize his intelligence and cunning, portraying him as one of few rogues capable of seriously taxing Batman's mental prowess, while also willing to take the precaution of obtaining firearms to deal with the superhero. Some recent depictions, however, have placed a derogatory focus on his flamboyant gimmickry and relative lack of major victories (even despite this applying to most of Batman's enemies), portraying him as petty, overconfident, relatively harmless, and held in low esteem.

 

The latter approach has proved polarizing, with some fans finding it wasteful in light of the character's classic status and history of compelling stories, while others argue that most of his popularity has come from media other than his comic storylines and enjoy the notion of knowing that his "real" threat level is overrated. In recent years the Riddler has been consistently depicted as a serious threat, with notable successes.

 

⚡ Happy 🎯 Heroclix 💫 Friday! 👽

_____________________________

A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.

 

Secret Identity: Edward Nigma

 

Publisher: DC Comics

 

First appearance: Detective Comics #140 (October 1948)

 

Created by Bill Finger (Writer)

Dick Sprang (Artist)

 

The Riddler has appeared before in BP 2021 Day 277!

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/51549562768/

 

He has also been seen trying to ruin Christmas!

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/38394550835/

 

Retrato / Portrait

 

A distância serve para observar tudo com uma perspectiva mais ampla e, assim, as decisões que seriam motivo de ansiedade transformam-se na certeza de que a vida sempre se movimentará na melhor direção possível.

 

The distance is to observe everything with a broader perspective and thus decisions that would be cause for anxiety become the certainty that life will move always in the best direction possible.

Chicago. 2016

 

© All rights reserved. All my images are copyrighted. Any unauthorized use is strictly prohibited. No image can be copied, reproduced, shared, altered or used in any way, both physically or electronically, without my prior written permission.

We were all geared-up (physically and mentally) to take on a scramble we have been wanting to do for years, Mt. Andromache. However, we don't know this area as well as needed to, and started out the day by going up the wrong route... What a bummer! But on the wrong trail we still saw some interesting things. We did finally find the right trailhead and went parkways up the trail, and did some nice scrambling. Now we know exactly where to go for next time!

Throwback to July of 2019, the two year Estroversary month. Not a lot has changed physically since then. Conversely, my mind certainly continues to feminize. Let’s just say when I am at the gym, I am intrigued with the notion of more opportunity. Whether it’s true or not, time will tell. ☮️💜😘

This is Vicar’s Close in Wells, physically connected to the Cathedral and founded in the 14th century to house the Vicars Choral, the clergy who chanted the divine office eight times a day. It is thought to be the oldest surviving residential street in England and maybe in Europe.

 

Here it is contrasted with a group of boys from the Cathedral School, probably on their lunch break.

 

More info in the link…

www.wells.co.uk/vicars-close/

Missing the smell of the sea, again, the salty breeze… on my face….Well , I can be there ..physically, with my car…Or, I can be there with my imagination, visualization, or my memories.. And with my photos, of course…

 

These particular captures are taken late in the summer - beginning of Autumn…. I was staying in the upper floor of a big hotel with my dog… Oostende water- front has all the atmosphere of any city by the beach--- people of any sort, any age, happy like children, playing, eating…Lots of restos along the water- front promenade....But the sandy beach over there is huge, is large, majestic, very organized… The landscape here has nothing to do with some tiny and repetitive , almost private-style, beaches of Mediterranean sea counties, like Greece, Italy or France…And the water is not Mediterranean blue… It is very clear though, but quite fresh…

 

The journey through the tunnels is physically taxing and often frightening. But Tunnel Rat's navigation is sure, and soon...

 

Tunnel Rat: Gentlemen, that's the exit up ahead.

 

General Flagg: Sweet mercy... sunlight. How long has it been?

 

Wild Bill: Over six months in the cavern, General, sir!

 

General Flagg: What's the sitrep out there Tunnel Rat?

 

Tunnel Rat: No alien activity in the last two weeks, and that was just a flyover. No ground troops have been spotted.

 

General Flagg: Just the same, everyone lock and load. I don't want to finally get out of that crud crawlin cavern just to get sent to the sweet hereafter by them outer space river rats. Let's get to the external controls and blow the top so our boys can get out of there.

 

All: YO JOE!!!

 

*********************

End of Chapter 20!

Next: Chapter 21 and Bijou Planks!

Back in the days of physically cutting and pasting.

Chicago. 2018

 

© All rights reserved. All my images are copyrighted. Any unauthorized use is strictly prohibited. No image can be copied, reproduced, shared, altered or used in any way, both physically or electronically, without my prior written permission.

How our lives have changed. This one little black square and blue dot say so much about our new world. Go back a few months and none of us would have stood outside Tesco's inside such a box waiting for the person in front to step off their square so they can step into it. Move forward to May 2020 and everybody is standing neatly on the black square, including me!

Playing at agility in the woods, I had him going back & forth over the logs while I took photos :) Obviously it was a very low "jump" & as he's fast & rather overly keen, it was a rather difficult process! I think we need to practice his "Wait" command a little more... He'd often cleared the logs long before I'd had the chance to get in position - luckily, he didn't mind repeating the activity quite a few times. Like many collies, Flynn seems to be of the opinion that you should generally aim to never jump an inch higher than is absolutely necessary to clear an obstacle, so he's not very flashy but he is super, super quick & when he needs to, can spring to fairly good heights ;-)

 

One of the "good" things to come out of Flynn's illness & the vague symptoms it presented with, is that before we had a diagnosis, I had the vet do a number of x-rays. I wanted to check Flynn didn't have anything wrong with his joints, as his behaviour got worse after exercise & he regularly looked sore around his back-end. A few yrs ago now, my Barney was diagnosed with fairly severe bi-lateral hip dysplasia. He's doing well but does struggle with arthritis & I've had to be so strict about him not jumping, or even running too much - I was dreading getting a similar diagnosis with Flynn. However, the results came back, confirming that Flynn's spine & both hips etc are good... It's now a relief knowing that, at least in these areas, he's physically sound & should be able to enjoy an active life for years to come!