Foxy Lady

It could be because the last of London’s summer days have arrived, and the ludicrous blooms that hung over every wall, in every forgotten car lot, and creeped up every mottled brick wall are slowly yellowing, crisping in preparation for Autumn; or it might be that this blog, in the casual gaps between me updating and not has gone to ground and developed its own rules about what can or what can’t be posted and settled only for something floral; or simply that a particularly blossomy bout of tonsillitis has left me yearning for pinks and oranges and yellows and blooms that aren’t attached to superfluous glands at the back of my throat. But either way, I keep returning to Kari Herer‘s Etsy shop and redrawing my list of prints I might like in the new place. It doesn’t help that she’s gone for peonies and ranuculus, and if I wasn’t a sucker of peanut butter first, I’d eat those by the spoonful instead but who can really deny a bunny with a flower for a tail? Or agree that those awful horn beetles are much nicer when made of magnolias and ink rather than exoskeletons and beetle… juice? Glad we’re still on the same page chaps. Beginning to think I’d lost you.

PS. I fly to New York for one week tomorrow! Any recommendations?


First Love

Scott MacKenzie died yesterday, and so with him, a tiny piece of a tiny childhood. San Francisco was one of the first songs I remember listening to, lying on my purple carpet, on repeat. Wishing I was anywhere else – but chiefly in a commune in the Bay Area – as long as it wasn’t Gloucestershire, and the promise of school. Now all the song does is transport me back to the very place I dreamt I’d leave: to a house with a new family, to a room with a new carpet, to the same pool of sunlight that fell right by my stereo player.

London, Photography

Bloomer Bred

And so with the Olympic flame, Summer arrived. And just as Britain won it’s eighteenth medal, so I finally sat down (therein imitating many of our medal winners, badly) and committed pen to paper, words to CMS, photos to gigabytes of memory. Remarkably less poetic than the motion achieved over the canal in Stratford, but little victories give way to major events, so while me publishing two blog posts in two days still evades my powers of posting right now, we have at least found, reserved, and started to buy furniture for, the most perfect of perfect flats. It wins so much I could make like my performance every time a Briton takes top podium and cry, but I couldn’t even if I tried. I’m so happy I could burst.