Lucy Marian: December 2008

This evening is a time to write something out upon this screen. Such illusions. So grand. What lovely pixels you have!

I am listening to Sufjan Stevens
but
oop
there he goes.

Silence. No. Lets listen together?

The tip tap click of the boiler keeping in sync with itself. My tap tap tap on the keys, bracketed by my occasional nose sniff. It is cold in here. My left hand is warm. My right is chilled.

So what of this?

I really don't know I'm afraid.

I only know that this has been a strange handful of days which have just swept past, with skirts and petticoats and a flurry of hand gestures. The streets are icing up nicely. Walking through the dark this evening the pavements were sparkling. I was caught up in catching the glimmers, pretending the street was something else entirely. I reminded myself of myself, as a four year old, in the playground, wondering what that rainbow in the tarmac was. I still don't really know, it must have been oil. But it fascinated me.

I have a mug of fresh mint tea clutched between my thighs. At home, I have to have a hot drink at hand (or thigh) at all moments. Just in case.

The last few weeks have been beautiful, yet strange. Some of the darkest moments walking beside some of the most penetratingly sublime.

My beautiful friends and I traveled in a train that runs right inside the sea to a place called Paris. There we drank the new Beaujolais, cupped hearts and slept in very hairy bunk beds. I slept in a bunk bed with myself. Myself and I get along o k most of the time, so it was fine. No squabbles.

We drank coffee (yes. I do put a lot of emphasis on 'drinks' or, if you prefer- 'beverages'). We ate croissant, and we walked up hills. We peered over horizons and told stories, smiled. I had a few moments, a few wee battles. Inside a gallery which shall remain anonymous (mostly because I cannot spell it, and would rather waste time on this aside than actually go and look it up) I held a puzzling moment in my cavities. It cleared up well enough. Give me a hot chocolate and a slap around the backs of my thighs and I more often than not reign myself in. I think it was something to do with the enormity of the space combined with the excitement of having just bought a beautiful ruler and a low blood sugar level. I would not call it a tantrum. Others might.

Paris was, of course, beautiful. You know it.

My highlight has become our sojourn to the Rose Bakery. We got there just in time for a late teatime. Scones, cake, tea, jam, lattes, scarves slung over knees and gloves stuffed in pockets. Perfect.

One of my wholehearted moments is to find myself sitting in a cafe with the people I love. Cold weather outside the windows and doors adds another dimension- the word cosy comes up. Our knees might sometimes touch. A table becomes more than a table. It becomes a page. A slate to state our wishes and warbles. It connects us, brings us closer. We all have to fit around it. We sit side by side. We squeeze in. We lean in.

What was that?
Yes!
I agree.

Pass the sugar will you please?

This reminds me of my Grandma's crumble. She used to make it with a fine top just like this.

I have not been feeling myself.

It's ok.
Have another slice.

Thank you...

Go there. It is a nook. A nook of the heart.

Rose Bakery
46, Rue Martyrs
75009 Paris, France

The weekend after this lark and a dove I was fortunate enough to be off again to Old Amsterdam, with snow on its tips and and trams to boot. My friend and I rented blue bicycles, she rode with me over canals and took me to her warm haunts, as this was a place she had lived in. It was perfectly freezing, hats essential. Mulled wine imperative. Pancakes we found, as small and round as coins, but as plump as happy smiles. We slept in an attic room, with pale green beams. The owner made us feel like friends, and his partner proudly showed us his wonderful faux cake creations. He told us about how he painted each rose petal by hand, and after having dissected a real rose, had learnt how to put his own together. They were a lovely couple.

The attic room (in it's day) used to be rented out 'by the hour'.

I liked that.

Amsterdam beguiled me. I would love to go back, spend more warm evenings wrapped in bars sipping

hot drinks

listening to snow fall.

Yes, I am such an old romantic.
I will be the first, and the last to admit this.

Left hand now cold too.
Caught up with the right.
More tea please.

This photograph was taken at The Cat Cabinet Museum.

A small, handsome museum dedicated to
Cats
opened by a gentleman in memory of his cat Tom.

Anna played the grand piano as I danced with the cats, and peered into painted eyes.

Some more glimmers that caught my eye...