Time for a Rant!

The weather is awful here in Acle where the marshes kiss the sky.

It has been for days, weeks even, and I've got the right royal hump.

I want to go about my lawful business, walk the lanes, skip across

the water meadows and plant my French beans.

The weather must be bad where he is too.

I have stitched so much recently that my right hand seems to have

frozen into a perpetual needle holding shape and my poor bum has

spread at least another few centimeters from all this sitting down.

I get very crabby at times such as this and then I begin to reflect on all

the little niggles of life that really piss me off.  Today my bugbear is the

seemingly universal shortage of common courtesy and good manners

- the oils which keep the complex machinery of human relationships

running smoothly.  Please play nicely children.

---oOo---

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Elton John reckons "Sorry seems to be the hardest word."

I beg to differ Sir Elton, it's LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLLGOGERYCHWYRNDROBWILLANTYSILIOGOGOGOCH

the Welsh village name which lends it's shortened form to the hauntingly

beautifyl (Welsh spelling) Long Dog design Spirit of Llanfair.

Available as a pdf download direct from me any time you like 24/7.

---oOo---

Please seems to be a difficult word for a lot of people.  

"Always speak with two words pet,"

"Please costs nothing."

Apologies for that disembodied interruption, my granny seems to

think I'm holding one of my seances and has decided to join us across

the ether.  But she's right, it's usage makes life that little bit sweeter and

can turn a blunt demand into a charming request all in the space of six little letters.

Pretty please? (or I will have to kill you).

Well that's the preamble over so now I shall cut straight to my

irritant of the day.  What has happened to "thank you"?

Has it been struck from modern parlance leaving a great gaping hole

where it should have been inserted?  Is it too difficult or time consuming

to write, can no one pronounce the th sound at the beginning?

They must have learned that at puppy training classes.  Good boys.

I may have to issue a small reward for it's safe return.

On second thoughts - please cancel that.  Thank you.  I have just spotted

a strange bright light in the sky and am hopeful that it may be the return

of the sun.  Quick, where did I put those seeds?  Perhaps they're in the

odds and sods drawer along with my "p's" and "q's".

Thank you for reading this.

Mes Sourcils!

I have no eyebrows thanks to ongoing auto-immune problems and

for the vast majority of the time it matters not a jot.  The frame of my

spectacles covers the offending area and as they were never a prominent

feature at the best of times I tend not to mourn their loss - until today.

Those brows spoke volumes

Today I discovered whilst reading a magazine article that there is a

"language of the brows"  and therefore, because of my loss, I am unable

to participate,  I am "mute".  I cannot lower to express displeasure,

raise in surprise, cock in a quizzical manner nor flash a cheeky little

wtf a la Groucho Marx.

Don't look into her eyes.

What to do?  A quick trawl of the internet soon threw up as many

questions as it supplied answers.  Did you know that in the dark ages

women stuck on bits of mouse skin in an attempt to deceive, that

Queen Elizabeth I shaved hers off, that you can have them tattooed on

and that e-bay offers a whole range of eyebrow syrups for "every age,

race, sex, skin-type and occasion".  

Makes everything crystal clear

It was the last option that had me wondering - I've heard of come to bed

eyes but this is a step too far.  Amazon are even offering free and fast

delivery on "extensions" would you believe?  That certainly caused me to

raise the shiny, bald surfaces just above my eyes I can tell you, but no one

heard me cry out!

"Frozen" assets

Further painstaking research led to the discovery of waxing parlours,

the Asian depilatory art of "threading", stick on bling, a plethora of

cosmetic pencils and dyestuffs finally ending up with eyebrow art

in all it's myriad, and very alluring, forms.

Upon reflection I think I'll pass on them all, even "the allure", and just

keep my glasses on in the hope that no one notices.

A bolt of textile artists for your delight

Textile sculpture is the bridge which supports the cross over

point between craft work and fine art.  These creations are in

a realm of their own with a foot in both camps and an 

undeniable appeal to collectors the world over.

More and more examples are finding their way into galleries

and exhibitions and attract the attention of critics and the

media alike.

---oOo---

Mister Finch is an English artist based in Leeds who specialises in

large scale projects such as insects and birds.

British folklore also features heavily in these creations so think crow,

think fox, think hand-dyed fabrics, think slightly on the dark side

- stop, you're there.

---oOo---

Emilie Faif has a unique approach to fabric using fans to air

fill her beguiling installations.

---oOo---

Sadie Brockbank isn't afraid to mix her media.  Her paintings are three

dimensional with animals and birds rising from the canvas and more

often than not finished off with a final layer of patterned or textured

textile for good measure.

---oOo---

Nameless Wonders is the umbrella which covers an entire menagerie of

hand-stitched critters.

You can see the joins, you can see the stitches.

They're stretched, pulled and pushed.  They're unique.

A sort of green taxidermy as no creature suffered in the making.

---oOo---

Hoddyman Dod

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that my train of thought

tends to wander off down some of the less trodden paths of life

bordering, at times, upon the realms of pure fantasy.  Well today,

you'll be pleased to hear, is no exception.  I'm into toes but not in

an unsavory, fetishey sort of a way because all I'm concerned with

is their names.

Over the years, and much to the delight of my youngest grand-daughter

with whom I once shared this information, I've managed to name some

but not all of my toes.  The smallest on each foot rejoice, purely because

of their shape, in the name of tortoise toes.  The two either side of the big

toes are not only Celtic because they are longer than any other but also

known as diver toes because of their uncanny resemblance to diver's

helmets.  And no Camilla, there's nothing remotely rude in that.

Hairey horse "toes"

The big toes are the King and Queen just because I say so and the third

and fourth on my right foot are horse toes because they were squashed

flat by a prancey equine way back in my youth.  The remainder are

anonymous as they lack the shape, character or misfortune to justify

a name of their own.

Happy feet, I've got those happy feet!

I was a peace with the status quo until today.  Whilst researching the

origins of "hoddyman dod" (a word found in the old Norfolk dialect)

I came across a charming little "telling" rhyme used by generations of

East Anglian mothers to give identity and titles to their ickle cherub's

tiny pink toe-toes on their tiny pink tootsie wootsies.

Fearless Hoddyman Dod meets the Marsh Snapper

I should just mention, for what it is worth and in case you were wondering,

that a "dodman" or "hoddyman dod" is the vernacular word for the

common, or garden, snail.  To continue, here comes the Norfolk toe jingle:

Peedy Weedy

Pally Ludy

Lady Whistle

Lody Wassel and

Great Big Hoddyman Dod!

The famous Orkney "toe" stones

However I then discovered that in Orkney folklore they have a finger verse

which goes:  Toomikin, Loomikin, Langman, Lickpot and Peedieman.

Whilst in Norway their fingers are called: Tommeltott, Slinkepott, Langeman,

Gullebran and lille Petter Spilleman.

Norwegian "toe warmers"

Norwegian toes are also named:  Lilletaa (little), Tatilla, Tillaros,

Apalfru (Lady of the Apples) and Store stygge skrubbehester i skogen

(big, ugly horsey thing in the forest).  Whilst on Orkney their weird, horsey

thing is the fourth toe and "old madam" is the big one.  What do you call yours?

Acle Marshes - a dangerous walk after "tea time"

And finally, today's Norfolk dialect word of the week just has to be "mirackled"

as in "I think I've mirackled messel."  (I think I have done myself a mischief by

falling into a dyke due to one too many "cups of tea".)  We make a powerful brew

here in Acle where the marshes kiss the sky, and we've got an awful lot of dykes

too so "Mind how yer go now bor!"

Suffering from blackouts?

Boudicca

The ancient Celts moved across western Europe reaching the

British Isles around 400 BC.  The Iceni were the tribe who settled in

my region of East Anglia; their queen Boudicca being one of their

best known warrior leaders.  Body art was an integral part of their

culture and permanent body painting was carried out with the locally

grown woad leaving a blue design on the skin.

Tattoo's, certainly when I was a child growing up in London in the

1950's, were the trappings of criminals and sailors and not something

that a nice little girl should concern herself with.  But, even so, they

fascinated me - must be the woad in my blood.

I wonder if he'd ever ventured "down under"?

You could always tell where a sailor had been by the inks on his body

or the rum on his breath - a turtle for crossing the equator, an anchor for

crossing the Atlantic, a dragon for crossing the China Sea and a black

eye for crossing a shipmate (back to the rum again)!

Zoom in, it's under the bracelet.

What they never told me was that during the late Victorian/Edwardian

period the "blue art" had an aristocratic moment when even the American

Jennie Churchill (Sir Winston's mother) bore a snake on her wrist usually

discreetly covered in public with a diamond bracelet.

When it was finished she said "The worst is all behind me now!"

One of my favourite chroniclers, good old William of Malmesbury,

when describing the Brits on the eve of the Battle of Hastings (1066)

said: "The English at that time wore short garments reaching to mid-

knee, they had their hair cropped, their beards shaven, their arms laden

with gold bracelets, their skin adorned with tattooed designs.  They

were accustomed to eat till they became surfeited and to drink

till they were sick."

Friends said you could read her like a book.

No change there then.  Scroll forward a milennia and the picture is much

the same today in any of our big towns and cities on a Saturday night

when the clubs turn out.

A little black number.

But just when it seemed that the tattooist's art had reached it's natural

limits with virtually every inch of flesh fully "illustrated" along comes

BLACKOUT!  Goodbye dolphins, roses and hearts - hello arms, legs

and even torso's inked solid black.

Gives "black leg" a whole new meaning.

I have a theory that this style might have got it's name not from the

blanket nature of the genre but from the reaction of the recipient's

mother upon first viewing of her offspring's latest exploits.  I have

only to cast my mind back to when my own mother viewed my first

piercing to support this hypothesis!

My mother always one to over react.

What is that smell?

I have just returned to the Lock-Up in a state bordering upon

euphoria probably induced by over exposure to perfumes

But I'm getting ahead of myself which makes a pleasant change

from my normal digressions.

Lautrec sums it up perfectly

I beam like a Cheshire cat and smell like a couple of whores on

a night out as almost every inch of visible flesh has been anointed,

sprayed, daubed, splashed and smeared with an assortment of

perfumes ranging from the sublime to the headache inducing.

I am borderline embalmed.  I have been to the perfume department

of Roy's of Wroxham - and I lingered.

Roys of Wroxham back in the day

I blame the weather.  There was a steady drizzle coming down and not

a chance in hell of getting anything done outdoors so I thought I'd

take a leisurely tootle over to Wroxham.  Admittedly the purchase of

a small bottle of perfume was my intention as Roy's prices are

unbeatable, even on the Internet, and I'm almost down to my last

squirt.  So this was not to be an indulgence but a necessity 

- like toilet rolls or a pint of milk.    If it hadn't been for Helen!

Lalique - not a perfume but a famous glass maker

It's amazing when you think about it the way all our lives cross and all

the interactions we have with each other day by day, month by month,

year upon year.  And every so often we encounter someone who will

stick in our minds and not be forgotten - Helen is one such person.

Good enough to crosstitch

She popped out at me from behind a Dior display just as I was about to

administer my first squirt of the outing and I knew instinctively that I

should have left the plastic at home.  Her enthusiasm for her subject was

that infectious.  What that young woman didn't know about perfume just

wasn't worth knowng - history, suitability, "notes", ingredients.  She knew

it all - or did she?

I should never have read the label of Ange ou Demon by Givenchy out loud.  

All right Annie, I admit I was showing off just a teensie bit but the words

were no sooner out of my mouth than a deluge of assorted bottles and

atomisers were produced for me to say the names so that she could learn

the correct pronunciations, such was her dedication to her work.

Helen, I salute you my woman and award you the title Miss Perfume

2016.  I am also now the proud owner of a rather larger than planned

bottle of Estee Lauder Youth Dew, a vaporisateur of Eden by Cacharel

(special price), an English lavender cologne stick (it reminded me of my

Gran) and more testers and free samples than you could shake a stick at.

I do hope it doesn't rain again tomorrow, this could become expensive.

Paper of Pins - join in if you know the words

You may have noticed that currently I'm rather into the origins of old

songs and nursery rhymes with even the most tenuous of connections

to the Gentle Art (who incidentally make very find hand-dyed threads

- see below) of Needlework.

Gentle Art Sampler Threads (GAST to you 'n me)

Paper of Pins is one of those songs that would crop up now and again in

the sixties when folk clubs were all the rage and Aran clad youths clutching

acoustic guitars and banjo's would cup one ear as they leaned into a

microphone to rail loudly about the injustices of life both past and present

or love lost, found or coming rather nicely to the boil (preferably tonight).

Those were the days.  His Aran's in the wash.

I must admit that I don't always pay proper attention to the actual meaning of

the words being sung.  For years I thought the hymn "Gladly My Cross I'd Bear"

was not all about personal suffering, pain and redemption but instead a cheery

ditty about a cuddly, cross-eyed bear by the name of Gladly.

So the first verse, sung by the ardent young swain goes:  I'll give you a paper of

pins, If that's the way that love begins, If you will marry, marry, marry, marry.

If you will marry me.

His first offer!

It's small wonder that she turns him down.  A screw of paper with a load of pins 

in it is most certainly not the way love begins.  I wonder if that's where
that charming old expression "Fancy a quick screw darling" originated.
I know how it ended up.  How dare he, the cheapskate.

A few Vodka shots and a fish supper at the very, very least my lad!

Always check silver love spoons for
hallmarks girls.

It's all too easy to let the words slip by with no thought for what's actually going 

on.  So not being one to give up our young Jack the Lad up's the ante a bit and

sings:  I'll give to you a silver spoon, Feed the baby in the afternoon, If you will

marry etc.  Still not good enough.  Doesn't he know you have to clean silver

and who said anything about kids?  On your bike mister.

The golden balls of "Uncle's".  I wonder if they'd
advance him anything for his silver spoon?

Now at this stage it is unclear if the youth has been smoking illegal substances 

but forgive me for being suspicious of his next offer:  I'll give to you a golden

ball, To bounce from the kitchen to the hall. If you will marry etc.  Well something

should certainly bounce at this juncture.  Probably a pair of them and not

necessarily golden ones unless he's a footballer.

In one last desperate bid to hook up with the young lass he decides to go for broke

and offers her:  The keys of the chest and all the money that he possesses.  And

wouldn't you just know it, she says YES!  Crafty little baggage.  But here comes

the sting in the tail.  He says:  You love my money but you don't love me.

Withdraws his offer.  End it.

Well if it isn't Sally Free and Easy.

That is until now as I've just written a post script to this tale.  The swain (or should

that be swine?) spots little Sally Free 'n Easy (but that's another song for another

day) across the meadow, puts his paper of pins back in his pocket (also for another

day) and sets off in hot pursuit as he knows a winner when he sees one.

The moral of this tale is that a paper of pins in the hand isn't always necessary for a

quickie in the bush.  Happy stitching and beware of boys bearing pins.

Dankworth

The clarinetist, sax player and composer Sir John Phillip

William Dankworth CBE was a jazz man through and through,

and a very great one at that.

Sir Johnny

Better known to his audiences simply as Johnny Dankworth,

he played with all the greats from Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong

and Duke Ellington to Sidney Bechet and Zoot Sims.

He married jazz singer Dame Cleo Laine in 1958 and

together they really rocked.

The price of chips if you're interested.

Well that's all very nice Julia, but where is all this going?

It's got nothing to do with cross stitch or the price of chips.

An artist's impression of Dankworth

But that's where you'd be wrong.  Johnny's band was loud and

magical so what better moniker than Dankworth could I give to

the latest fabulous band sampler to join the Long Dog stables?

The real thing having a lay-down in my conservatory

The brassy young Dankworth measures 125 x 254 stitches

and comes with DMC and Gentle Art conversions all for the

very foot tapping price of £9.00.  It would be so cool, and

possibly even groovy,  to add it to your stash ......

jools@longdogsampler.com

ATTENTION ***SPOILER ALERT***

Take a quick look and commit the following to your

memory immediately because you never know

when the Spoiler Police will demand that these

pictures are taken down.

I can tell you that this is another wonderful

Long Dog which will be coming your way sometime

on Saturday 9th April (British Summer Time).

I can't be more accurate than that because a great

deal depends upon what time I get up and that depends

on either where I went the night before or whether

there was a good late film on the Drama Channel.

Now clear off and let someone else have a peek,

you've all got to play nicely and share.

We may not have long.  See you Saturday!