[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 7 November 2023].
happy birthday, anthony
This year's visit to Australia was predominantly about family and officially saying goodbye to Mum.
But alongside that and reuniting with some wonderful friends, I also had the chance to (officially) say goodbye to one of my oldest friends, Anthony Horan.
My thanks go out to Anthony's brother, Chris, and mutual longtime friends, Amy and Richard, for accompanying me and making the visit possible.
It was lovely to finally meet Chris and reunite with Amy and Richard after so long.
It was a sombre visit. Rain threatened. There was much mud on the 'lawn'.
But there was also cheeky humour amongst us, in keeping with the sort of comments and jokes Anthony would have made if he'd been able to reply to us as we stood by the grave his ashes share with his father's remains.
When I visited, there was a temporary marker for Anthony and his dad. I'm sure when I visit next it will look different (if it doesn't already).
I've been catching up on sharing iPhone photos from my trip on Instagram, and this morning, I reached my photos from that day. I thought I would share them on the second anniversary of his passing in January, oblivious to the date.
But, when I remembered later in the day it was his birthday in Australia, it was obvious today was the day to share.
It's currently his birthday in Melbourne and London.
So, the penguins and I are raising a toast to an old friend.
Love and miss you, Anthony. Always. xx
taste and see that the lord is good
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 29 October 2023].
shot through the heart
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 27 October 2023].
old man's mustard
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 25 October 2023].
Once again, my photography introduces me to new things. I learn from it all the time.
I had difficulty deciding on a title for this post based on the various names for Achillea millefolium: yarrow or common yarrow.
According to Wikipedia, it has many evocative alternative names, including arrowroot, nose bleed, death flower, eerie, hundred leaved grass, knyghten, sanguinary, seven-year's love and snake's grass.
I settled on the one I spoke out loud and chuckled at as I read it.
Apparently, in Ireland and Great Britain, it was believed to be able to foretell your romantic future.
It appears ingesting it has positive and negative effects on humans and animals.
And, for a kid growing up in the 80s, I was amused that yarrow was used to make pick-up sticks. (Though, if I remember correctly, ours were brightly coloured plastic).
These particular specimens were obviously at the end of the season. I photographed them on 10 September 2020 in Pondwicks Meadow in Old Amersham.
mere mortals
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 18 October 2023].
It might be hard to make them out online, but these photos I took of the nave of Ely Cathedral include my Mum (walking down the aisle) and my Dad (seated to the right of the frame).
The cathedral's Romanesque architecture dwarfs them.
I have a collection of photos of the exterior and interior of Ely Cathedral that I'll edit soon. But it felt appropriate to edit and share these two images for today's (slightly belated) travel photo, as next Tuesday - when I share them on social media for #TravelTuesday - will be Mum's first birthday since her passing.
like water for chocolate
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 October 2023].
darwin’s barberry
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 October 2023].
I took this photograph of Berberis darwinii a few streets from where I sit my "regulars" on my birthday this year.
This plant is a perfect example of my argument that "weeds are just plants in the wrong place".
From Wikipedia: It is a popular garden and hedging shrub in the British Isles. The Royal Horticultural Society has given the species its Award of Garden Merit.
and
Berberis darwinii is regarded as an invasive plant pest in New Zealand that escaped from gardens into indigenous plant communities via its bird-dispersed seeds. It is considered a serious threat to indigenous ecosystems throughout New Zealand and is listed on the National Pest Plant Accord.
ely
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 12 October 2023].
I have so many photographs I took during a road trip with my parents in 2017 that I haven't yet had a chance to edit.
I'm trying to fix that (not to mention trying to work through editing all the other photographs I have from other holidays or day trips with them over the years).
It was Mum's last international trip. Her dementia was evident during that visit and even more jarring for me as I hadn't seen her in person since our road trip through Belgium in 2014.
sundae fraise
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 6 October 2023].
Some Hydrangea paniculata I came across while wandering through Bounds Green in August.
I believe these particular ones are Sundae Fraise.
breathe in, breathe out
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 3 October 2023].
drinking birds
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 26 September 2023].
A semi-itinerant lifestyle has impacted my ability to keep my Patreon as regularly updated as I'd like, so thank you for sticking around.
I have one more sitting this month where I won't have access to a decent monitor to edit photos. But then I'll be down to much more irregular sittings until February, so I'll edit my heart out as much as possible while I'm more settled.
Since late March, I've barely been home.
And when I have been, I've been wrestling with flat-related shenanigans, life admin and such.
Please don't mention the scaffolding that has encased our building since late March and prevents me from opening my bedroom window more than four inches. Or the boxes of books occupying most of the space on one side of my bed since early August, as I can't yet replace them on the bookcase while we wait for a section of paint in the lounge to be retouched (it's located directly above the bookcase).
The prints I previously had hanging in the lounge have also reverted to an inconvenience, as the repainting required their hooks to be removed. I'm reluctant to replace them on the walls. For reasons I won't go into here.
I'm trying to locate appropriate wrapping to stow them safely in existing packaging in our lounge in a way that infringes less on our living space.
On a related note: if you know anyone who would like to purchase framed prints from my alternate worlds series or selected work from other series (largely self-portraiture), please send them my way...
In addition to the times I've been away from home with only my work laptop, I've had two periods of about two weeks in May and August without my iMac due to required repairs, which hasn't helped.
As much as I love the furry personalities I've been sitting so much this year, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to sleeping in my own bed for more than a few consecutive nights. To work at my own desk on a quality monitor with full access to my files.
In addition to the remaining sittings already booked for the next few months, I need to arrange other sittings and/or accommodation to take advantage of my rail vouchers, which will expire by mid-January.
But those will be trips with plenty of time for creativity, photography and being inspired.
I look forward to taking some proper annual leave after almost two years. (No, let's be honest, it will be four years in mid-November...)
But, on a positive note, I've been working on a new project inspired by a book a friend gifted me. And I've continued taking photos (not just of cats).
I look forward to sharing those with you soon!
rocket [the bell tower, barrack square, perth, australia, 2023]
rocket
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 August 2023].
If you're an Australian of a particular vintage (specifically, Generation X or Baby Boomer), I challenge you to tell me you're not thinking of Mr Squiggle's 'Rocket' while looking at my photo of Perth's Bell Tower at Elizabeth Quay.
I took this while on a whistle-stop tour of Perth with Rhys, one of my cousins.
While Kings Park was quite familiar to me, including the vista from the war memorial (which I had captured on at least one previous visit), the view had markedly changed in the roughly 20-30 years since I'd last photographed it.
This building and other high rises have since populated (and are still adding to) the skyline on Elizabeth Quay.
Although the architecture is vastly different: The Bell Tower is on a river, while the National Carillon is on an island in a manmade lake, and they are on almost direct opposite sides of the big, brown land we call Australia, I couldn't help but think of the near-annual visits my brothers and I took with my Granddad to the National Carillon on Queen Elizabeth II Island in Lake Burley Griffin as kids when confronted with The Bell Tower.
Perth was the city my grandparents moved to after decades lived in Canberra, and it was while visiting them in late high school that I first saw Perth.
I still feel I've only scratched the surface of Perth after about four visits, but there's something comforting about the same-same-but-different elements of the city to Canberra.
I'm sure that if my brothers, cousins and I were kids now and my grandparents were still alive and living in Perth, my Granddad would take us to The Bell Tower annually.
untitled #9 [bromley, london, united kingdom, 2023]
thinking of home
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 15 July 2023].
I took these photos of Sabine's azaleas during my last cat-sitting for her before I went to Australia.
The blooms were beautiful and eye-catching.
According to Wikipedia: Azaleas and rhododendrons were once so infamous for their toxicity that to receive a bouquet of their flowers in a black vase was a well-known death threat.
But they were apparently immortalised by Tang dynasty Chinese poet Du Fu in the last two stanzas of his poem, Alone, looking for blossoms along the river:
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain — I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine — even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats — who could bear it?
East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully — an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds — open delicately, sparingly.
In Chinese culture, it's apparently known as the "thinking of home bush", thus my title for this post.
Sabine's home has become something of a second home for me over the past year and a half, and spending time with her kittehs most months last year and many months this year so far has impacted my mental health positively.
Not to mention the enjoyment I get from the evenings spent in conversation with her the nights before she goes away. And the delicious and varied salads she usually makes us.
water of leith
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 July 2023].
It may seem like I just came back from a holiday.
And I'm not going to lie: some parts of my time away in Australia were definitely a holiday.
But I worked part-time in my "day job" while I was away. And a lot of the time I was away was hard, emotional work.
Attempting to regain control of my finances, I've had my annual leave accrual paid out in cash for the past year and a half. So, though I was effectively paid for my leave, it wasn't money going into my bank account while I was away. I didn't have the luxury of being on an actual holiday.
There were some beautiful, wonderful times with family and friends during my time in Australia.
My visit with my Uncle John was far too short. I wanted to talk with him more. About him, about family. And, yes, even perhaps have another 2.5-hour debate about politics ;)
Despite having a two-week stay with Dad, I left knowing there were more things I wanted to help him with. Conversations not yet had.
A whole room of Mum's stuff left to sort through.
And more games of Scrabble to play, Canasta to learn with him and Cheryl, and even lazy afternoons spent together watching 'The Chase' (both the British and Australian versions) or evenings watching nature documentaries and eating ice creams.
Melbourne was crazy. I spent more time with friends and family in six days than I would generally spend in a year.
It was amazing, as someone who values the people I spend time with. As an introvert, it was exhausting.
And my time in Perth was far too short.
Though my Uncle Graham and I may have different views on many things, I would like to hear his.
I presumed that Mum - as someone so absorbed and obsessed with family - would have held all the family history. And that, with her parents, aunts and uncles and her gone, a lot of that would be lost.
But a short period with my uncle demonstrated he was just as attentive, though maybe attentive to different things. I would have enjoyed talking with (or just listening to) him more to try to piece together more of the family now that Mum's gone.
Dad wrote a long and lovely piece about Mum before she passed. If I recall correctly, I asked him to, as I should have asked her to do decades before. An extended biography that I still need to edit for him.
I've asked him to do the same, but I presume (and hope!) I won't read that for quite a while still.
While in Brisbane, I asked that Uncle John do the same. About him. And in partnership with Dad, about my grandparents, about their uncles.
I didn't ask Uncle Graham, but I would like him to and will email him to ask. Because Mum told me all the family stories, but I never asked her to write them down.
She told them to me as we pored over her family photo albums after dinner and red wine. I lapped up those stories in the moment. And I still savour them, but the reality is that I absorbed only morsels compared to the complete tales.
During this visit, I spent quality time with a cousin I had previously been mere acquaintances with. Perhaps not enough to feel we truly know each other. But we connected more and for longer than we ever had before.
I would have liked to spend more time catching up with my other cousin, who I had connected with previously. But we only briefly caught up during this visit, and our time was full of food and family chatter.
But at least, after this visit, I felt more connected with my Mum's family than before.
And I'm grateful to my cousin Rhys for playing tour guide and taking me to calm, picturesque places, which allowed me to wind down after such a hectic time in Melbourne (and provided me with plenty of photo opportunities).
All that to say that, after not having had a holiday in the true sense since October/November 2019 (and it's debatable it was even a 'holiday' for various reasons), I have, of late, been plotting and planning a return to Scotland.
It will hopefully take place in late September. And the plan is to visit two friends I met in 2000 in Reading while living there. Who I haven't seen in person since about 2002 and 2009, respectively. And who I've had intermittent contact with during that period.
And having actual paid time off to do that. To see parts of Scotland I've not previously seen (ooh-er!) and to spend time with good people. And, of course, to take copious amounts of photos.
It's all still very much to be confirmed, but to say I'm excited at the prospect would be an understatement.
To celebrate the possibility, a photo of the Water of Leith, near Dean Village, that I took in August 2011. The last time I was in Edinburgh.
uplifting angels
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 10 July 2023].
the hardest button to button
Whilst I was visiting Dad last month, we tried to sort through Mum's belongings to work out what to keep, what family or friends might want, what to give to charity, and what to throw out.
We didn't get to her sewing room at all, but we did at least go through her wardrobe, jewellery, bathroom items and some odds and sods. In short, the items in Dad's bedroom.
Before this visit, I probably wouldn't have even vaguely entertained trying on her clothing as we were vastly different in size, shape, and style for most of our lives.
This visit, I'd put on weight, so I wasn't quite so dismissive. Though I knew our sense of style was quite different, and there would likely be few, if any, items I would retain.
I wasn't wrong.
In the end, all I brought back to London was a white shawl (I don't know if it was handmade or bought. It doesn't have a label, but that doesn't prove one way or another), a cream and a royal blue scarf (both bought). And her wedding dress which was tailor-made for her, my Dad thinks, in Sydney.
I spent AU$50 on dry cleaning her wedding dress in Ulverstone before I left as it had rust-coloured mould marks on it from being stored in their walk-in robe in a corner with poor air circulation.
Despite not being kept in any protective plastic covering, it had endured well and came up beautifully from the dry cleaning.
Although unfortunately, at some point, over the years, Mum had unpicked all six of the Marabou trims that encircled the bottom of the dress.
Dad remembers seeing her doing this but doesn't recall what she gave as the reason. We don't know if they may be stowed in her glory box in the built-in robe in their front room (the room Mum used as a sewing room, where my piano also lives) or if she threw them out at some point. Hopefully, next time I visit, I can investigate that.
I remember Mum asking me, around age 18, to try her wedding dress on. She had been 24 when she and Dad married in 1970. The dress fit my 52 kg body perfectly. Except that my bosom was too small, so the bust was loose.
I remember at the time being astonished that my Mum had once been my size as most of my life that I recalled she had struggled with her weight, and in terms of body shape, we were different.
However, when I tried the dress on again at 21, it fit me perfectly.
Now, not so much.
But I love the dress, and even if I never fit into it again and never get married, I would like to keep it. (If I'm honest, marriage hasn't been high on my list of life goals). Maybe, at some point, it will be handed down to someone in our family to use again.
Meanwhile, there was no urgency to go through the things in her sewing room, so we focussed more on working through her clothes and personal effects in their bedroom. We knew others could reuse many of the items in there. And Dad's bedroom needed a thorough clean-out (which he and Cheryl did after I left).
I did try on a few things out of curiosity.
Mum had worked out her style quite early on in life. Though her dress size and shape may have changed over the years, especially as she put on weight, she knew that store-bought clothing was never as suitable for her as homemade.
She made my and my brothers' bathers when we were young.
She made my first collection of knickers with cute elastic and patterned stretch-cotton material. I'm sure my brothers' knickers were also of her making.
She made us vests (singlets for those of you in Australia), the odd t-shirt, many dresses for me, and trousers. I'm sure Mum made many of my brothers' shorts.
She was also a keen knitter and made me various vests (sleeveless jumpers) and jumpers over the years.
Looking at what we took from her wardrobe, she'd probably narrowed the patterns for her clothing down to about 5-6 styles of tops/shirts. And one set of more formal clothes, comprising a suit jacket, trousers (dressed up or down, depending upon the material) and a skirt (also mostly one style, with material variations). She knew what suited her shape and size and worked with it.
She taught me from a young age to shop with the thought of how an item would work with what I already owned. If I were buying a top, trousers or skirt, how many items of clothing already in my wardrobe would it work with?
She wasn't a big dress-wearer as they didn't suit her shape.
But as a dress-wearer, that translated into ensuring my jumpers, tights, shoes, etc., would match any new dresses I bought.
She also taught me when contemplating buying clothing, "If in doubt, don't," e.g., if trying on an item of clothing and I'm unsure, don't buy it. It will just sit in my wardrobe, ignored.
I may have applied this test to other elements of my life over the years (specifically, relationships).
But, pulling out all her clothing, checking it for marks and cleanliness before donation, and reviewing anything that I might try on, over and over, it was evident to me how talented a seamstress she was.
Very little of the clothing we took out of the wardrobe had been made by someone else. All were well-made, well-kept and, in some cases, quite elaborate in their design, including a series of shirts made with fabric button-loops, as shown in this image.
Many would have avoided this type of work, but Mum had numerous tops with this buttonhole style and was quite confident in executing this sort of work.
She also chose some beautiful materials and colours for her clothes.
Dad split her clothing between a few charity shop chains in Ulverstone. (He was aware they often refuse to sell clothing to people in the same town where donated. Thus the decision to ensure they were a chain). I hope other women get a lot of wear from her clothes.
She made them with love and a passion for dressmaking. One she tried to instil in me but for which I had far less talent.
she ain’t heavy, she’s my mother
The one thing no one tells you is how much human ashes weigh.
The first night I was with Dad in Ulverstone, we were seated at the dining table after dinner. I don't remember if we were talking about Mum at the time or something completely unrelated, but seemingly out of the blue, Dad said something like, "I have something new to show you, but it's maybe not the right time."
I didn't know what he might mean, so I responded that now I was worried.
He said it was on the piano, it was Mum's ashes, and he wandered off to get them.
At the time, even if we'd been talking about Mum, it felt a little out of left field, and I'd not been thinking about such things, so it was a bit of a shock to my system.
He returned with a navy blue presentation box. Inside was a plastic container like those you'd use for protein powder. There's no better way to describe it.
There was also a plaque that might have been suitable to affix to a cremation plot in a cemetery, but it was light. And, for some reason, Hyde was engraved with a lowercase 'h'. (I can't help it, I always spot those details).
None of these things mattered because we knew we would scatter her ashes. So, the only thing that mattered was having her ashes.
Not the receptacle that contained them or the never-to-be-used plaque.
Dad handed me the box. The first thing that hit me was how heavy she was.
That immediately brought home how real this was.
The soul may weigh only 21 grams*, but the ashes of human remains are much heavier than I would ever have imagined.
The realisation made me quite emotional, and I admit, I was a little in shock. The wine we had with dinner and the ciders I'd had probably didn't help.
I sat at the table with Dad and Mum and let the emotion wash over me. The idea sink in. I handled the container, felt its weight in my hands and made some flippant joke that no one would ever have thought Mum would fit in a box that small.
Later in the week, before my brothers arrived, I made time to play the piano for Mum one last time.
It was terrible. I hadn't played since October 2019, and though I thought I played surprisingly well then after an excessively long break, I was seriously struggling to identify the right notes this time. What had previously come back to me, like riding a bike, felt almost alien.
I think that was the first time I appreciated how much I had previously learned. Like learning a foreign language and then realising how hard it must have been to pick up when you lose the words through lack of practice.
I would go through moments when everything flowed through my fingers, and then a bar or two would completely throw me off. I swore. A lot.
But I wanted to play to Mum that last time because she played a large part in my learning piano in the first place and would often ask me to play while she prepared dinner or did some other chore around the house all through my time growing up and when I lived with my parents on and off as an adult. She didn't mind what I played. She just loved to listen to me play.
Before I played to her, my curiosity was too much. So, while alone, I took Dad's kitchen scale to the dining table. I placed Mum's ashes on it and took this photo. I presumed the container probably weighed less than a kilogram, so her ashes weighed about 2kg.
I contemplated keeping some of her ashes. I thought about bringing them back to London with me.
Some companies claim to be able to make diamonds from human ashes and/or hair. That appealed to me as diamonds are my birthstone.
But in the end, the sceptic in me researched such claims and couldn't verify them, and the process would have been hugely expensive, so I decided I would rather all of her be scattered together.
love letters
When we were kids growing up in Brisbane, my parents, brothers, and I used to record audio letters to our grandparents who lived in Canberra every so often.
I remember the four or five of us sat around the dining table in our house in Aspley. Passing a microphone around that was plugged into a radio/cassette player to record updates on our lives.
When I stayed with my grandparents in Perth in 1998 for my cousin Rhys' wedding, my Granddad put his headphones on me to play me part of a cassette. I heard myself talking to him and my Grandma at around six years old.
It was surreal.
The disconnect to how I sounded then, but knowing it was me, blew my mind.
When my grandparents passed away, I asked Mum to ensure she salvaged the cassettes. And she did.
But only one of the four cassette cases I found in my parents' house had a cassette inside.
They may still be there, but Dad and I didn't have a chance to properly go through Mum's sewing room, where I found them.
Pete took the empties and the one cassette home to digitise it for us. His bands still distribute their music on cassette.
While visiting my family in Perth this visit, Rhys told me they did the same growing up in Calgary, and he'd asked for those to be kept, too. I would love to hear them someday if I could.
Hearing yourself on tape as a child when you're an adult is a form of time travel.
life is a jest
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 2 June 2023].
I usually steer clear of including identifying details in my photographs of headstones if they are of those more recently deceased. I may take a photo of the grave in full but not share it.
In most instances, it feels respectful, especially with the possibility that a family member or friend might happen across my photographs and perhaps take offence at them or my often puntastic titles.
But, as a fellow hedonist, I feel Julia Nunn may appreciate her grave being seen further afield after her passing. Though I can't find anything online that I can confirm is about this particular Julia Nunn to share with you.
Her epitaph initially caught my eye, but the quote on her grave from English poet and dramatist John Gay drew me further in.
I didn't know anything about him until researching the quote tonight. The phrase - his own words - is inscribed on a monument to him in Westminster Abbey.