Checking in with Chat

It's that time again. Time to see what entertainment Chat has for us this week. I knew it was going to be a good one when I saw this on the front cover....





False a-llama?! Amazing. So let's start at the beginning. Page 8 is the 'Chat to us' page. People send in photos, which tend to be stuff like 'This is me on holiday.' Stuff that is of no interest to anyone apart from the people in the photo. Here is one example...





The caption basically says, this is my mum at M&M's World in London. Great.

There's also an old photo section, which tends to contain a black and white photo of someone - again, no interest to anyone but the sender of the photo.

Next we get a few stories of the sex-pervert and strange-disease variety. The health pages this week contain a puzzling 'fact'.





Apparently women with gum disease take two months longer to conceive than other women. You've got to be kidding me! This seems like one of those odd things from years ago, that dentists used to say to make people take better care of their teeth. Like when you're parents tell you to eat your broccoli because it will make you run faster.

"It will, honest. You'll get loads of babies if you brush your teeth!"

How on earth did they come up with this fact? Ok, let's find a focus group of fifty women trying to get pregnant, and as a prerequisite, we'll have half with gum disease and half without. It's ridiculous. Some scientific researcher must have been super bored at home to have thought up that experiment to do.

Then, a few pages later, comes the best story, in my opinion. A woman, 42, living in England has fallen in love with a man she messaged on Facebook. He is Indian, living in Delhi, and 29. Here's how it all started.





She stumbled across someone's page, who has Brad Pitt as his profile picture. She says she 'followed her instinct' and messaged him.

WHAT INSTINCT? Seriously... What instinct? What instinct can you possibly have about a profile picture of Brad Pitt? She even says that he doesn't have any pictures or personal info on his Facebook profile. So what possible instinct could she mean? That they both like Brad Pitt and, as a result, could be a match made in virtual heaven?

Anyway, married English lady messages. Young Indian man messages back, "He's such a great actor." And from there, it goes from strength to strength. A quick text conversation with hubby whilst in the supermarket ends her 11 year marriage, so now she's free. Free to be with the love of her life... O wait, apart from all those miles between them... But never fear, she is a woman on a mission! She is going to go and see him next Easter. Phew, because for a minute there I thought it was getting ridiculous. But no, she'll be with him any day now (by now, I mean next year). She says she's going to buy a one way ticket and stay there with him forever. Good luck to her.

Next we get a few weight loss stories, then the TV guide. A programme called Obese And Expecting promises to be interesting watching.

Lastly, we have the Facebook Photo Of The Week.





How is that a photo of the week? There are no unusual camera angles, no beautiful light beams breaking through, no high speed cheetah hunt, no nothing actually. Nothing of interest. The caption basically says, 'This is my daughter, Georgia, smiling.' How utterly ridiculous is that? If that deserves to be photo of the week then journalism as we know it has gone much further downhill than I'd realised.

P.S. The llama story from the front cover turns out to be a peice about a llama who's not psychic and can't predict football scores. Amazing.

Dancing in public

Just a brief note about this important subject.

Dancing in public eg, going to a club.

Now if you've had a drink or two, this is no real problem. You're loosened up, you've got your groove on, you seem to be able to know what the music is going to do next and follow it. All is well. People who are watching admire your sense of fun and adventure, you're unafraid and actually quite a good dancer. You're loving the music, the people are watching you, you're loving being watched, your favourite song just came on ... There is lots of mutual dancing appreciation going on.

The difficulties come when you're not a drinker.

I'm not a drinker.

There is less temptation to act with such reckless abandon. You keep yawning a little, you fall back on the trusty two-step, you don't quite know what to do with your arms. It makes for a lot of gentle knee-bobbing and unrhythmic arm-swinging.

Dancing is also different when you know the song that's being played. You liven up a little with excitement and the dancing becomes more energetic. The arms get involved. Then the song finishes while you're still on your high but is followed by one that everyone else but you knows. They're singing along, throwing their hands in the air in unison, yelling "Get ready for the next bit!" and you've no idea what to do.

Your moment has passed, you fade to the edge of the crowd and start knee-bobbing and arm swinging again.

I used to tear up the dancefloor when I was younger and as I knee-bob, I wonder if I've really become so boring in my 'old age'? And then I remember the point I made at the beginning, alcohol was always involved. I was 17, loud and highly intoxicated. I stop doubting myself whilst I two-step and just enjoy my solitary tame little dance over here in the corner.

Just another day in the life of Detective Laura

I've just got a minor annoyance to share before I start today's post. I would like to know when the government started dipping into my pay cheque to get student loan repayments? Surely they've got to wait till you're not a student any more? It was only £3 from this month's pay cheque so it's not a big deal but I hadn't realised they were doing it and I'm still technically a student.

Anyway, moving on. I'd like to talk about the time I single handedly fought crime and saved the world... kinda.

I worked in a coffee shop in a station for a few years, while studying my undergraduate degree. This one customer would come in a few times then we wouldn't see her for months, then she'd come in again, out of the blue. She was Scottish and rude. Not many teeth. Short, orangey badly dyed hair. And she was very confrontational. Any words that came out of her mouth felt like an invitation for a fight. She refused to be server by anyone but the white people who were on shift so sometimes she'd stand for ages, refusing to give her order to the Burmese guy who was on the till that day.

One day, she came and asked for porridge and a chai latte. I made both and she sat down. A few minutes later, she came back to the till and declared that I'd made the porridge wrong. Her main argument seemed to centre around the fact that she was Scottish and, therefore, porridge making was inate in her being, so it was impossible that she could be wrong on this point.

She kept saying that to make porridge, you need pour the hot milk onto the oats, stir it, then let it sit for a few minutes, for the oats to absorb the milk. I, in turn, kept saying that that was EXACTLY what I had done. She got silly with her 'explaining' thing so I just said, "Ok, well what would you like me to do about the porridge you've got? Would you like a refund or should I make you a new one?"

It was like she couldn't hear me. She kept ranting and raving about being an expert on porridge and got really rude about it.

"Ok, well I'm sorry about your porridge. There's a customer behind you so could I just ask you to move along so we can serve her."

She flipped.

She said she was going to beat me up. She was so angry.

"No, you're not," I said calmly. "I'm sorry about your porridge but this conversation is finished now. I need to serve the lady behind you."

Still spouting threats to kick my head in, she came around the side of the kiosk and shook the side door. I knew she couldn't get in, there was a code lock.

"I'm going to come in there and kick your head in," she was saying, or words to that effect.

I sighed, picked up the milk jug and started steaming, for the next customer's order.

"I'll get in there!" she was still rabbiting on.

I just turned and looked at her.

"No. You won't."

"I will!"

"Well, come on then," I said. She shook the door, menacingly. I was finding the whole thing highly amusing. Calm as anything, I gave her a withering look (or my best impression of one).

She circled the kiosk back around to the front again, trying to work out a way of beating me to a pulp. She was getting infuriated by my calmness. I could see this so was acting even more calm. She came around to the till again and said she was going to jump over the counter and kick my head in. I stepped aside to make a space to jump into and told her to go for it.

She knew she wouldn't be able to. It was too high. Clearly wanting to kill me. She remembered the chai latte on the counter, picked it up and threw it inside the kiosk, aiming for me. It had cooled down loads so the bit that went on my arm wasn't so hot. It went on all the equipment inside the kiosk though.

Realising that she might have done something arrest-able, she scuttled off and I reported it to the transport police, who took a statement.

A week later, I was walking along the high street after work and who should I see wrapped up in a sleeping bag with a paper cup held out, but the angry porridge lady!

I stopped a little further down the road and called the police, as I knew they hadn't tracked her down yet. They told me to stay put and they'd come down and to inform them if she moved. I was like Inspector Morse or something. I lingered in a nearby phone shop peeping through the window display and trying discreetly to get photos on my phone as evidence in case she moved on. A few minutes later the police arrived. I burst out from my hiding spot and indicated it was her with a discreet, detective-like sideways nod of my head.

They arrested her. She said things like "I haven't been in that coffee place for months!" And "I've never seen her in my life!" But she was carted off and given a fine under the Public Order Offence Act, or something and kept in the cells overnight.

Just another day in the life of Laura "Supremo Crime Fighter" Maisey. Watch out, here I come!

Trolls

This word is being bandied around a lot lately, it's the new name for people who commit crimes on social media sites, like Twitter. Sometimes it's a racist slur, sometimes it's misleading people. Or whatever. The people who commit these online crimes, are being called Trolls.

It puzzles me. How is posting a racist insult on Twitter similar to a ugly creature that lives under a bridge and won't let you cross unless you answer some questions?

Anyway, that is a small aside and not what this post is about. Because hearing all this Troll talk got me thinking about those troll toys you used to get. Does anyone remember these? Check them out on Amazon if this isn't ringing any bells - http://www.amazon.co.uk/trolls-Toys-Games/s?ie=UTF8&keywords=Trolls&rh=n%3A468292%2Ck%3ATrolls&page=1

They were these ugly little things, naked, with a burst of long brightly coloured hair. Whoever thought these would sell? If I'd have seen the idea in the company boardroom I would've told them to shelve it, it'll never work. But it did. My friends and I all had them. I'd sit with mine for ages, plaiting the hair, unplaiting it, doing bunches, taking them out, doing a 'fish-plait' (cause that was quite cool then). Hours, I spent with mine, hours!

They got more complicated, they had dresses, they came in different sizes, they came in keyring format, fridge magnet format, huge lumbering ones that took up loads of your bed. Pink, purple, yellow, green, blue! And they were the ugliest things you've ever seen. Why was I so obsessed?

And so I come to it, one of my biggest childhood regrets. Such a wasted opportunity. Such potential for joy, thrown away in a moment of frivolity and strange obsession.

It was coming up to my birthday, I don't know which one, maybe 6 or 7. And I had been asked what I wanted for my birthday. Trolls, only trolls, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more! We were out shopping, I think my auntie and mum were there. There was a shop which sold trolls. We went in. And that's when I saw them - two HUGE trolls in wedding outfits! A groom with a black suit and coat tails and purple hair, and a bride in a white dress and long pink hair.

I wanted them. I wanted them more than I'd ever wanted anything. I looked at my mum and auntie and they agreed that they'd get me them for my birthday present. So I had them, these huge trolls. I put them on my bedroom window sill and played with their hair a little bit, but mostly just watched them, standing there, admiring their hugeness.

Now you tell me if you agree with me. But what a WASTE! What a big fat waste of a year's worth of birthday present?!

I didn't ride a bike until really late. I could've done with asking for a bike and getting started on that sooner. Or a book? I've never read some real classics, like The Water Babies and I was a late arriver to the Winnie The Pooh fanclub. There was surely plenty more things that would have been a far better idea.

But no. I wanted two massive ugly trolls in wedding attire with illuminous hair, to stand on my window sill.

I'm beginning to doubt the sanity of my 7 year old mind.

A day in Highgate

Now I'm not one to go to peices over a puppy or wax lyrical over my feelings and the inspiring patterns on a snowflake. But yesterday I spent an unexpectedly magical day in Highgate hunting down Samuel Taylor Coleridge. And I may, in this post, get a bit misty eyed and nostalgic. I'll try to keep it under control but be prepared.

I started at Archway station and trekked up Highgate Hill. I had to double back and start again when I realised I'd missed the Whittington Stone.





So I climbed the hill again and was pretty knackered by the time I finally got to the top. Having climbed so high, there was a fabulous view across London which I stopped and admired for a while (actually, I was just getting my breath back but I did look at the view once or twice).

Across the road from me was Lauderdale House, where Nell Gwynn first slept with Charles I, apparently.





I saw Highgate Bookshop over the road too and obviously had go in. Obviously. In the spirit of my walk, I bought a book about Coleridge and one about the history of Highgate. It was £23.98. I had tons of pound coins on me and managed to count out £22! That's why my bag was so heavy! I scraped together a few more coins and got to £1.50. I was 48p off. The coppers started coming out... I can do this! I can do this! The lovely lady in the shop was helping me. Eventually I said I'd have to pay by card because I was 20p short.

"No," she said sternly. "No, I won't let you. Not after all this." (We'd been there for ten minutes doing this!) "Bring me the 20p when you get change," she said kindly. I knew I wouldn't be coming back past the shop on my walk but I figured it would give me a reason to come back soon. I already liked Highgate a lot.

Over the road and further up slightly was my first Coleridge stop - the chemists with the side door to the 'back shop' where he used to pick up his opium.





The chemist is now a generic estate agent but this side door has been left mostly untouched.

I was opposite a public area called Pond Square and South Grove ran alongside it. Here I found the Highgate Literary and Scientific Institution.





I knew you had to be a member to go in but I also knew they had a whole room dedicated to Coleridge things, manuscripts, paintings etc, that I was dying to see. I went into the hall but was super nervous. I couldn't see anyone apart from someone behind one door on a ladder. The reading room to my right looked beautiful, full of ornate chairs, an open fire and loads of books and magazines. I knew it was members only but really wanted to go in. It was locked though, as was the other entrance door.

I didn't mind not being able to get in because I was a stone's throw from Highgate Cemetery so off I pottered, down Swain's Lane, looking for the cemetery. It's on both sides of the road and is £7 to get into the east cemetery and £3 to get in the west cemetery. Great! I'll go in, look around, get some pics, this place is pretty famous, Dickens and Karl Marx are buried here, among others. Great. I entered the little hut to pay.

And that's when I remembered! I'd given ALL my money to the bookshop! Every last little penny. I knew I was hoping for too much when I asked if they took cards. Dammit. I was all the way here and couldn't get in! I took a few pics through the gates and left, feeling a bit annoyed. I should've just paid for the books on card!





Back out of Swain's Lane and the sun was coming out and beaming down on me. Damn me for wearing these skinny jeans! The air has NO chance of getting in. I was heating up unpleasantly. But then I stumbled across another Coleridge stop.





This is where Coleridge came for tea with a doctor called James Gillman to ask for help with his opium addiction. Doctor Gillman suggested he come and stay in his house and he would treat him. Coleridge agreed and never left Highgate again! He spent the last 19 years of his life in this village. He later moved with Doctor Gillman to another house close by, which we'll get to. But this is where he had the cup of tea and where he first lived in Highgate. The black iron gate and the pillars by the front door are the same ones from Coleridge's day. Most of the other stuff was rebuilt after a fire though.

Further along the same road, toward the end, I reached St Michael's Church, where Coleridge is buried. He was moved here from another site about fifty years ago. But it was closed! I was having another Highgate Cemetery moment, I was all the way here and I couldn't do it.

As I was standing there, bemoaning my misfortune, a lady in a car stopped and said that if I waited til 2pm, the church would be opened and I could have a tour. It was ten to 2. I decided to wait it out. I sat on a concrete stub and noticed that I'd been smelling lovely perfumed smells for the past few minutes. I looked around for a particular flower but couldn't figure it out. Then I realised it was just the smell of summery-ness, high up on a hill, where the cars were few and the trees were many. I walked about a bit, enjoying the smells until the church was opened. In the lobby, I found this.





It says that it is the same level as the cross on St Paul's Cathedral. I hasn't realised I was so high until that point.

I located Coleridge's gravestone and intended to move on but it was a really beautiful little church so I stopped for a bit longer, wandering around.





(I can't get this the other way round so you'll have to lean to your right to read it)





I came out of the church, blinking as the sun was even brighter and the floral smells were lovely and it all of a sudden seemed quite magical, this village on a hill in London with all this fascinating history.

I crossed over the road to a little pub called The Flask, which was Coleridge's local during his stay in the second house he lived in in Highgate.





From here, I crossed another road into a street lined with chestnut trees and started searching for number 3, not an easy task when it seemed the numbers were hidden for top secret purposes. Eventually I located it and peered over the gates to find two plaques, one saying Coleridge had lived there and one saying J. B. Priestley had lived there! Amazing! I hadn't expected that at all and was quite excited.





As I photographed the plaques over the gate, a man in a white van stopped behind me and said "Do you know who lives there now?" I walked over to him and asked who. "Kate Moss," he told me.

What?! Now I'm not a Kate Moss lover, nor do I get star struck, but I was still reeling from the J. B. Priestley thing so was double surprised by this fact.

Suspicious, I asked, "Are you lying?"

"No," he said and lowered his voice a little. Taking out a camera with a massive great lens, he said, "I'm paparazzi."

"Wow."

"And George Michael lives over there," he said, pointing two doors down.

"Wow."

Now I decided at this point to believe him because it increased the coolness factor of my walk by fifty million percent. You, however, do not have to believe the man in the van. I did check afterward and apparently they both do live in Highgate, so it may be true!

Between two houses, I found a path and pottered down. The sun was out, the smells were lovely, the houses were beautiful and I got a bit poetical. I was also walking down the lane that was Coleridge's favourite walk onto the heath and eveything just felt lovely and amazing for a while.

At the bottom, without warning, the trees and houses stopped and I found myself on the open fields of the heath. I turned right, heading to the top of Hampstead Heath, to a viewpoint, said to be the best in North London.

On my way I saw this sign...





...and happened to have my swimming stuff with me, because I was planning to swim in the outdoor pool near home on my way back. It was too tempting. It had been hot and I longed to jump in the water. It was only
£2 for a swim.

And that's when I realised it! I'd given all my money to the bookshop lady! Dammit. I went to one of the lifeguards.

"Is there any way of paying by card? I don't have cash on me and I'm dying to go for a swim!"

"It's fine. Just pay next time you come."

More kindness! Highgate was turning out to be a real winner.

I changed quickly and got in. It's not a swimming pool as such. It's just a section of lake/pond that ladies can swim in. Amazing. There were moorhens and ducks swimming too and the sun was shining on my face and there were lilies on the surface and I remember thinking that this was one of the best days I'd ever had since moving to London. I swam round a few times then got out an changed.





(Proof!)

I just had one more stop to make, at the top of the hill. I found this lovely little gazebo...





...with this amazing view over London (it doesn't look so spectacular on a photo but it was, believe me).





The eagle eyed among you might be able to spot the Gherkin and the Shard, which was officially opened last night.

And that was my magical day in Highgate. London-based people, go there if you haven't already. Non-London-based people, write it into your itinerary for your next trip here. It's already one of my favourite places ever and I'll be going again next week (to pay off my debts to the bookshop and the bathing pond, if nothing else!)

Books that remind me of stuff

One Hundred Years Of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Reminds me of being in Laos, in a town called Vang Vieng, one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. I hired a bike for the day and rode out into the fields by myself and found this abandoned bamboo hut up on stilts. I climbed into it and sat down and read the last few chapters of One Hundred Years Of Solitude while listening to a cricket on the roof and the sounds of nature. It was lovely.

Lord Of The Rings
The first one. I don't remember what it's called. I started reading it right before I flew back to Namibia. I'd lived there for a year on my gap year and was going back 10 months later to work for some friends. I was reading it on the flight and did quite a few changes so I read that book in Scotland, England, Holland, South Africa and Namibia. I loved that it had taken such a journey with me.

Paulo Coelho, I've forgotten what it was called
I read this in an airport somewhere. I think on the way to Morocco. My friend and I did a lot of travelling together over the space of two years and on this flight we had a stopover in Spain, I think. I had bought this book in the airport in London. In the airport in Spain, my friend slept and I was knackered but trying to stay awake and I just tore through this book. I had finished reading it in a few hours.

Kafka On The Shore by Haruki Murakami
I read this while travelling through the Philippines with the same friend. We stayed in this little B&B on an island called Bohol. We'd found it because a lady on the boat there had started chatting to us when we were singing Whitney to pass the time. She told us to stay there and it was such a good find. No-one else was staying there so we pretended it was our own house! We stayed up late playing card games and reading. I loved this book! I finished it and left it there for the next guests.

Hamlet
I had been reading Shakespeare in school and not really liking or disliking it. I just didn't understand it mostly. Something clicked at some point and I wanted to read more of it. I went to the English cupboard at school and borrowed a copy of Hamlet and loved it. I just got it. I remember feeling really excited because I knew there was a whole stack of Shakespeare out there for me to discover.

Leon: Ingredients and Recipes
I was a few months post-op last year and had finally got over my fear of eating (I was terrified in case eating caused the same problem and I had to go back to hospital and by this point I was pretty scared of hospital). I was eating more and was strong enough to stand up for the time it took to cook dinner. I found this book and loved the first section, about ingredients. If any of you are into food, this book is amazingly fascinating. I went on holiday to Portugal and was still quite delicate, so instead of jumping in and out of the water and running about, I sat reading this book in the sun. It was lovely.

Famous Five
Reminds me of my childhood in general and how much I wanted to be George.

The Janice Project
This was the first romance novel I read that formulated my idea of what my potential life partner should be like!

Ahab's Wife by Sena Jeta Naslund
I read this book in Namibia while I was training for a trek across the Great Wall of China. I used to go on the stair machine for an hour every morning to prepare. My body was fine with it but my mind was bored. A friend lent me this book to keep me entertained and it worked. A few years later I kept thinking about it but couldn't remember the name. I was in an out of the way town in Texas, waiting for a bus, when I saw a little book shop in the distance. I thought I'd kill some time there and found a few books I wanted. I went to the till to pay and right there, next to the till was this same book! Same cover. I recognised it immediately and got it. It was just as good, if not better, the second time around. I've been daydreaming about visiting Nantucket since I read it.

The Ginger Tree by Oswald Wynd
I might have got his name wrong. Found this in Laos, in Luang Prabang. Opposite our hotel there was a little cafe/bookshop. It was the first I'd seen in Asia so I was pretty excited. We sat drinking exotic teas and absorbing the book joy. I found this tucked away on a shelf and loved the cover. It's a woman's diary of moving to Japan just after the war. I can't emphasise how good this book is. If I could only read a few more books ever again, this would be one I'd choose. Read it.

Nothing to get excited about? Yes there is!

I'm handing over to my regular guest blogger again today... Enjoy!


Well, I suppose it had to happen – an art exhibition about “invisibility”. I couldn’t see the point really but at the moment there is a gallery in London which has an exhibition on called - Invisible: Art about the Unseen 1957 - 2012. (£8 entry fee!)


One of our national newspapers, the Daily Telegraph, reported that the gallery “will gather together 50 ''invisible'' works by leading figures such as Andy Warhol, Yves Klein and Yoko Ono for its display of works you cannot actually see.” Now just read those last 7 words again. Yep that’s right you can’t actually see them. It is thought to be the first such exhibition staged at a major institution in the UK. At this point I’m struggling with the concept of “display”. The gallery director says that “….art is not about material objects but about setting our imaginations alight…..” Oh well that’s ok then. As well as empty plinth on which Andy Warhol once stood, Yoko Ono will be contributing a series of typed instructions encouraging visitors “to conjure up an artwork in their minds”. Are you getting the idea now?


Check out the picture below and ask yourself can you believe this? Someone who has paid £8 to look at nothing!

A woman at the gallery looks at Tom Friedman's 'Untitled (A Curse)', 1992
The Daily Telegraph also conducted a survey using the following question:
Can an empty plinth and a blank piece of paper be classed as art? The two possible answers were:


1. Yes – art is about the concept or
2. No – there is nothing there.


The results are surprising – “No” has got 2,714 votes (86.3%) & “Yes” has got 431 (13.7%). Now it’s not surprising that the “No” vote is winning but it is surprising that 431 people thought looking at nothing could be classed as art.
Some of the comments about the gallery & the exhibits are quite interesting:
Dbarry said this: “Tried to pay the entrance fee with invisible money. Needless to say it didn't work.



Maria Sol said, “Am I studying History of Art for this kind of nonsense?? I’d rather be unemployed, than an advocate for this snobbish "idea" of what art is. JMW Turner, please, COME BACK!!!!”



Ajikan said, “Since it's all in the mind, there can be no point in going to the trouble of making the trip to the Hayward Gallery and forking out the admission charge to 'see' a load of formless ideas. Since there's nothing to see in the first place, why not just publish the catalogue of exhibits and be done with it? After all, the logical conclusion of all this is an exhibition that doesn't happen at all and occurs only in the mind.”



Don’t know about you but I can’t disagree with any of those.



But hang on a mo’. It’s given me an idea – what about having my own exhibition? Here are the first three exhibits. On a recent visit to a couple of memorable sites in Liverpool I was able to get the following pics.



See No.1 below. What - nothing on the pavement? Of course there is! All I want you to do is imagine you can see Paul McCartney, stepping on these two old paving slabs and then walking in through the front gate of his home at 20 Forthlin Rd in Liverpool. These are the two actual paving stones he would have walked on to get to his house. (The newer white ones, to the left of the picture, would not have been there when he was there.) I’ve added a view of the front door and the sign in the hedge outside just in case you thought I’d taken a picture of just any old paving stones. Now you’ve got it haven’t you?



1. Paul McCartney “Coming Home”

Front Door of 20 Forthlin Road

National Trust Sign Outside the house

The second site was the school John Lennon attended (1952-57). Nothing on that piece of ground? Of course there is! All I want you to do is imagine you can see John Lennon walking across that piece of ground into the school. (I included the bottom of the gates in the pic so you could see, in the second pic, that they are they actual gates to Quarry Bank School -its name was changed to Calderstones some years ago following a tri-school merger.


2. John Lennon “Going To School”

Front Gates to Quarry Bank School

Now for the third exhibit. I don’t normally allow people to see my private art collection but in the context of today’s blog I think it would be helpful. Here, on the lounge wall, is my picture - Polar Bear in a Snowstorm (by the artist Ian V. Zeeble). It’s unique – the artist told me there are no copies or prints so it may well accumulate value in the years to come! It’s there just to the left of the plant. Can you see it?

3. Polar Bear in a Snowstorm

A friend was visiting a couple of days ago and suggested it really needed framing. (He has a similar picture called: 3 Skiers Buried By An Avalanche by the same artist.) I hunted round and eventually decided I would buy a wood finish picture frame. Here’s the result of the framing:

I’m not sure about you but I feel this does not really add to the aesthetics and in fact may prove a distraction to people as they look at the main picture. Think I’ll probably leave it unframed but I’m definitely getting into this invisible art thing. Wow factor? Off the scale!



So there you have it. Probably a new experience for you but quite exciting eh? At least it should have “set your imaginations alight” as the director of that gallery said. Well it has, hasn’t it?



In the spirit of the blog, I was going to paint my reaction to the exhibition in London but I think Edvard Munch has done a rather better job than I could do. Here’s his effort (sold in May 2012 for $119.2 million!)

Nothing to get excited about? There sure is.