May brings forth most of my favorite flowers, the poppies, poached egg plants, violas, aquilegia and hints at what is to come with the buds on the Daisies and Campanula. The chaos and glorious riot of colour that is mid-Summer for me is completely upstaged by the beauty of May and June when the birds sing their little hearts out and the air is filled with the gentle buzz of the worker bees. On Friday I began to mow the lawn with the Huski as the ride-on is a little under-the-weather, I decided that I would mow paths around the garden to areas that are interesting, the veggie patch, the secret circle garden at the farthest point from the house and for practicality the septic tank. I love the contrast in long and short grass, the wild meadow against the tamed walkways, it creates a sense of adventure, a story line leading off into the darkness under the trees, and then turning the journey back home to safety.

Today Labour quakes in its boots as shoe dynastys son, Edward Timpson, squeezes into the limelight and charmingly attempts to tip toe into the barely cold foot prints of legendary Gwennie Dunwoody. Nantwich’s historically conservative right and weary Creweites are predicted to turns their backs on Labour and the support that has seen them through many years of Thatcherism, and the darks ages of the late 1970s. Results are due this evening as this moderately sleepy borough raises its head in public, smells the wiff of political retoric and becomes the sign of things to follow.
Edward Timpson sniffs the political fumes of sleepy Nantwich.

These folks are doing it so I don’t have to…
http://boriswatchers.blogspot.com/
http://www.ididntvoteforboris.co.uk/
http://www.boriswatch.com/
http://borisborisboris.com/
http://torytroll.blogspot.com/

The first two images below are by Italy based artist Binfield, primarily an illustrator with strong design background she incorporates her hand writing into her images in a fluid and illustrative manner that adds significant aesthetic value to the content. The same can be said of US artist Pilrgrim-Waters’ images, although less graphic to my eye and tending to a less ordered form of communication they are typographically expressive. Bringing together line, colour, texture and text can bring an otherwise static image to life, the human mind requires stimulus to ignite the creative process and artists who realise the power in mixing the medium of words with pictures can, if in control, communicate on a whole different level. The observer can feel an individual connection with the artist that through picture alone is somehow less soulful.

This is a 1930s Cotton, 500cc of pure terror. The first time a Cotton was raced was at the Isle of Man TT in 1922, it was ridden my none other than Stanley Woods who went on to win his first Junior TT championship a year later in 1923. In 1924 Woods took two seconds on a Cotton, below right you can see Frank Morgan and his team outside the factory in celebration. Continuing in ’25 with another two second places, and in ’26 he finished in first place in the Lightweight division. Although as road bikes the Cottons peaked in the aftermath of their racing success the depression of the 1930s and a changing market forced Cotton out of production in the 1960s. Another famous rider was Lionel van Prague who rode a Cotton in speedway, he was an Australian and can be seen below [left] in Sydney on a 500cc Cotton, the story goes that the crank cases on the bike in the sketch were at one time signed by van Prague, and subsequently cracked by our very own sofa man. At the foot you can see illustrated clearly the unique and well protected feature of the Cotton which is the triangulated frame, designed by founder Francis Willoughby Cotton, as a lawyer by trade he was more than able to fend off any person or company who even thought of attempting to steal his motorcycle design

I have read 3 books by Matt Haig and this is the strangest, he is getting increasingly dark in content and disturbing in nature. The details of a fathers lost and obsession are painfully real but also recorded in such a deft way that I felt like a spy peering in on this man who by every breath was one small step closer to insanity.

Feast your eyes on the truth, and weep.

For those who crave the creative life West Dean is a unique community, a creative and rich mixture of artists and craftspeople, conservators and restorers, working alongside gardeners, farmers, foresters and builders. Take a look at their website.

Yesterday morning I woke at 4.45am, pinned to the bed by the considerable weight of our 18 year old moggy, he had secured himself a slice of duvet, a snaffled corner, the last remnant left after sofa man had unconsciously pilfered an 80% share of the market in an early hours takeover bid. I was wedged in a slither of space fit only for the likes of Viccy Beckham or Kate Moss, of which I am neither, and so had had all atoms of oxygen squeezed painfully out of my airways. I decided that I would slope off into the spare room and find an alternative quilt for what little remained of the night. I say night, but the sun is up early in May and the sky was bright with strands of red and gold, a soft mist lay on the Fen and the birds chorus of joyous banter rang loud in the still air. I tried hard to recapture the unconscious state but the world and its scabby inhabitants had conspired against me, I was officially awake.
I got up at 5am, fed the cat who had risen to take advantage of my wakening and who, much to rub salt into my wounds, returned back to take up my place on the bed. I made a cup of tea and pondered the washing-up from the night previous. Diving my delicate, sleepless hands into the water, the warmth and the Fairy bubbles charmed me into a state of contentment, the rhythmical swirling of the water brought ideas rushing silently out of the grey layered horizon, I wondered was this the time to sculpt? to bring forth order from the formless mass, to tame the chaos? Placing my ponderings into perspective, the reality of the creative commitment was obvious.
I finished the dishes, wiped dry my hands and headed off into the garden with my best shears and a stout broom. Latin names of plants often baffle me and as I have become more of an intuitive gardener common names have escaped me, so the bush of unknown type, bush-x, which sits on the boundary between the flower border and the patio isn’t available to be described as anything other than bush-x, or bushy-x-verdeminimus. This taxonomic vagrant had sprouted wildly rambling shoots, adding to and mingling with the rest of the petulant plants that charge through this fenland jungle devouring all sense of order in their path. It needed bringing in-hand. I began with what my hairdresser has oftentimes baffled me with, a rough cut, a general all over trim, carving a degree of formality out of its casual chaos, then cutting deeper and moving all round I began to see a sphere, a formal simplicity, geometry in this wildness. Its perfection limited only by my imperfection, a soaking up of my cognitive surplus, this was time well spent, gardening and art in simple harmony, rapid fluid thought, physical activity and emotional contentment.
I had finished the assault by 6am, the patio swept and back inside to lovingly glance out at my little patch of order in the world of rapmant madness.