Not the Browning version

With apologies to Robert Browning and Terence Rattigan

- sorry boys.

 

How They Brought the Good News from Acle to the Net!

 

I sprang to the wheel, just Jake, and me;

I steered, Jake gallop'd, we speeded, tee hee!

"What speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;

"Speed!" echoed the walls to us hurtling through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight, we gallop'd our best.

 

What a load of old toffee Julia, all that digging you have been

doing must have dislodged your brain.

 

He's an old flame of mine.

 

"Nay, 'tis not true" I cry.  All this mad dashing about is just

a perfect example of my devotion to duty and desire to

please the ever growing, global army of Long Dogger's

constantly baying for something new to stitch (or stash).

 

Meanwhile, back in the real world ......

I here are a couple of tiny teasers which are guaranteed to

enliven your taste buds and get you all into a state

of heightened desire (please no photos).

 

You don't think I'm going to give it all away at once do you?

 

What better than a couple of little "amuse bouches",

a glass of chilled Chateau DMC 1996

and the first tantalising peeps of the new design to be

launched on Wednesday 8th April 2015

Acle Mean Time.

 

Bon appetit!

Spooky or what?

This morning, as it was coming down stair rods outside

and the wind was blowing a Force 8 straight off the North Sea,

I decided that I would give the digging I had planned for

Plot 6 a miss and seek alternative amusement indoors.

  

As it's been a while since I got around to backing up my

computer files that's what I decided to do.  I've got a nifty

little external hard drive which does the job and so I got cracking.

 

It's a pretty boring job and my mind soon started to wander.

I thought that next I might copy off some ancient happy snaps

from my husband's old hard drive; went to the book case where

it's always kept, and there it was - gone!

Not there.

 

It was at that moment that the first slight tinge of panic set in

as everything - and I mean everything - is stored on it.

Irreplaceable photo's, legal documents, accounts and all things

Long Dog, past, present and yet to be released.  Aaaargh!

 

A systematic search of the rest of the book case revealed nothing

followed by an equally unrewarding rummage in all the other

most likely places I might have absent mindedly stashed it.

Still nothing, this is getting serious.

Even the sniffer dog was baffled.

 

A police style, fintertip search of the entire lock-up ensued.

No cupboard was left unopened, no corner left untouched,

no drawer was exempted as being improbable and still no

bloody hard drive could I find.  I carried out a second sweep

which turned out to be equally abortive.  I even lifted the

sofa cushions in my desperation.

 

Having pondered the possibility of a resident poltergeist or,

worse than that, the malevolent presence of my late husband

still hell bent on causing me aggravation, I decided to get a

grip and deliver my new bean poles to the allotment even if

digging was out of the question.  A change of scene and some

fresh air was what I needed - fast.

My dream hat!

 

My trusty old wool hat always lives in the right hand side of

drawer two of my chest of drawers (nothing OCD about me)

which I had completely turned out only minutes earlier and,

sure enough, there it was still in its rightful place.  Ooooof!

 

Now here's where it gets really freaky,

Sitting on top of it, in plain view, was not only the missing

hard drive but also a ceramic coaster of a greyhound

which had been missing for some time too.

Looks like they started without me.

 

You've never seen a bobble hatted woman clutching

bean poles leave the lock-up so fast in all your life!



Would you like to see a Willy?

Don't be silly.  I know what some of you are thinking

and even I wouldn't push my luck quite that far.

A Willy Verginer is what I'm on about today.

 

Willy in his studio.

 

Willy was born on 23rd February 1957 in Bressanone,

in the Province of Bolzano, Italy but apart from that

I can tell you very little of his formative years and education.

What I can, however, show you is some of his beautiful

artwork.  Sculpture to be more precise.

 

I wonder if he uses masking tape to get the lines straight?

 

For the most part he creates wonderful, life sized figures from

solid pieces of linden wood in his studio in Ortisei, South Tyrol.

But what makes his pieces stand apart is that he doesn't just

carve them, he then goes on to pimp them up with the

rather peculiar addition of other materials and, almost always,

larges swathes of acrylic colour.  Not in a realistic way

but as if dipped into a huge vat of pigment.

 

Looks like selective jaundice to me.

 

 

Willy's figures can be isolated or in groups according to how

the muse takes him and it's not unusual for them to be in

bizarre poses or coupled with unrelated objects giving his work

a quietly surreal atmosphere.

 

Surely not the Von Trapp family strayed over into Italy.

 

One series of figures was given the Italian title

"a fior di pelle" which roughly translated comes out as

"flowers of the skin".  The models all have youth on their side

and appear to be emerging from a covering of blooms

like buds about to blossom.  Each represents in its own way,

and in his inimitable style, the poetic fragility of youth and

the ability to dream.
 

Pass the spray, I've just spotted an aphid.

 

 Seeing is believing.  Touching is exquisite.

A Willy up close and personal leaves no one indifferent

to it's charms (with or without hare)!

 

Let's not split hares, they always come in two's.



Car Insurance

Nothing is ever simply, straight forward or easy

where I'm concerned and car insurance is certainly no

exception to this rule.

 

Having recently become the proud owner of a set of wheels

I decided to find myself an insurance agent with a "real"

office which I could visit if necessary; manned by "real"

staff who I could speak to on a "real" telephone should the

need arise.  This seemed infinitely preferable to tiptoeing

my way through the minefield on online offers on price

comparison sites.

 

A charming and very helpful young man called Alex took my

metaphorical hand and led me safely past all the

obstacles and pitfalls along the pathway to comprehensive

motor insurance.

 

I had, at that point, no tangible proof of the no claims bonus

on my previous French insurance and, as I wasn't sure how long

it would take to materialise, we decided to start again from

scratch with the proviso that amendments could be made to

the policy as and when the French got their act together.

It's the only thing.  Poop, poop!

 

 I paid my money, I took my chance and I took to the road!

Poop, poop!

 

The French documentation finally rocked up a couple of days

back.  The lovely Alex received his copy and managed to secure

for me a rather pleasing £147 reduction in my premium.

Thank you Alex, job done, sorted - or so I thought.

What do you want us to do about eet?  Non!

 

What neither Alex, nor I, had foreseen was that the insurance

underwriters would not accept a document in French even

thought it's meaning was patently obvious.  Their in house

translators would have charged more that the rebate to do the

necessary, the French insurers were equally unhelpful and so

the £147 reduction was clawed back.

 

Then the bastards played their trump card.

They charged me another £120 on top of all this for having to

make an amendment to the policy and neither I nor poor Alex

had a leg to stand on - legally they were within their rights.

How very true.

 

 Which leaves me with just two things to say:

1.  Please learn from my mistakes and let sleeping policies

lie - you will never win!  And ...

2.  A pox on insurance companies and small print in particular!

Could it be that I'm an alien?

I'm certainly not normal, that's for sure.

This morning's routine visit to the local Health Centre

is a perfect example of what I encounter almost daily.

 Having received a text message saying would I like

to come along for a once over to check out things

like weight, blood pressure, cholesterol etc in the

hope of nipping any future problems in the bud before

they manifest themselves, I thought - why not?

A girl can't be too careful about such matters after all.

Wonder if he's afraid of needles?

 

Washed, ironed and slightly out of breath as I was

running late, I duly presented myself for inspection.

After a somewhat surreal half an hour chatting to the original

"painted man" (never before have I witnessed or, indeed,

conversed with quite so much subcutaneous ink on one person)

I was finally ushered into the cubby hole masquerading

as a treatment room/general store.

No it's not me, I had a cowboy outfit.

  

The little lass who greeted me looked as if she might be

wearing her big sister's nurse's uniform and I momentarily

wondered whether I might have wandered into the play school

next door by mistake.  How are we today, she enquired.

We are good, I regally informed her - so let's begin.

 

The weigh in took several attempts as no two readings came

out the same.  It would appear that I have the ability to

gain and lose weight in a matter of moments.  The blood pressure

reading went no better and a second meter had to be found

to verify the results.
 

No wonder it was on the blink.  That elephant in the
room gets everywhere.

  

It took poor nursie a while to decide where my waist actually

was before she could measure it accurately as I appeared to go

straight down from rib cage to hip bones with no visible dip

in the middle.  She finally decided to steer a course by

following the line of an ancient scar which runs diagonally

across my abdomen from left to right.  Or, indeed, right to

left should you so prefer.

She was recourceful, I'll say that for her.

 

The cholesterol test was the piece de resistance during the performance

of which her computer went down taking with it everything she

had entered about me and the telephone system decided to come

out in sympathy.  The test itself had to be abandoned after the

third attempt and a change of batteries because she had never

encountered anything "so weird" before.  Besides which my poor

fingers were at that stage refusing to yield any more blood to test.

 

It was at this moment that I became convinced that I am an alien

being who mysteriously breaks machines, gives out a force-field

that plays havoc with computers and inflicts unsuspecting

individuals with temporary OCD as they take and re-take tests

in a persistent, anxious manner punctuated with frequent hand

washing and under-breath mutterings.

Aliens are everywhere.  Don't look into the eyes.
 

They're going to phone me later when they've decided what

to do next.  Oh goody!  Next patient please.

 

 

 

 



This 'n that

I would, first of all, like to introduce you to
my new set of wheels.
 

Not the best of photo's but you get the gist.

 

He's called Jake and he's a three year old Renault Clio estate.

He's automatic, nips along at a very respectable

turn of speed and already I don't know how I managed

without him.

 

The world is beginning to open up to me again

and the prospects are endless;

car boot sales, trips to the seaside,

visits to friends and sufficient room in

the back should I decide to do a spot of wheelie dealing.

 

The Lock-Up in Naughty Corner

 

I should also like to show you my latest bargain

which is a little bay tree the flower man at Acle

Sale let me have at a very special price indeed.

One of 12 Eleanor of Castile crosses which mark the
resting places of her coffin en route for London in the 13th century.

 

The downside being that I wasn't travelling

in Jake at the time I bought it and had to lug it

home as best I could making more stops

than Queen Eleanor's coffin on the way but without
the erection of any kind of monument to mark the route.

 

It was delicious if not very filling.

 

As for Plot 6, let me introduce you to my first tiny

blister following the first piece of honest toil I've

done for ages and the fruits of my labout -

one tiny spud which I had for my lunch.

 

Does your mother know you've gone out
dressed like that?

And while I'm on about this 'n that may I also

introduce you to my grand daughter

Jasmine Leoni who is currently touring

with Cirque Normande in the south of England

and of whom I am immensley proud.

Hang on in there girl!

Keep calm and keep stitching!

We certainly live in interesting times and this week

promises to be extraordinary at the very least.

 

On the 17th the last of seven squares between Uranus and

Pluto took place (no, I didn't feel a thing either Camilla)

only to be followed on the 20th by not only a "Supermoon"

but also a solar eclipse and culminating in the

Spring Equinox on the 21st.  What changes and

challenges could this little lot mean lies ahead for us all?

It doesn't appear to feature on sat-nav's

 

For those of you who have no idea what the seven

squares are all about, I will endeavour to explain.

Pluto and Uranus only align in a tense square every

eighty years which means that this most significant and

challenging planetary influence generally only occurs

once in a generation.

 

It began in June 2012 and as the planets move slowly and

undergo retrograde phases the squares are repeated seven times

in all leaving us all living through a major generational

upheaval with the focus being on evolutionary change.

 

Uranus symbolises change, invention and revolution and its

effects are shocking, unpredictable and erratic.  Pluto stands for

globalization, destruction, transformation and renewal  and its

effects are ruthless and extreme.  They are non-personal,

emotionless planets yet nevertheless their effects can be

dramatic and deeply felt.

Now that's what I call a super moon.  Boys will be boys.

 

 As if this wasn't enough for most of us, we then have the

"Supermoon" to contend with.  The term was coined by astrologer

Richard Nolle in 1979 and these events happen about 4-6 times

a year influencing our behavious and emotions.  Everything is

stronger and more deeply felt and severe weather events are

often experienced around the same time.  So get in touch with

your feminine side, strap on a life jacket and prepare for a

tidal wave of energy and the opportunity for growth.

Going, going, gone.

 

Two down, two to go.  The total solar eclipse takes place in

Pisces and it's effects can last for as long as six months afterwards.

This is a moment when matters come to a head and the change

that is brought about can be very positive.  The nature of the change

depends upon which house of your natal chart it falls within.

 

This particular solar eclipse is all about new beginnngs which will

require a certain leap of faith to bring about, it will test our beliefs

and demands imagination and intuition if you really want to

enjoy the fulfilment of your dreams.  There is, however, a price to

pay in all this and something must end before another new chapter

can begin in earnest.  It's the moment to take a break from routine

and daily pressures, to be a bit more laid back and in less of a hurry.

A time to let go!

Time to do something about your "hare"

 

Are you still with me?  We've only got the Spring Equinox to

get through and we should be home and dry.  Equinox -

equal night and equal day; the beginning of a new season and

the start of the new astrological year.  Fresh starts, new endeavours.

The nation on alert, scanning the heavens for a first sighting.

 

 And what has all this got to do with Long Dog and cross stitch?

Well everything of course.  It's written in the stars that

a new design will appear in Aries on 8th April

but it's still not quite visible to the naked eye so you'll

just have to find some of the patience bestowed by the solar eclipse

and finish off something in your stash in the meantime.

Cor-gette!

As I go through the rather slow business of getting my body kick

started for action each morning, a vital component of the whole

routine is reading The Mail Online on my trusty tablet

while I am still buried deep beneath the duvet.

 

I like to check out whether we have gone to war with anyone

while I slept, who's been doing what to whom, and whether

cerise has become the "new black" overnight.

 

Now that's one male I definately wouldn't mind going online with!

 

The Mail somehow never seems to let me down.

It's guaranteed to play up the latest health scare, remind me

that an asteroid the size of Venezuela (I think that's the

first time I've ever written that word) will pass dangerously

close to the earth next July and update me on just how safe

it is for a woman to be out alone after dark in our towns

and villages along with the black spots to avoid at all costs.

 

Courageous researcher conducting some field worl for the articles.

 

There has been a series of articles recently in the Fe-Mail

Health Section pondering the average size, when fully extended,

of the male member.  Not a burning (perhaps an unwise choice of

word) issue that I can honestly say has troubled me over the years

but, nonetheless, I read on as I had suddenly become curious.

 

The first article posed many questions but gave no answers.

Neither did the second but the final piece in the series came straight

to the point, so to speak, - 5.5 inches, that's official

 

They've just heard the next question.

 

I duly filed this new found piece of fascinating information away in

the "may come in handy at a dinner party/pub quiz" part of my

brain and thought no more about it.  That is until today!

 

I was idly washing a courgette that I was going to prepare for my

lunch but I won't take you through my actual, rather shameful,

thought processes but suffice it to say that I nipped off into the

office to fetch my trusty old school ruler as I needed to get to

the bottom of all this once and for all.

 

It doesn't take much imagination to see what set me off.

 

The proud, green specimen measured an eyewatering 5.9 inches on

the Richter courgette scale which I deemed to be a quake

of some significance.

 

After lunch, which by the way way delicious, I sat quietly reflecting

and came to the conclusion that having been married twice coupled

with a fair bit of practice in between times, all in all,

I had gotten off very lightly indeed.

Sometimes less can be more (than sufficient)!

Rude girl Julia, go straight to your room.

Hold the headlines

As the days lengthen and the mornings become lighter

I seem to be getting up earlier and earlier

only to wonder how best to fill this new found time.

Which is why I was to be spotted yesterday

down on the marshes just after sparrow fart

digging away on Plot 6.

Not mad March hares - mad marsh horses instead

 

 It was a beautiful early spring morning;

Yarmouth way on the horizon was still shrouded

in sea mist; the birds were all singing;

you could see the horses' breath as they grazed

the hillocky grass and I was as near to being

at peace with the world as I will ever be.

 

That is until I spotted the very unnerving and rather

unkempt figure of a man climbing the fence into

the allotment gardens.  It was at that moment when the

phrase being at "one" with the world took on a new

and slightly sinister meaning.

Sort of like this but not tooled up.  At least not from where I was standing.

 

 I was "just one", all alone in the middle of nowhere,

feeling slightly rattled by this unnown man

behaving oddly to say the least.  What's more,

he appeared to be coming my way.

Flight would have been futile so I prepared for fight

instead and grasped the handle of my lovely new

fork with both hands until my knuckles turned

white and gleamed in the sun.

 

Nearer and nearer he came, stumbling occasionally

on the uneven terrain, the tails of his shabby tweed coat

flapping in the breeze.  Cue music from Jaws -

dah dah, dah dah, etc ......

 

He was, by now, no more than a few feet from me when

his face suddenly lit up with a cheery grin and in a very

posh voice he said: "Morning m'dear, Friday the

thirteenth you know.  Never take the car out on that day

so I'm taking this shortcut to the garage on the

roundabout as the wife's run out of bread again."

I must see what the committee think about putting up a sign.

 

 And then he lurched on by still following his diagonal route

across the allotments until he came to the boundary fence

which he also climbed but with less alacrity than the first.

 

Breathing a huge sigh of relief and having reprimanded

myself for being so jumpy I continued on with my deep

digging.  I also mentally deleted the headline I had imagined

adorning the front page of tomorrow's edition of the

Eastern Daily Press:

 

WOMAN F***S MAN ON ALLOTMENT

 

You can fill in the blanks.  I think the asterisks made

it just a tad more sensational.  With a lurid imagination

life can never, ever be dull!

I wonder if Colonel Sanders knows anything about this?

 

 Tomorrow "Genetically modified chicken attacks tourist

on Gorleston seafront."



Georg Jensen 1866-1935

I have just happened to notice that Fellows, the auctioneers,

are having a sale today of Vintage Jewellery & Accessories.

Nothing particularly unusual in that, auctions are taking

place all the time, but on this occasion they have

a couple of brooches by Georg Jensen going

under the hammer and that's more than enough to

grab my attention for a while.

Today's caption competition, answers must be in Swedish!

 

 For those of you not familiar with his work, Georg was

a Swedish designer of ceramics, sculptor, goldsmith

but perhaps he is best known for his silver jewellery.

Amongst his contemporaries were Charles Robert Ashbee

and Charles Rennie Mackintosh, all three of them key names

in the Arts & Crafts Movement.

This one's in the auction today.

 In line with current thinking Georg's desire was to make everyday

objects not only beautiful but affordable too which is rather an irony in

view of the prices his work fetches at auction today.

Iron and silver brooch

 

During the First World War his company created the now

famous "iron jewellery" in an attempt to safeguard the

dwindling stocks of silver and this is avidly sought out by

collectors the world over. 

Deer and squirrel - key components of many Long Dogs
but that's where the similarity ends.

 

Georg died in 1935 but the company has continued in his name

and is still producing beautiful work which bears his

signature to this day.

Arts & Crafts at it's finest.

 

History lesson over, the auction starts at 9.30am

and as I seem to have left it too late to register

there's no fear of me getting into a bidding war with

some other determined admirer of Mr Jensen's

fabulous creations.  Saved from myself again! 

Plot No. 6!

I may not live to regret this but first let me explain.

 

Way back in the depths of winter during one

of my better, and more optimistic, spells healthwise

I was idly flicking through our little quarterly

village magazine when my attention fell upon

an article about the local allotment association

exhorting like-minded people to put their names

down for a plot.

 

Oh goody - I appear to have a composter!

 

I am no stranger to the lure of damp compost,

sturdy wellingtons and rows of neatly regimented

crops quietly burgeoning with a promise of even

better things to be had with just a litte care.

 

So what did I do?  I think you might just have guessed.

Like an idiot I dashed off a request for my name to

be placed forthwith on the waiting list and thought

no more of the matter.

 

The full enormity of it all.

 

That is until last night when I received a phone call to

say that, like scum, my name had risen to the top

of the pile and that I was to present myself at 2.30pm

sharp today at the allotments off  Boat Dyke Lane

when I would be shown my allotted plot  and duly

welcomed into the family of allotmenteers.

 

Coming, ready of not.

More will follow on this subject!

 

 



Acronymous Long Dog

No, it's not the second cousin twice removed of

Hieronymous Bosch, although I must admit it sounds like it.

Do not scrunch or use a frame for these!

 

Today's title is yet another example of the growing mound

of totally useless work that the Devil keeps thinking up

for my idle hands.  Or should that be brain as my

hands are never idle and generally to be found full of

crumpled Aida and a needle.  I'm such a scrunchy,

bottom left start, look no frame sort of a girl.

Who else walks on the wild side of the selvage edge?

 

 Now tell me this.  What do these words conjure up for you:

 

Lovelly, outstanding needlework.  Great designs.

Over generations samplers acquire much prestige

linking each relative's story .....

Ackworth squirrel without NUTS! and from the rear
too if I'm not mistaken.  Either that or this kid's
sewing really was rubbish, Ackworth or not.

 

Are they the opening paragraph of a book on samplers through

the ages; a small ad in an antiquarian textile magazine

for an ancient Ackworth sampler or just me attempting to

keep the dreaded dementia at bay, as they keep telling us

silver citizens, by keeping our shrinking brains active.

 

How well you begin to know me.

Take another look, this time at the first letter of each of the

words and you'll quickly discover that today my questing

little beak has been thrust into the ant's nest of acronyms
and mnemonics; the former being an abbreviation formed from
the initials in a word or phrase and the latter a formula
or rhyme to assist memory.

Don't drive too close - this one may not bounce!

Examples are all around us.  SWAT - could be a special
weapons and tactics squad but, in my case, is more likely
to be a scientific wild ass guess.  Or the mnemonic for
remembering the lines of the treble clef (EGBDF)
-elephants go bouncing down freeway/every good boy
deserves fruit.

And as I keep telling small, alien life forms when they get a
little too close for comfort to my designs -
Look Only,  No Greasey
Dabs On Granny's Sewing.

What did Grandma just say?
Step away from her sewing!

Ah la la poo poo ah la la!
Neither an acronym, nor a mnemonic, I just like saying it.

TTFN!