Straw to gold

Getting used to the experience of wearing glasses, which is very strange for a life-long non-speccie, especially when I am supposed to be using them only for reading; the tendency is to put them on and walk around feeling sick and dizzy, or put them on top of the head and wonder why the small type is still fuzzy. Already found one major design fault relating to the way I treat objects; they are way too see-through and are destined to be forever veiled in a layer of finger-dirt or worse, paint. I'm sure my brother's glasses when we were kids arrived with a handy fuzzy cloth nestling in the (solidly made, fake snake) box. Mine have a synthetic thing which is no use for wiping and offers little in the way of padding either; the box is also distressingly plastic and an insipid pink/purple shade in pearlised effect. Wrong. Lucky I took the step of finding a felt lined tin box of the correct proportions bearing an amusing multiple print of cats; far more in keeping I felt and actually more suitable to the job in hand. I have two pairs of specs as I qualified for the two-for-one special offer which always struck me as a bit random, and even more so now I have two pairs of very similar spectacles to do exactly the same job. Putting one away for safe keeping seems a bad idea as I will only lose it in the same way we lost Stu's house keys after our holiday - they are still at large somewhere in the house and knowing my hiding places, may never see the light of day again.

I had a major breakthrough a few years ago when I hit on the hardly novel idea of actually having set places where things live in the house; before that every drawer in the building had at least one pair of scissors and probably some form of selotape. To find the item you wanted or the specific type of tape or scissor a thorough search of the house was necessary; nail clippers?- more like a week before they were run to earth. For some reason I have always had a bit of an obsession with scissors and feel excited in the presence of new ones in the same way that I imagine some ladies feel about jewellery or shoes. Actually that is a bad example as my shoe fetish is another story entirely; I have at least got this one under check by the simple method of poverty. The under-bed drawer is still testimony to many an indulgent purchase, however, and unfortunately my preference is of the flip-flop/sandal variety - so handy for the Scottish climate, I find. That said, I do manage to sport my Birkenstocks most of the year round, but usually accompanied by a wooly hat as compensation.
Found my elusive inner domestic goddess today and I sit here happy in the knowledge that home-made meatballs are ready to pop into tomatoey vegetable sauce, risotto is made (enough to feed small army) for lunch boxes and I even cleaned the car! That, it has to be said is a rarity rarer than polishing my shoes, both of which jobs fall to the male element of our household; I justify this by pointing out that hours wasted in mundane washing and polishing are hours when I could be honing my craft for future glories. Stu's first ever gift to me back in neolithic times was a shoe polishing kit; the writing was on the wall from the start and I was too blind (ahh, lurve...) to see it. I was entering a relationship with a neat freak. Luckily, as can happen, we have both successfully rubbed the corners off each other's obsessions over the years; he tolerates paint on walls, jumpers and taps ; I clean things occasionally and wipe up paint spills if they are noticed in time. Aside from my pathological urge to potato print the wall the other day I am pretty house trained for a painter; it is necessary to clean the studio on a frequent basis anyway due to the presence of the furry two (le deux velus); unless I want to pioneer cat-fur art it is in my interest to see Hoover action at least a couple of times a week. I always have to check boards for fur when I take them in to the framers; one time I forgot and oh the shame; reminded me of my grandmother's expression when I did... well, anything really. (No hard feelings granny, I know you couldn't relate to a tomboy with learning difficulties and a decidedly strange imagination.)
Which reminds me; when I was small (er) I dragged a deflated balloon around on a string pretending it was a dog; it that didn't point to a career in the arts I don't know what did. Probably my obsession with making slippers out of towelling, card and foam, which never worked; Tracey Emin eat yer heart out.
Away to the studio where hairy boards await their transformation into Swedish Forest Angels.

Alchemy.