Growing up

The shock and horror of the little blue line on the predictor kit has turned into two decades of joy, sadness, love, laughter, life and a sharing of something magical.

The sheer overwhelming feeling as the bundle of swaddling clothes was handed to me and I thought blimey what am I supposed to do with this.

Soon the importance of lip gloss and the latest fashion was replaced by the routine of bottle feeds, snoozles and the play group rota.

Baby manchilds first word was "dodo" which meant "towbar"... I should have known then my life would revolve around machinery, tractors and trailers... :))  "Normal" kids say "dada and mama" but not my wonderkid!

I fought to keep him out of the reception class for six months but at four years old, I let go of his hand and off he went in his little grey school jumper and blue stripey tie!  His shoes were scuffed by tea time.

I was a regular in the Heads Office explaining his inappropriate behaviour - but when you are a wonderkid and amazed in everything with wheels or that has a pulse, you get noticed out of a school of 72 kids.  I had to agree the dead shrew on the interest table did smell foul but the maggots were an interesting feature.

We were relieved of our primary education shackles when manchild moved up to secondary school and could loose himself amongst the mass of a 1,000 pupils.

Or so I thought - in year 7 trying to explain how he knew sperm travelled at 35 miles an hour compared to a John Deere's speed when ploughing a furrow, did stump me but not for long.

Parents evenings came and went and once I fathomed I could use it as a speed dating opportunity they became fun especially when coming face to face with my old teachers.

Prom night and his arrival on a spanking new green and yellow tractor announced to the world he knew where he was heading and despite his wonderkid exam results his destiny lay in a set of black and green overalls and a pair of oily rigger boots!

Graduating in Germany on a John Deere factory floor last year emphasised the wonderkid had now evolved into superman and although he can operate machinery that casts shadows over the ridge tiles he will always be my baby and need his collar straightening and his hair ruffled.

If you go down to the woods today...

Last week, I had a little jaunt up the dale to Hackfall Woods, near Ripon. With my muddy walking boots laced up and my basket of goodies for Grandma left at home, I thought it would be safe to explore alone without the fear of the Big Bad Wolf.

Hackfall Woods was owned by John Aislabie from 1731 onwards and he created a wonderland of follies and woodland gardens to entertain Victorian visitors. It fell into disrepair and during my childhood I would visit and play amongst the grotto's and fairytale landscape acting out stories of hobgoblins, pixies and elf kingdoms.

In 2007, together the Hackfall Trust and Woodland Trust began restoring the wilderness back to it's former glory. For a visitor like me, returning to where I once played amongst the overgrown ivy covered ruins and explored hidden gems, the sudden revival of the woods is also tinged with sadness of a time land forgot and then thrown back into the spotlight of modernity.

The Grotto, built of tufa stone and restored recently.

A little Turner landscape to whet your appetite, probably sketched on his Yorkshire Tour in 1816, this stunning watercolour captures the magic of Hackfall, with Mowbray Castle perched on the horizon and the River Ure drifting by in the foreground. Time has stood still for almost 200 years... here's the same view point caught on camera.

If you visit, don't forget to pack your wellies... and look out for the Big Bad Wolf... he's sure to be lurking!

Eboracum

Why is it, I try my hardest, okay that's a bit of a fib, I half heartedly attempt to fulfil the domestic goddess role model only to find that the thrill of Brasso, Vim and elbow grease do nothing for me except make me wonder why cleaning is such a high priority in people's lifes?

Life is for living, surely?

So, I abandoned Hetty the Hoover (she has beautiful pink curves though) donned my walking boots and headed off to the vibrant cultural City of York and walked the Bar Walls.

There was a small break in the rain and the sun shone whilst I trundled along the high medieval walls, taking a sneaky peak over the turrets into people's gardens and watching the City from my hidden vantage point. The grade 1 listed monument is a wonderful link to York's historic past and weaves through the streets and houses snaking between olde world buildings and modern architecture. Sometimes, you forget the sleeping history beneath your feet and take the landscape for granted as you pass-by heading off for important meetings and to earn your crust. However today, the polish took a back seat whilst Little Red Riding dusted away the cobwebs on her walking boots.



Note to self: Kodak Brownie picture memory box is for sharing moments of magic!

What's a girl to wear?

The French Armoire sinks into the carpet with the weight of Little Red's clothes. It's doors almost bursting open with the apparel of days in and nights out. The garments of life sag on the hangers wondering when their next appearance on the live stage will be.

Yesterday, was a very pretty chic day with a little white and blue lacy number, breaking away from the traditional red... however...

You can hide behind clothes, layering up adornments to impress; like a warrior going into battle. Clothing make a statement whether you intend to or not. Did I want to make a statement today?






Red Riding was the dressmakers dummy awaiting the tailor to alter the hemline and pull the corset ribbons tight. So having flicked back and forth through the costumes, a unity of completeness was brokered.

Embrace today's statement piece.

Perhaps a little too much black eyeliner but

"If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution".

Quote Emma Goldman.

[Living Dead Doll available somewhere to purchase on the net. But don't google her, delightfully engaging as she is, google Emma Goldman, the political activist instead]

Restoration of quill and ink

Call me an old fashioned girl... but having only recently got to grips with the absorbing world of internet media and traded the faithful John Bull printing set for a "Qwerty" keyboard... the super speed highway of communication data vapourising in the the cyber ether enabled me to reflect on the journey to the point where "words" are disposable.



In my past, I can remember the faithful Olivetti typewriter which stood on my desk and which was hammered daily, slowly producing memorandums and letters that were duly stamped in the basement post room and hand delivered by the Royal Mail. Every formation of word was meticulous in it's position on the document and every sentence was quietly considered prior to striking the keyboard. Entangled typebars creating panic in typing circles and black ink smudges carefully erased. The impact of strking a typebar and the ribbon ink caressing the parchment has been replaced by the inkjet lazer printer and reprographics is the catchphrase of industry.

Where is this conveyor belt of medium leading? Today, a lovely pillar box red envelope landed on my doormat; the address handwritten by colbalt blue fountain pen. The notelet inside was a personal greeting, which Red Riding mused upon but her attention was drawn to the detail of the handwriting; the care and precision of the signature. The expression and power of the little red envelope was all consuming and still the preferred method of projecting thoughts and feelings onto a page. Email, text and tweeting may be the new kid on the block but traditional communication still holds my attention and provokes memories of a time gone by where 'instant' was something arriving in a coffee cup.

Earth to Earth, Crust to Crust...

When I felt the slight shudder and heard the impending doom and rumble of a runaway freight train in January 2011 and realised I had jokingly *survived* my second earthquake, I never for one moment stopped to think about the horror of loss and absolute utter devastion from a quake zone.

As the death toll rises in Christchurch, New Zealand, news is released of the first identified Brit to fall victim to the anger and savagery of the disaster. Sadly, one of North Yorkshire's talented soldiers has fallen whilst on his own around the world adventure. Sleep tight Instinct, music lives forever.

Picture Courtesy of Courier Mail, Australia

Whacky Races

It was time to say farewell to my beloved shed on wheels. The ninky nonk has served me well and no doubt has many tales to tell of our journeys, mishaps and episodes. To this today, I remain silent about the magnetic forces of skips but the attraction and repel left it's mark. Our expeditions together and mystery tours into the unknown have not always gone to plan but the car has never failed me and sheltered me from many a storm. *sigh*

So after much agonising, searching, deliberating and penny pinching, I found myself behind the steering wheel of a Ford Motor Company automotive. Henry, would have been proud of me, as I ignored all the technical gadgetry and was merely concerned about the music options, the spare wheel and the colour. Would a black exterior match my red dress, cloak and lip gloss or would I look far too vampish for the leafy lanes of North Yorkshire... ?

The new car is hardly a Tin Lizzy, Thunderbird or Mustang, but it screams silently at me - "drive me, race me, take me". So there I was, besotted by it's shapely contours and sex appeal... and suddenly I am scribbling on the dotted line with my quill and ink and then handed the keys.

“Any customer can have a car painted any colour that he wants so long as it is black”. statement by Henry Ford, before my time!

So despite collaborating with a super power of a motor company and probably funding some espionage in Middle Earth... it's out there on the drive sending astral projections messages to me begging me to play out when it's bed time! How can one resist it's charms? :)