An old bit of sketchbook "don't stay still for too long or we'll grow moss"

I've been hiding in the bedroom. I think I've mentioned before that this house feels a bit like a tree house or a goldfish bowl: it's a Cumbrian Bank Barn which means it's kind of upside-down - you come in downstairs but we live upstairs where the room is dominated by glass doors onto what was the "bank", originally the entrance to the threshing floor. From most windows at the front there is no visible sky, just tree branches and mountain side. Anyway, a man turned up today to clear the roof of moss and all day we've been stuck here watching clods of sodden mud raining down like cow pats from the sky and getting our knickers in a twist about insensitive timing and the almost hilarious speed at which long neglected things are being done now that we're being kicked out. Now the roof and gutters have been de-mossed it will make it all much nicer for the landlords but right now it just means our windows are splattered with mud and my "garden" of pots outside the big window is like the Somme. I'm moaning, I'm sorry, we're grateful, it needed doing. It's just that we felt trapped, especially when the landlord stood outside the window chatting with the roof guy as if we didn't exist, as if lockdown didn't exist and things were crappy enough but now it looks a mess too.

Autumn this year, before the mud.

Poo sticks! It's so boring to keep going on about it when I want to talk about art and trees and lovely things but I think its probably worth noting that both of us have been sailing really stormy seas this week and just as we feel briefly calm the enormity of the stuff we have to sort in the next few weeks (time that should be spent on other things) crashes down again and at times we've both admitted that we've doubted our own reality, were worried we were wrong, had been naive and had brought it on ourselves by "making a fuss". Today's "Hot Ear" conversation put my mind at rest a little; there may be nothing we can do or change, we will have to leave, but the situation is not of our making and didn't need to be like this. I'm so angry that this could easily be happening to other people in much tougher circumstances, in fact it is, all the time and people need to know that. I found some useful site's today that I hadn't been aware of but always hoped existed, one is Ask Tenants which attempts to redress the imbalance whereby checks are compulsory for prospective tenants but there are no similar checks on landlords or properties for rent.
Yes, I know, I should shut up in case it ruins our chances of finding a new place but I can't. We ARE good tenants. Injustice thrives on silence.
Here are some imaginary and illusionary houses...

The black and white tree house picture only surfaced recently while my brother was scanning some old negatives. I have no memory of the place, a family friend's garden, but I was immediately surprised at the similarity to my slightly surly tree house girl. Weren't the 70's funny, I have no idea how I got up a tree in a lace mini dress, am I happy or stuck?
I haven't drawn anything new today but I have been packing some orders, lining up my ducks and feeling very emotional about the lovely comments people have been writing. Thank you so much.
Want to see something beautiful now? For several years David Wilson, a stained glass designer and art college friend of my parents, has been sending me occasional funny and encouraging messages (he grew up in Osmotherley where I used to live, went to Middlesbrough Art College and eventually moved to New York) Today I looked at his updated website and am now fantasising about building a swimming pool with stained glass walls, a light filled room with angels and abstract panels and warm blue water...ok, I know but it's good to dream isn't it. Aren't they something?!

Images ©DavidWilsonDesign

Day Five is Blue Monday, so because I've been awake since 4am and have absolutely no idea what to write, here is a row of blue and white lanterns in the low winter light.
I'd tried listening to a podcast (Fortunately with Jane Garvey and Fi Glover) to help me go back to sleep but bits of it were so funny that it woke me up even more with giggling and by 7am I'd given up and was eating toast in my polar bear suit, cuddling a hot water bottle. By 10 I was a zombie and fell into such a deep well of sleep that I could barely string a sentence together when the man from Citizen's Advice called and dragged me back up to the surface. He was helpful, and made me half wish I'd succeeded at my Sociology/Law degree back in the 80's so I could have been useful too (I kept falling asleep then too). Anyway, now I have Hot Telephone Ear Syndrome from all the stressful conversations (this is a real condition that can only be cured with tea and Garibaldi biscuits apparently) but at least things seem a little more under control (touch wood).

I walked a little too and dabbled about with some paint; even though I don't like them and feel like a clot for even sharing them or writing this sleep deprived ramble in a public space I know that it's been good exercise to do it. For the first time in ages I've set an intention and stuck to it, even though it's felt like the world is collapsing. There is study by Ewa Kacewicz, Richard B. Slatcher, and James W. Pennebaker that promotes the idea of "Expressive Writing" as an alternative to other traditional therapies and ways of dealing with trauma, "When people transform their feelings and thoughts about emotional experiences into language, their physical and mental health often improves."
But don't worry, there are just two days left of this week long waffle, after which normal intermittent service will resume. Hopefully tomorrow will start at a sensible time with cooler ears and happier conversations. I think there may be treehouses in tomorrows post...
x

Well Day Four has been very unusual , It's had its comic moments, some moments of clarity and determination and also, I won't lie, some very dark moments indeed. Weirdly the second trip around wind swept car parks in Penrith in search of the Mobile MRI unit turned out to be quite a memorable highlight when set against another e-mail from our landlord accusing us (falsely I promise) of aggression and then returning home to find them actually here!
It turns out that having your head scanned is like a cross between a nasty pot holing incident and a panic attack at a techno night. Who knew all my misspent nights at Goodgreef would come in so handy? Trapped in a Smartie tube wearing a Darth Vader mask and ear plugs was almost unbearable until I realised that the drilling, hammering, beeps and jolts had a rhythm not unlike a banging dance tune (remember Tyres in Spaced dancing to the kettle and the beeps of the traffic crossing?) Never underestimate the power of dance music, I think it was the most relaxed I've been all week. I haven't drawn anything today though, not yet anyway.

In other news I went to church. This is the beautiful church down the lane; I'm not a Christian but I've always loved churches and church yards and this one is a very special place. I stopped my snivelling and wandered around the stones, carefully avoiding the snowdrops pushing up through the mossy grass. It was a lesson in belonging, being "hefted". The stones bare just a handful of names, all stating which house they were from; generations of the same families most of whom are still here, living in those same houses. I walked back slowly up the hill, all the time thinking about what it means to truly belong to a place, about diversity in rural communities and about how, even from the point of view of my own relatively privileged background, it's getting harder and harder to live in places like this unless you inherit or are unusually well off. I'm glad I didn't raise my children here, the housing issues in the Lakes are shocking, although things are much the same in the North Yorkshire village where they grew up. Not sure of the answer and obviously I'm biased; probably my new lockdown breaking neighbour has a different point of view...

I wanted to show you this just for fun, I hope I'm allowed as it is from the family archive. I absolutely love this picture and I've been thinking about it a lot because it's also about belonging. The photograph was taken by my dad in the early 70's just before my paternal grandparents retired from running Allan's Store on Linthorpe Road in Middlesbrough. They'd been there since about 1947. It's a staged picture, with my mum playing the part of a customer while Grandad and Grandma do the hard sell on a tin kettle but I also love the girl skipping along the pavement looking straight at the camera.
I was born and grew up in London, moving North to be near our Grandparents (both sets from Middlesbrough) when I was 13 - so I always had hangups about not belonging, being the outsider with the "posh" accent. I still do but this picture makes me happy, it's a root, a little bit of history and context (and those yellow clogs of my mum's were ankle wreckers!) x