Jane Brocket's Blog, page 26

arrivals and departures

Sections of the bright and brilliant mosaic that runs the length of the covered passenger footbridge at Southampton Central railway station.

Created by Sue Ridge in 1988.

Gladdening the hearts and eyes of all those arriving and departing,

even if they are not doing it in classic Southampton style.

heard of but not seen

Flowers in a Window by Ivon Hitchens (1893-1979)

Not seen at Salford Museum and Art Gallery which owns this and many other beautiful C20 paintings, also not on show. Phone calls have been made.

the return of the super sock model

Happy to be gainfully employed again, and modelling hand-knitted socks at school, too. Second sock on the needles.

cherubic terracotta

On the exterior of the magnificent, bright red Royal Technical Institute (1896), now Peel Hall, part of the University of Salford.

and the dish ran away with the spoon

Lovely little cafe/bakery that does a great coffee and walnut cake for mums.

fake flowers and real brushes

My kind of independent hardware store. On Burton Road, West Didsbury. Not the only one in the area, either. 

test card

So, I've said my piece, and would like to thank everyone who emailed in response. You are very kind, generous and perceptive, and you have given me even more food for thought.

I have decided to have the blog equivalent of a test card while I am thinking, and will post a daily photo (depending on how camera-efficient I am) starting with this focus on the crocus in the garden.

thinking time

So, it's been eight years of blogging now with goodness knows how many posts and thousands of photos, and it has certainly been one heck of an education. But, as anyone who writes one knows, a blog takes tremendous amounts of time, energy, thought, and imagination in order to make it interesting and worth reading. And, mostly, it's all done for free.

In addition to the blog, I've also written thirteen books (there will be a quilting book out in January 14, and there are three more Clever Concepts titles in the pipeline). I am tremendously proud of this fact, and still get a thrill every time I see one of my books in a bookshop. Recently, though, I have been taking a break from book-writing because I realised that the arrangement wasn't working in a satisfactory way. This is quite simply because I couldn't begin to support myself, let alone any dependents, on what I earn from my writing, and it's increasingly difficult to reconcile the enormous amounts of time and work involved in writing books and a blog with the financial side of things. It's a matter of self-respect, too.

I now need some thinking time to consider my options. Do I monetise the blog by accepting advertising, saying yes to freebies and gifts, agreeing to sponsored posts, by selling books and patterns? Or do I stop writing the blog in order to focus on writing books which pay an advance against royalties, even though as everyone in publishing knows advances ain't what they used to be? Do I, perhaps, join the growing numbers of authors who self-publish? Or, is it time now, as they say on Monty Python, for something completely different?

I'm going be away from the blog for a while so that I can focus on how best to use my time. I'll be right back once I've figured things out.

alice's jug

[Alice's jug]

A weekend in Stockport with my family. Coincidentally, Alice was also in Stockport for a university friend's party, but this isn't her jug. Alice is named after my grandmother Alice whose story is straight out of Family Secrets. She died when I was just eight, and this jug has always been on a shelf in my Mum's house. But in all those years, it's never held any flowers. As Alice was the person who taught me a great deal about gardens and flowers (she had lupins and forget-me-nots and a little winding path), I thought it was the ideal container for the tulips I brought, and even Mum agreed once I'd put it down in a safe place.

A weekend in Stockport with my family is also a powerful reminder of northern humour. I cried with laughter at the stories my brother and sister (twins who were born when I was just eight) told about their teenage years, the stuff I never knew about because I'd already left home. Seeing the jug, hearing the stories, driving up the dour A6 pointing out childhood landmarks to my Alice, made me realise I'll never be a fully paid-up southerner. Unlike Tony Bennett and San Fransciso, I didn't leave my heart in Stockport but there's definitely some part of me that's still up there.

bedtime stories

Simon has gone from snow in China to heat in Thailand this week. The extremes here are a little less dramatic and range from bitterly cold winds outside during the day to a warm bed inside at night. A hot water bottle does the trick, but I wouldn't mind some really warm air and sunshine and the  sort of Thai green curry that Simon is always telling me about when he gets back.

I've just reread The Village in bed and it's absolutely wonderful night-time and frosty morning reading (I was so gripped, even though I know the story and my hands were freezing above the duvet, that I had to finish it before I got up this morning). It's a gimlet-eyed study in snobbery and class distinction which made me teeter on the edge of disbelief: how could anybody live with such circumscribed social rules, an immutable belief in their own superiority, and a dread of gossip that prevents them from behaving well? Yet I know this drawn from life, that it still happens, and although I felt sorry for the Trevors because their lives are so sadly empty, I was angry that they and their kind can wreak such damage in others' lives simply because they believe that their way of life and their background entitle them to do so.

I'm also reading Family Secrets by Deborah Cohen which focuses on the idea of shame, privacy, and secrecy within families. It's fascinating to read this is tandem with such books as The Village which deal with the same subject but in a fictionalised form, and sobering to realise that while we might think we are more enlightened and shame-free than previous generations, we are still expected to (and do) feel shame, keep family secrets, and adhere to a social code we don't always agree with. It's a brave person who steps outside and beyond the accepted norm, and that's why books like The Village are just as important now as they were when they were written. 

Serious stuff, but worth taking to your bed to think about.

[Hot water bottle cover knitted for Persephone Books made with Rowan Wool & Cotton using the pattern in Knitting by Sarah Dallas, a favourite set of patterns which never seem to date.]