contribution

Sitting in the back of a taxi, listening as a good humoured 67 year old Bangladeshi born taxi driver told me his life story, his 50 years in Yorkshire, his wife, children and eight grandchildren. We joked I'd write a book about him once out of the taxi!

As these things do, the conversation turned to my family, so I told him about being childless and about my work with children. He began to speak and I braced myself, BUT he amazed me by saying, 'that's how you make your contribution, the children will never forget you'. 

I was quietly staggered - my input being acknowledged and recognised by a parent, as part of the rich and complex tapestry of child raising, not excluded or dismissed. Did he have any idea of the impact of these words? I'll never forget them. 

herb walk

 Cleavers

 Hawthorn

 White dead-nettle

 Cow parsley

 Yarrow

Cleavers and stinging nettle

take flight

20 years ago, cycling alone in Norfolk on a blue sky day, staying at my boyfriends parents house, needing some headspace maybe. Looking up I saw a solitary swan, flying high above, pure white and distant, its long neck held out straight as an arrow. 

Passing through Kings Cross prompts memories of a former life, as the timings for my Wakefield train coincide with announcements listing all the stations on route for the departing train to Kings Lynn. I once had a boyfriend at one of these stops and always think of him when hearing the announcements. This memory reappeared towards the end of my journey today, it lingered and got me pondering. 

nostalgia

Two weeks ago today I went on a birthday walk with my sister. Off Oxford Street is Great Titchfield Street, where our Uncle Fred used to live. We found the doorway to his flat, then headed to the nearby BT Tower and onwards, past the cliff like edifice of the hospital I was born in to St Pancras, rising like a ships bow from the Euston Road.

 Doorstep of Radiant House, Mortimer Street

 Uncle Fred's doorway

 BT Tower

 University College Hospital

St Pancras

art social

This week I spent an enjoyable half hour engaging in an activity led by the Art Social young people's group at The Hepworth Wakefield. Art Social selected and placed four artworks in Gallery 1, producing interpretation text and poems to accompany the work. They invited gallery visitors to create their own poems using pre-written words. Below is my poem in response to A Picnic. 

The Eva Rothschild sculpture bought back memories, as she was the first contemporary artist to exhibit in the gallery when THW opened in May 2011.

 Eva Rothschild,  Wandering Palm, 2011

Jesmonite, aluminium, patent leather

Albert Wainwright, A Picnic 1928

Ink & wash, watercolour on paper

the hepworth wakefield

A stroll around the building on a bright winters day.

i made it

Excuse me, excuse me!
I love your hat, where did you get it?
I made it.