Monday, 31 October 2011

An orange walk

The city smelled of rusted leaves and smoke. A dog barked and she told me she liked that sound. Six men in black lined up in front. She stopped talking, swerved her voice and body away. They walked past. We walked past. We slid through the doors with the fish handles. A disembodied voice bounced off tall pillars. A solid tone, words like salted, chewy caramel in your mouth. A young priest gnawing away at these old words like a pup with a gnarled bone. Old words, words that were repeated back and back and had been repeated over and over and back. Known words. The building spoke to us and we trod on ancient flagstones. Over the faces of kings.

When the bridge was opened they brought elephants and other animals from the zoo. They made them walk over the bridge all day so that the people would trust. The elephant bridge stood solid in the chocolate orange air. She remembered the English for ‘smog’ and I laughed into my scarf. 

Friday, 28 October 2011


Well, I'm off on Monday. Heading to Poznan for a month to make some art, meet some Poles and eat some cake. SO excited about this opportunity, can't wait to get over there. The culture is just so rich, can't wait to get my maw into it!

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Shaving cream

Fluffy bunnies

Chubby bunny, chubby bunniesfluffy bunnyyummy bunny,chubby monkeypudgy bunny

Custard Pie Humour

Porridge Pots

Spent the day with my lovely friend Yvonne throwing pots on the potters wheel.
We decided to use alternative materials and made up a big wodge of porridge oat gunk.
After a few failed attempts we began to get the hand of it and eventually the oats began to act like clay.
Here are the results...


Saturday, 1 October 2011

I am an emotional, incondotional devotional creature

My Confession

It was a cold September morning when I slunk into the shiny cab and thunked the door shut. Fuelled by three cups of gritty instant and with smudges under my eyes I slid against the window. The scarlet traffic light winked at me. A woman was walking across the road in front of us. Her hair was a beacon, her head a matchstick. It pulsed in my eyeballs, vivid and unrelenting.
The cab drivers’ Dundonian drawl sludged into my senses:

“Her hairs a right state. And she’s no spring chicken.” He grunted. “Fuckin dyke.”

I sat up immediately, took one look at his nose hair sprouting like bedraggled roots from his bulbous nose- his piggy eyes glinting with his own humour- and cracked him one. Right in the face.

I confess. I didn’t do this at all. All I did was stew in my own anger getting more and more uptight, agitated and angry, thank him politely, paid him the appropriate money and got out of the cab. I didn’t even puncture his wheels with my claws on the way out.

This is my confession. I’m still trying to figure out why I didn’t say anything. Because the fight was already lost? I’m not sure. What I am sure of though is if I see him again I am going to have a STRICT WORD.