Sewing therapy

Although my last post may suggest otherwise, I didn't spent the entire weekend moping. As well as a nice trip out to the countryside I also got my sewing machine out again to run up another homemade gift. This time, a clutch bag for a friend who's moving abroad. I made it using a layering and cutting technique I've just learned at my sewing class, and which I might now be a little bit addicted to. 
The colours haven't come out in photos as pretty as they are in real life, and it's not quite finished, but here are a couple of snaps.

I also discovered the wonderful Creativity shop, on Worrall Road, Clifton.. When I say discovered, I'd known it was there for ages but for some reason assumed it was quite small and wouldn't have half of what I needed. I was wrong. My problem was trying to stick to what I needed and not get carried away in a frenzy of bead and button shopping. Lovely, helpful staff too. I'll definitely be going back soon.

Big questions and the Big Smoke

Sometimes life seems like one long struggle and this has been one of those weeks. I've been going through a period where I feel dissatisfied with everything, and as though I'm somehow failing at making a success of my life. 

This time that feeling has been focused on my career and I've found myself wondering if I'm going in the right direction and, if I'm not, what I can do to change that. 

Inevitably when I start thinking this way I begin wondering if I should be moving to London. Although I was brought up there I have no particular desire to live in the capital - unlike many of my friends who flocked there as soon as they grauated, I headed in the opposite direction.

But in the past few weeks I've been keeping my eye on media jobs - not so much for myself as for my boyfriend who is looking to move to Bristol. And the vast majority of relevant vacancies are in London. 

That there are more jobs in London than Bristol (or elsewhere in the country for that matter) doesn't come as a surprise of course. But reading the jobs pages is a depressing reminder of why many people feel that, if they really want to "make it", they have to move to the Big Smoke. 

Which got me thinking about what I need in order to feel that I've "made it", and what success even is. In the mood I've been in in the past week those were very difficult questions to be asking myself, and ones that I will have to leave for another blog post to attempt exploring.

What I do know is that I want to live in Bristol, but I also want to live with my boyfriend,  so we need to be somewhere he can work too. And, although I have a good job at the moment, at some point I will want to move on. So I was wondering if we were being idealistic about trying to have it all - the lifestyle and the careers. 

And then I picked up a copy of Bristol Property Live. I know it sounds like an unlikely place to find inspiration,and that wasn't why I started reading it (I wasn't reading it as a potential house-buyer either, sadly.) But a feature on Mike Bennett, Bristol's place-making director, caught my eye. 

As the article observed, it's a rubbish job title. But Bennett's role is to promote Bristol as an exciting, vibrant place to come and live and work. 

As part of the initiative he and his team have come up with 50 ideas to invigorate the city. 

Sure, many of them will never see the light of day, but just reading the list of suggestions, such as a Slow Sunday anti-rat race movement, or summer music sessions, made me feel excited about living here again. 

It reminded me that Bristol is alive with creativity and innovation, which is what makes it so desirable as a place to live and work. OK, the sheer volume of jobs in London may mean it's often the safest, most obvious place to pursue a career. But who wants to be safe and obvious?

It may be that little bit harder to find the ideal job here but I've decided to take that as a challenge, and to see it as a an opportunity, in the spirit of Bristol, to create something even better than those London folk can imagine.

 

Teabags and poached eggs

Yesterday was my and the boyfriend's two year anniversary. Sadly, like most Monday evenings since we got together, we spent it apart. Since he lives even deeper in the Westcountry than I do we can usually only see each other at the weekends. 
I did feel a little sorry for myself, but we had spent the weekend together and exchanged presents so I couldn't complain too much. 
My bank account is still groaning slightly after the pressure Christmas put it under. Luckily, I got a sewing machine for Christmas (from the BF actually) so I thought I'd whip him up a little something.
My skills are still limited, but I had learned how to make a lavender bag at the lessons I went to before Christmas. I'd discussed this with the BF, who said he would like one to hang in his wardrobe, but wouldn't want it to be lavender scented. His reason? He was worried it might make him sleepy while he was getting dressed... How do you argue with a mind that works like that?
So I had to think a bit creatively about what to stuff the bag with. I settled on lemon and ginger tea. It might sound strange, but I figured that tea leaves are the same kind of consistency as dried lavender. And lemon and ginger should be suitably invigorating. 
I couldn't find loose herbal tea anywhere (does anyone know where you can get it from?) so I ended up buying teabags and laboriously emptying them out before feeding the tea into the bag I'd sewn. That's love. But then again, I think I'd have to go a long way to find another man to whom I could present something made, essentially, of a cut up old shirt and some tea-bags and know he'd understand what it represented.
I did take a picture which I'd planned to upload here but I'm having technical difficulties. Hopefully it will follow at a later date. 
And last night, to celebrate our two years together, I made myself two poached eggs with the egg poacher he'd given me as an anniversary present. And I loved every mouthful. 

Happy City

In my last blog I shared some ideas for staving off the January blues and since then I've been thinking more about happiness and how we all need more of it. 
Bristol's been in the news for all the wrong reasons recently. As a young woman living not far from Clifton - and with an anxious mother texting me every evening to check I'm OK - it's hard to forget that there's a major police investigation going on just a few roads away. 
But I also keep reminding myself, and my concerned mother, that Bristol is by and large a wonderful, safe place to live and we shouldn't let horrible, tragic, but hopefully one-off crimes detract from that. 
As I've said before there are many things that make Bristol so fantastic, and one I've been wanting to write about for a while is an initiative I stumbled across on Facebook called Happy City Bristol. 
Its mission is very simple - to spread happiness in Bristol. And it aims to do this by bringing people together, connecting communities and helping people to make the changes they want to see in their city. 
I love everything about this. I don't think there's anything more important than happiness. And by that I don't mean the hit of instant gratification you get from a new pair of shoes. I mean that deep-seated sense of wellness and oneness that makes the whole world a better place.
And I fully endorse the Happy City principle that this comes from "creating caring, connected communities" and "bringing people, ideas and resources together".
The sense that Bristol is pulsing with a creative, community spirit was what drew me here, and it makes me very happy to find that there's a project focused on tapping into that and helping it to flourish.

January action plan

It is definitely January. Outside, the sky is a dull grey and it can’t decide whether it wants to snow or rain, so it’s doing a little of both. It’s my last day off before work and I had great intentions of a purposeful day of doing, organising and sorting so I can start the new year in a productive and energised manner. Instead, I eventually hauled myself out of bed at getting on for midday, made myself a peppermint tea, wrapped myself in a cardigan and woolly socks, and got right back into bed.
Every year I think I’m prepared for the sheer dismalness of January and promise myself that I won’t let it affect me, But each time it rolls around the cold, skin, flatness of the month manages to hit me afresh.
But this year I’m determined to meet January head on and this time I have a plan - hobbies.
I don’t know if it’s my age but in the last couple of years I’ve come to appreciate the benefits of having lots of interests, and discovering new ones. When I was a teenager my mum despaired as I gave up one extra-curricular activity after another - at weekends all I wanted to do was find new and more interesting ways to drink and meet boys.
I’m still a fan of drink and boys, but now they have to fit around dance classes, writing groups, sewing lessons and yes, even knitting. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking up the piano again. But I gave that up for a very good reason - I was crap.
So I’m going to fill this month with activities and projects. I’m already signed up for more sewing lessons at the Folk House, on Park Street, which I suggest as an excellent place to start if you want to keep yourself so busy that you don’t even notice that Christmas has been and gone for another year.
Hobbies don’t have to be expensive. Find a local book group, or a supper club. Teach yourself to play the ukulele on Youtube, or ask someone you know to share a skill with you and offer to teach them one in return. By February you’ll be full of goodwill once again, and you’ll have a new talent to boot. Happy New Year.
To get you started with a few ideas, check out the Folk House website:www.bristolfolkhouse.co.uk

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENTS

I was asked to write a short piece with the title “Good Present/Bad Present” the other day. It got me thinking about how much the present buying process says about our relationship with the person we’re buying it for, particularly when it’s a boyfriend/girlfriend. Firstly there’s a question of how much to spend. Personally I hate the idea of setting a budget for Christmas presents with your other half. It makes it all about how much you’re spending, rather than the thought behind it. But establishing the protocol does take away the potential for rows when he unwraps the silver hip flask you’ve had lovingly monogrammed and he, thinking you were doing cheap and fun, hands you one of his homemade books of “cuddle vouchers”.

And once you’ve negotiated the minefield of how much to spend, you have to decide what you’re going to spend it on. Do you play it safe and ask him to draw up a comprehensive list or insist on surprising him with something he never knew he wanted - with the risk that he actually doesn’t want it?

And it’s not like his is the only present you have to think about. There’s family, extended family, family’s girlfriends and boyfriends, friends and work colleagues. Just when you think you’ve got it all wrapped up (excuse the pun) you remember someone else you need to buy for.

I do love giving presents to people, it’s the thinking about what they’ll want and then slogging around trying to find it that stresses me out. I prefer to give slightly unusual things and I’ve found Bristol’s great for this. The Woolies Indoor Market at the top of Whiteladies Road is full of quirky gifts, as is the Clifton Arcade. I also happened upon the market that’s held in Start the Bus a few weekends a go and picked up a couple of really lovely, unique things there. And I do love House of Fraser in Cabot Circus - department stores at this time of year make me feel like I’m in Miracle on 34^th Street.

So this year I’m actually feeling rather pleased with all the offerings I’ve got to place beneath the tree. Now I just can’t wait for the best bit - watching people open them.

And here’s what I wrote under the title Good Present/Bad Present.

It was the Christmas present that finished it. Not his to me. That was fine. Safe and unimaginative but it was my favourite perfume and I didn’t really mind that he’d left the “half price at Boots” sticker on the box. But by then it was too late. In choosing his present I’d realised this was never going to last. I wanted my gift to be meaningful, special. A book of poetry perhaps, or a beautiful tweed waistcoat I found at a flea market. I imagined him opening these perfect presents on Christmas morning and just - couldn’t. He didn’t read poetry and would think the waistcoat was old, not vintage. They weren’t presents for him, they were for the boyfriend I wished he was. In a last minute panic I bought one of those novelty books they pile high in Waterstones at this time of year. It was as good a way as any of ending the relationship. I think I left the half price sticker on too.

Do you really need another pair of shoes?

I wrote the following for a competition. I didn't win (I was robbed, of course) but I thought it would be a shame for it never to see the light of day...

Do you really need another pair of shoes?

As babes in arms we are taught that shoes have magical, transformative powers. A quick sift through the fairytales and stories that shape our childhood will prove that no princess or heroine is worth halfpenny without her signature shoes twinkling at her feet.

Cinderella and her glass slippers almost go without saying. But the folklore woven around shoes only begins there. The Twelve Dancing Princesses slip on their jewelled dancing shoes each night to prance into their magical world, returning to their beds in the dawn light - tired but happy and with their heels tellingly worn down from dancing under the stars.

And what about the little girl in The Red Shoes? She knows no peace until she has her glittering pair, which set her feet dancing irresistibly up hill and down dale.

Book-loving little girls like myself progressed from the charmed shoes of fairytales to the enchanting footwear of much-loved children’s classics; Dorothy’s ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes and White Boots all waltzed merrily through my childish imagination, and have kept on tapping their feet into my adulthood.

So, little wonder women grow up so enthralled by shoes. According to the tales of our childhood the right pair of magical slippers will snare us a handsome prince, dance us into a magical kingdom and set us firmly on the path to a glittering career in showbiz. What more could any dreamy little girl wish for?

Added to this, there’s an alluring element of danger to their glamour. The dancing princess’ trodden-down heels betray their hedonistic nights to their strict father, while those provocative red shoes ultimately skip their owner to her untimely death.

So shoes are tricksy things. The wrong pair could get you into all sorts of trouble. And the right ones won’t just fall into your lap.

My search for the perfect pair began young. The first shoes I very clearly remember wanting were red, patent leather Mary-Janes. I was about five, my best friend had Mary-Janes and I’d recently seen the film of The Red Shoes on the telly. These seductive confections, probably spotted while buying school shoes in Clarks, therefore ticked all the boxes.

My mother, however, is a practical woman, and they did not strike her as suitable footwear for a five-year-old. I did not get the shoes.

And from that day forward (or so I like to think) our shoe-shopping career as mother and daughter was doomed. Denied my dream shoes, I became devilishly choosy, and trying on any kind of shoe became a nightmare for us both.

However many I was presented with, no pair ever seemed quite right. They were too tight here or too loose there. They rubbed my heel, or the top of my little toe.

Attentive shop-assistants, hovering nearby and chirruping “How does that feel?” added to the agony. I was as shy as I was indecisive and their attention would eventually make me feel like one of the ugly sisters; willing to chop my own toes off just to get out of there. When it got to this stage I would invariably panic and agree on a pair of shoes at random. Later, at home, I would sobbingly tell my mum I couldn’t possibly wear them. And back we would trudge.

To our mutual relief, my mum and I no longer buy shoes together. And now, almost all grown-up, I’ve somehow gained the confidence required in shops to make I’m left in peace while I wiggle my toes and twirl in front of the mirror at leisure, as the boxes pile up around me.

But, although I’m now at liberty to choose and pay for my own shoes, finding the perfect pair hasn’t got any easier.

I still agonise endlessly over the feel, shape and look. Practicality isn’t the issue here. It’s that indescribable rightness I’m looking for. I ask myself, will these shoes make me skip down the street and never want to stop?

For that, after all, is the point of shoes, is it not? Yes, how they fit and look is important, no girl would deny that. But, as the best fairytale princesses will tell you, it’s where they take you that matters the most. And we have so many places to go.

I’ve been searching for some years now and I haven’t found that one magical pair just yet. Many have come close but I can never help thinking that the ones I’m really meant to have are still out there somewhere, wrapped in fresh tissue, tucked in a box and patiently waiting for me to slip them on my feet and breathe life into their magic.

So I intend to keep on searching. I may find them, I may not. What I do know is the adventure is in the journey.