View My Stats

Thursday 20 May 2010

Rescued; Comfortable couple part 2





This painting is based on this gorgeous photo from Benna's Photostream. It went a little wrong half way through.
It was too far gone to discard so I carried on and it turned out better than expected.

After you



Everyday was like the one before. A sour routine of public transport, repetitive tasks and frequent rain. Waiting for the bus is a tedious affair yet it was the best part of everything to him. She'd be there in her work clothes. She wasn't conventionally beautiful but had something the other girls didn't. She had a kind face a gentle mannerisms. Her hair was long and thick and the wind would wrap it around her, getting caught in her eyelashes and mouth. Her delicate long fingers were constantly correcting this. She wore a suit but her fingernails gave her true character away. They were painted dark blue and were all chipped and bitten. He specifically loved that about her. The more people were there, waiting for the bus, the more she bit and picked at her hands. He stared at her fingers as they reached for her chapped lips. The mouth can do all sorts to a man. He lusted to be those fingers and to feel her warm saliva on his skin. This was becoming an infatuation. She'd glance in his direction but never made eye contact for more than a second. She felt his stares but didn't flaunt herself. She didn't even know she was beautiful which only intensified his obsession.
Day to day, nothing changed but her expressions. If the rain was heavy she didn't panic like most women would. She'd stand outside the shelter and let the cleansing, cool droplets land on her cheeks and slowly dampen her heavy hair. He'd fantasize about offering her his coat to break the ice but knew she wouldn't oblige. That was his start to the day, every morning, for the best part of a year. Just watching her. Yet they hadn't uttered more than two words to each other,
"After you" he'd say.
"Thank you" she'd reply.
It was enough to make him stroll into work with a smile on his face.
As summer drew closer, she'd wear pencil skirts. Her legs! A gift for him, maybe. He'd stand behind her so he could concentrate on her dainty ankles and slender calves. She hadn't had her long hair cut in ages and the ends were tapered and split. She wore just enough make up and always had her shirt buttoned right to the top. She took her time smoking her cigarette and blew every single bit of smoke out in one smooth steady breath. Her scarlet lipstick would stain the filter tip and end up on her hands. So distressed and complicated, her hand told stories she didn't. She was very slim but she held it well. Her wrists were narrow and would occasionally click when she reached for her purse. On the bus he'd aim for the seat behind her, hoping to hear what she was listening to. It was humid on-board so she slid the window open and leaned towards the breeze. As the driver picked up speed her hair fluttered over her shoulder and almost caressed his face. Her smell, usually vanilla, filled his nostrils. He inhaled the scent and held it in. What was her name? Elizabeth? Isabel? Even if it was something common like Sarah it wouldn't spoil her.
One morning she wasn't there, biting her nails and tapping her feet. Was she late? The next day he approached the stop with anticipation of her figure. She was there, but she wasn't alone. A man accompanied her. A tall, typically well dressed man with dark hair and smart shoes. His hand was placed at the small of her back and he was speaking softly in her ear. His lips almost grazing her neck. The boyfriend? Surely not. This girl was shy, where would she have met this berk? She turned to look behind her and locked eyes with her admirer. A look of shame washed over her face. She looked guilty and so she should. How could she do this? After all the Thank you's and brief glances. What now? Who would he wish for? The morning wait was no longer something he looked forward to but he still watched her and there was nothing she could do about it. "She isn't happy" he'd tell himself but the truth was is she smiled almost every time she was with that bloke. She had stopped biting her nails and painted them perfectly. She had her hair cut and was starting to blend in. He hated her for that but the fantasies didn't leave and neither did the bloke. She laughed frequently. Although it was a gracious sound, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.
Affection soon turned to resentment but he wouldn't let himself forget her. It was better to see her and feel bitterness and jealousy then to never see her again.

Lightweights



Work has had a grip on me lately, my writing has suffered immensely. I get terribly frustrated. Call me sad but all I need is a pen, some paper and a few glasses of whatever wine is present in the fridge. When I do go out it's usually out of courtesy. I used to be wild, I wouldn't be trapped for even one day. I needed out otherwise I'd suffocate. It seems I have gotten old overnight. I want to be alone with my paint and singer sewing machine. If I don't get my fix I'll get withdrawal symptoms. It is an addiction. It's difficult to be constantly inspired but it's impossible to live without.
I thought about the drunk boy on the train. He was attractive in the most boring way and couldn't handle his beer. He was asking far too many questions and was trying to impress me by informing me his little travel buddy was about to move into a new pad that was previously occupied by a famous footballer. Like I gave two shits about their money. He could have guessed that but he told me anyway, just to make a point. His ginger friend was even more of a lightweight. He was perched on the arm of the seat and a little on the lap of his footballer obsessed, cliché friend. He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I looked dead at him as if to say "Mind your business little man." I was in no mood for inexperienced come on's. He told me he didn't have a girlfriend for reasons I didn't want to hear. Then two more showed up and they surrounded me. Trapped in the corner, I worried I would soon have to respond. They had interrupted my writing. I could see I wasn't going to enjoy this, in fact it was agony.
Boy number one repeated himself over and over.
"Do you like drum and bass?"
"Not particularly"
"Oh...............So do you like drum and bass?"
"NO"
The ginger boy was getting louder and cocky and was making a tit of himself. He cracked open another can and almost spilt the whole thing all over the table, my bag and journal. The women sitting opposite snatched the can and led him away with it like a donkey with a carrot. She said loud for everyone's ears,
"I don't want beer all over me, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KIDS DRINK"
He answered back without actually saying anything understandable. Next thing you know, her husband got up from the seat behind her and asked the lad if he wanted a smack. The scrawny little thing said Yes.
'Oh god' I thought. This train was in peek hours and was full to capacity. There were children a few rows away. I think all the commotion had woken a baby because from there on out I heard crying. This is why I usually get the last train available.
The ginger boy eventually backed down and shuffled back the next carriage. I looked out of the window for a few minutes hoping they would ignore me. Then I looked back and noticed boy number one was miming something with his hands. He was pretending to hold a small book and was writing with an imaginary pen.
"I looked outside and it was good" he giggled.
The prick was mocking me! What is the world coming to when a girl writing on a train is an odd and uncool thing to witness? I wouldn't expect them to understand. They were ten a penny, but it stuck with me all day.

Friday 14 May 2010

The Comfortable Couple




To be continued....
I shall paint this sketch tomorrow.

Moles and Freckles





This drawing is based on a self portrait by my closest friend, Leanne Surfleet. She is a very talented photographer from my home town.

Please show some love and have a nosey at her blog

In Stitches.








I Stitched this girl on my sewing machine. Not the best photograph, I admit.
I shall have her scanned soon so you can make out the lines.




Thursday 6 May 2010

The Sketchbook of Yesteryear.


















I found these scribbles in an old sketchbook.
The first two are from my first year at college.
Please bare in mind that they are a few years old.

Right Now!



Having little else to do in this hell hole, we drive around searching for something exciting or at least refreshing to look at. Aimlessly meandering through the neighbourhoods. Occasionally, a fight or fire would surface.
At the car wash we sat waiting for the cogs to turn and the parts to twist. I felt a wash of hyperactivity. My heart was beating double. I couldn't put my finger on why. I was starting to squirm and sweat. Then it dawned on me. As a child, I had an irrational fear of car washes. Ridiculous, I know. This familiar feeling was an involuntary response. The memory was long gone, having been pushed aside to clear space for new ones, but the phobia had sat there dormant. It astounds me how much human conciousness can store. Boundless, unfathomable depths of knowledge and memories.
I would imagine the huge, spinning cylinders would roll us out flat like pastry. I would close my eyes and try to forget the monstrous din that would make me rattle and shudder.
My response to diggers was the same. In my naive little world, the digger would surely scoop me up and bury me alive or take a swing at me, like it was self aware.
There was one occasion when my father walked me home from school. I hadn't noticed the digger at the top of the road until I reached the lolly pop lady. I begged him to walk with me the long way around, as we had done so many times before. He was not going to budge and neither was I. He slung me over his shoulder like a firemen and made a dash for it. I thumped his back and kicked my legs, screaming bloody murder. I honestly believed I would die right there and then. The general public, including my father, found this to be hilarious. I couldn't understand why they were laughing. I had just had a near death experience.
Everything meant everything at that age. Only that precise moment of existence mattered. It was all there was. I wonder why we grow out of that. I'd give my big toe to be that passionate about anything again.

Monday 3 May 2010

Polo





I love old cars. This one was a gnarled beast with a deep grunt. Being able to hear and feel the click and clack of the mechanics beneath me was exhilarating. My body absorbed the mounds and caves of the road knocking me from my puffy eyed day dream. We pulled in for a quick smoke at a place near nowhere. In front were fields of new crops pretending to be the ocean. The fierce wind lashed at the blades and formed rolling waves and silver licks. I pointed it out and was surprised at a response. Maybe I'm not the only one to notice all things great and insignificant. "Right. Let's go." Back on the road, Ross stormed across the tarmac changing the never ending rape seed to a yellow stream in the corners of my eyes. The seatbelt bruised my hip and squeezed the all the air out of me. She was an old maid but had aged well. She had been prodded and poked to fulfil the desires of a young man. This was a secret while stationary. She didn't look like much. Her shell unfettered and intact. A shell no stronger than a sardine tin. The speakers were no match for her husky tone.
The boys were looking for a place to carry out their experiment. They had some outdoor seeds and for lack of other things to do on a windy bank holiday, made an afternoon of looking for a spot to plant them. Just inside the edge of a reasonably sized collective of trees I stumbled upon an odd scene. A striking one at the least. A strewn mess of belongings. Amongst other things was a pair of platform stiletto sandals, a black G-string, a black polyester dress, unfinished crosswords, used condoms and their wrappers, a car tyre and a book called Rise of the foot soldier. What a sight. In the midst of farmers fields and walking trails was this seedy little hide out. I had only two thoughts. What did this girl wear home? And why didn't I have a camera with me?

Transpennine Express

30th April 2010

On route to Sheffield I've realised the weather isn't chasing me at all. I have boarded a train headed for the mouth of the storm. I don't have my party persona with me but it's too late to turn back. I already have my ticket and have promised to be there for Tom's birthday. Sticking out like a sore thumb in trendy wine bars with unflattering lights and being winked at by burly, vain muscle men is inevitable. We've hit an industrial patch. Huge chimneys spew and spit domes of poison. Forgotten trucks sit lonely in vacant lots. Oddly beautiful till we reach Scunthorpe, the only place I dread more than Grimsby. My Dad would be there right now enjoying his expensive wine, bickering with Susan and forgetting all about me. I envy how content he has become. I wouldn't describe our relationship as a bond. A pinch of effort or a courtesy call wouldn't go a miss. I could call him but I am just about finished with the rejection. I may be a hard faced bitch sometimes but my pride is easily bruised. If I'm to crack a smile tonight I will have to stop dwelling, for now. Lincolnshire is flat like my accent. The sky is dark and doesn't really fit the the colours between the almost identical new villages.
I will welcome Sheffield with open eyes and ears. It has been too long. I'm not sure if I could live there again. Hoards of strangers and I don't mix well. Don't get me wrong, I'm a sociable bird but feel safe in my simple nest. I don't like my own company but can stand it. It forces me to deal with myself.
The backdrop of Doncaster is extra grey. The only thing standing proud is the scaffolding around the cathedral. Northern cities have an air about them. A sprinkle of reform but mostly down trodden and half dead. It's an air I am fond of and have come to rely on. Without it I might stop producing. To quote Marsha from Spaced, contentment is the enemy of all invention. I will stop now as I am surrounded by over inquisitive dickheads and can feel a young man watching me.

Sunday 2 May 2010

Nettleham Hall






I will always have a soft spot for Nettleham Hall and the shotgun wielding farmer.
Photos by Heather Steele