Wednesday, April 22, 2015

insufficiently acknowledged

If I weren't so busy I'd write my book. A memoir, I suppose, or an autobiography (do comment if you can tell me the difference), featuring all the famous people I know and little anecdotes that portray me in a good but modest light.  Slim (very slim), with floral endpapers.




The imperative to write has been upped lately as I note the profusion of publication: dear Britta has cornered the international market in graceful housekeeping and the redoubtable Jane and Lance Hattatt are the authors of the entire modern gardening canon.   You yourself surely have a Human Resources manual on Best Practice Redundancy Procedures under your belt, or a pamphlet of poems. I do admire your poems.

Anyway, back to me.  All I have to my name is a few academic publications, a contribution here and there to other people's books and a smattering of thanks in their acknowledgements.   The thanks are never profound enough, if you ask me, never fulsome enough.  My own acknowledgements will be lavishly sprinkled with adjectives and adverbs, pages of the things.  Every acknowledgement will have a little barcode beside it, which the acknowledged can beep with their phones to automatically post in their social media feeds:


There will be a frenzied flurry of liking and favouriting and there we are: everyone will be happy.

All I want is for everyone to be happy.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

a cautionary note for all artists on the pitfalls of limited edition prints





Blue Daughter, after 7 years of passing no opinion at all on our large framed print of a painting of Brighton Pier, looked up one day from the morning kedgeree, waved her fork censoriously, and remarked that the artist had done a really poor job of the sand on the beach ...


... and that she wasn't at all surprised that the painting had scored only 27 out of 150.  

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

an excuse in time saves nine

I heard a rumour that I had gone, but no. It has been a season of patient waiting until the Hattatts resurface in Norwich, and never having a quiet moment to click on 'new post' nor even to pursue what is the great love of my life and, indeed, the overarching challenge of our aeon: small storage solutions, typically baskets.





This is a wonky birthday cake I baked a little while ago, depicted on my honeymoon cake-stand. I will be back soon with topics of even less significance.
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