A POOTLE TO PETWORTH //

IMG_6881I’ve been a fairly miserable being this weekend/ for the last month. Can you tell?

The pinnacle of misery was reached on Saturday afternoon; huddled by the heater on the kitchen floor in my wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks (a sexy visual if ever there was one), I counted the days it had been since I’d last had fun. Since I’d last lived life as a young one.

Forty-five days it had been. Forty-five.

The two hours of arse-scratchingly boring circuits that morning had done little to lighten my mood and the non-event of a day turned into a blanket, sofa, Take Me Out write-off.

IMG_6878IMG_6880And so, as I thumped down the stairs this morning, the Mothership boldly suggested we take a pootle to Petworth in Sussex. I bloomin’ love Petworth and frankly, anything that means we’re not sat shivering in this dark, depressing baltic excuse of a building is totes cool with me.

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We kicked off proceedings in Petworth House– well, the gift shop. The house was closed, alright? I bought a beaut of a jug- a steal at £6 in the sale- and now have it stashed away until Mother’s Day when we’ll pretend “Mum, would you like this?” never happened. Some squishy, leather armchairs in the cafe was our next calling. We like a cultural day out do the Mother and I…

A mug of the frothy stuff in hand, we had a chinwagga wag about life before a bitterly cold wander around Petworth itself. We popped our heads around the door of The Hungry Guest (crackers prices but the most stupendous branding) and fell into their coffee shoppy up the road moments later, lured by the promise of more froth.

IMG_6885IMG_6894Further discussion entailed- matters of a deep nature, such as whether my face was looking thinner etc- before we made our way back, narrowly avoiding being run over by a mad man in a van, for a brief wander of the grounds.

IMG_6903A lovely little day out it was. You’ve got to be grateful for Mums and their capacity to listen to and appear interested in endless hours (in my case, probably years) of life woes.

And their unconditional love of messes sat on kitchen floors in wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks.

Thanks Mumma Bear.

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A WEE TRIPPY TO ARDINGLY INTERNATIONAL ANTIQUES & COLLECTORS FAIR

IMG_6005A few weeks back, Daisy and I braved the inevitable rain and mud and took a Living with Daisy school trip to Ardingly Antiques and Collectors fair.

Wellies and gloves firmly in place, we wandered from stall to stall ooo-ing and ahhh-ing over some truly sumptuous stuff. A newcomer to this particular fair, I was pleasantly surprised to see the stands awash with oodles of story-telling goodness, some of which I have documented for you below.

I’ll talk you through it, shall I?

IMG_6060An entire bucket of old wooden metre rulers- had not anticipated how delighted this could make me feel.

IMG_6050Not mad keen on the colour, but it’s almost indecent how much I love this style of light-fitting.

IMG_6046In short, the greatest bobbins I have ever seen.

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Ummm, these gorgeous 30s Vintage Welsh Blankets: needed in my life.

IMG_6059Bloody. Love. These. (And I don’t even like Pepsi- unless it’s the only fizzy choice an all-inclusive package holiday in Egypt has to offer- but that’s a story for another time.)

IMG_5975This bench seat is a bit of a beaut- admittedly it would probably collapse if I sat on it- as is the neighbouring enamelware.

IMG_5991Tell me, who doesn’t love an old wooden trug?

IMG_6056A lovely box of balls- no pun intended.

IMG_5999And last but not least, a cup of the frothy stuff necessary for survival.

Happy Friday all!

FRUSTRATED MUSINGS OF A SUNDAY NATURE //

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I’ve spent today feeling frustrated. Thoroughly frustrated. Frustrated at the lack of progress in so many aspects of my life; work, rest, play. I’m a cauldron of energy with restricted means through which to channel any creativity, due to matters that are out of my control- the most frustrating thing of all.

The family and I are living in a building that’s dark and damp; walls are screaming to be knocked down and carpets are needing to be pulled up, but nothing can be touched. Not yet. Instead I must Pin and plan, explore and discover, jot down and dream. (I still absolutely loathe Pinterest, for the record, but it is handy- albeit ludicrously slow.)

Filled with eleven and a half long, slow, cold months of imagining, The Mind of Me is reaching fever pitch. Even the pooches are entering a state of increasing discontentment and they’ve got their luxurious kennel in which to lie, a Mutt House lovingly painted by my good self last summer. Nice little afternoon project I had thought. Seven hours later and, finally, the wretched thing was covered in English Heritage Pale Jasmine.

Never. Again.

To get back to my slightly more serious point- not that matters of the mongrel variety aren’t of the utmost importance- a plea to those at the top; kindly pop a fair few rockets up your rears and get a move on. Or it will be my frustrations that come rocketing, at full force, in your direction.

HUMPH.

P.s If you’re just itching to see my canine-related handy work you may have to pleasure of doing so here.

MEET CINQ MAI //

Do you ever stumble across a blog and fall head over heels in love within approximately 3 seconds?

At a quarter past five this evening, Cinq Mai stole my heart with it’s utter gorgeousness. Gorgeousness of such a high degree that I unearthed the french from within my 10-year-old-fluent-self and left a comment, en français (albeit questionable français). And it takes a lot for me to crack open the French. A lot.

After I’d finished inserting accents aigus, I reached for my phone and tapped an over-excited “You MUST see this!!!” text to a darling one with whom I’ve been chatting all things blog and beautiful today.


And beautiful Cinq Mai certainly is. Caroline’s photography is absolutely breath-taking; her use of Liberty’s famous prints is perfection, her home is enchanting and her palette of colours are my dream.

Oh the french; they’re just so darn talented, aren’t they?

Hop on over to Cinq Mai’s Shop, Blog and Photography pages; you have not lived until you’ve witnessed the wonderment for yourself, I’m telling you.

All images copyright Cinq Mai; a blog so beauteous it’s obscene.

LIVING THE FREELANCE LIFE //

I’ve been agonising over the opening and closing paragraphs of an article I’m mid-writing for, what feels like, a number of decades. After failed attempt six last night, I gave up and went home. Home being the electric-blanket-heated, snotty, dribbled-on haven that is my bed. I spoil you with such sexy visuals, I know.

But today. Today we’ve had, what would appear to be, a slight breakthrough. Unusually for me, it didn’t fall into place with the clap of thunder and bolt of lightening ferocity typical of such situations. But they do say slow and steady wins the race and that it has been.

I’ve cast aforementioned write-up aside for now and shall return for a final look-over and edit tomorrow, before I send it on it’s merry way. I’m hoping Thursday’s fresh eyes will read prose of an earth-shatteringly brilliant nature but, frankly, anything is possible. Fingers crosseth.

On another note; posts of a “musings” nature have come thick and fast as of late, haven’t they? Someone needs a smidge less pooch chat and a shite-load more human contact in their lives, ahem. Though I did spend an hour and ten minutes on the phone to an absolutely cracking chum- does that count?