The shoe police
I’ve been wanting to post for ages, but somehow never seem to get the peace to sit down and do it. And my mad tidying kick continues. Today I took possession of a large shoe rack, which I’ve built into the hall cupboard, and the men of my family’s sea of shoes, the ” keep those ones, I put the bins out in them” and the ” oh don’t throw them out – they’re my golf shoes for a dry summer ‘s day” are now stacked away under lock and key.
I think I may be experiencing a late in life conversion to Feng shui, or perhaps it’s just my friend Meg’s impending visit from the US that’s helped me clean up my act. Either way I say, Hallelujah!
And here is a wee list of other things that have flitted through my brain of late:
1. I loved the BBC 4 programme on Goldsmiths, (The first in a two-part documentary follows a group of student artists from Goldsmiths as they struggle to make art and a name for themselves during the run up to their final masters show, where dealers and collectors jostle to sign up the latest art sensation.) And i particularly liked Roisin Byrne’s work – which was all about art as theft, basically she steals other artists work and then displayed an e-mail “audit trail” of her correspondence with them about the theft. It seems a very honest approach in this f*cked up old world of ours.
2. And oh how I laughed at the Glasgow voters’ vox pop on the Today programme, where a brilliant Weegie wifie described the General Election as being like “walking into
The Land of Leather to buy a toxic sofa to discover they only have red, blue and gold ones, and nobody will tell you how much any of them cost. ”
3. Still reading Clare Leighton’s lovely book Four Hedges. Of May she says ,
” There are days in the round of the year that hold everything in the cup of their hands.”
After the long winter and delayed spring we now have blackthorn, wild cherry and apple blossom all out at the same time and I think understand exactly what she means.
4. Helen Simpson, the short story writer, made a brilliant off the cuff remark about the Icelandic volcano and I wrote this short poem based on what she said:
The wind shifts, bringing with it the dust
and mica of millennia, and overnight
the blurring of time and borders is stroked
from the equation.
At the checkout desk the American looks up
at row upon row of flashing Flight Cancelled
signs, and suddenly he’s the master mariner
who sired a line, stranded three thousand miles
from home, waiting for the wind to switch.