#Thesis writing service in london
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onlinetutorsgroupsblog · 1 day ago
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Dissertation Writing For Students: Tips For Structure
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themathomhouse · 1 year ago
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I haven't seen this posted about here but it's going round Twitter and tiktok, and I'm so beyond angry I can't let it go.
The UK imprint of Simon and Schuster have announced a history of Gaza is forthcoming from writer and academic Dr Anne Irfan. She's a professor at UCL specialising in Palestinian refugees and their treatment under the UNRWA. She's done extensive work and volunteering in refugee camps, advocates for Palestinians in the UK directly to government, works with a number of projects including in asylum applications, and writes articles both in academic journals and in newspapers about Palestine. Whilst studying for her thesis, she was denied entry into Palestine by Israel.
Sounds like a highly qualified person to write a history of Gaza, right?
WRONG!
According to activists on social media - all of whom have comparable work backgrounds and experience I'm sure - it's completely unacceptable for her to write this book!!! Some of which is due to her being a white woman (we'll get to that), and some is due to her husband being a soldier in the IDF and clapping for genocide (we'll get to that too).
The vitriol and backlash has been awful, and I haven't seen many takedowns so under the cut I will dissect the issues here.
1) she's not Palestinian.
This one seems to be true, and I do think that it's important that we allow people from a region to tell their own stories. This isn't the worst criticism, however given the other problems people have I think it's being brought up disengenuously.
She is an expert though, and I am deeply concerned about this progression to an idea that we should only learn about or discuss our own cultures. Palestinian voices not being elevated is a systemic issue, not the fault of one woman who we can at least say possesses the requisite expertise to write a history book.
She's actually already written one book - Refuge and Resistance: Palestinians and the international refugee system.
Here's a list of recent news articles she's written.
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2) she's white.
This one I can't verify. There are claims from people purporting to be former students of hers who say she's Jordanian and has family in Palestine. Certainly her surname is Arabic and she's listed as being fluent in Arabic on her academic profiles, so I'm not willing to assume from the single photograph I've seen that she's white.
We have also seen from the rise in antisemitism recently that whiteness is entirely conditional, and I think in this case it's being thrust upon her to justify saying she has no business writing a book. I think this is trying to get at systemic issues with publishing, but without any of the facts.
Source:
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3) her husband is an IDF soldier.
Her partner (not husband as far as I can tell) tweeted out the book announcement. He's a fucking marketing data guy who works for Twitter. He's not in the IDF. He's just Israeli and so probably did national service, but that's an assumption as he lives in London.
Source:
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I can't add his LinkedIn or other profiles as they've all been deleted, likely due to this shit. This will have to do.
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4) he supports genocide.
No.
He had a take that I don't personally agree with - saying Israel shouldn't agree to a ceasefire until the hostages have been returned - but that is an extremely far cry from any kind of support for genocide. His Twitter has been deleted so I've only seen screenshots, possibly someone made this claim but failed to procure the correct evidence; but that seems extremely unlikely.
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Even the original person who tweeted about this has tried to walk it back (not the husband part but some of the other stuff).
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There were no receipts by the way, possibly due to a change of heart.
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Babe you called it coloniser apologia and attacked her personally as well as her partner, you're kind of the one who made it personal. Feel bad all you want but this is just you being defensive.
What now?
If you are going to make claims about someone supporting genocide or any of this shit, be really fucking sure before you throw a Molotov cocktail into the dumpster fire of this discourse. The publisher, an unrelated book news website, her editor (who's made her account private after being @ed in the comments), and she and her partner (both deleted Twitter) have been inundated with tweets and videos on tiktok yelling about it - most of which has been at best unhelpful, but comes from a place of xenophobia and an entirely misapplied desire to crusade for justice - and I'm being generous calling it that.
Has this helped? Has it? Did posting her university email and calling for people to call her a fascist in her work inbox manifest some Palestinian writers? Has tweeting shit like this helped?
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Getting rid of academia is definitely A Good Take and not the step authoritarians take.
I've personally written to the publisher to express my sadness at this whole thing, agreeing that Palestinian voices are extremely important to uplift but also saying that Dr Irfan is clearly more than qualified to write this book. I admire all of the work she has already done spending more than a decade working with Palestinian refugees, and I hope very much that everyone involved is doing okay.
I don't know what else to do. All I can do is once again say that people need to really, properly fact-check before you post. This woman is actually doing the activism. She's an historian, yes; but also does work directly in camps and with the preservation of archives. Her crime seems to me to be that her partner is Israeli, and if that's where we're at then I don't even want to know where we're going.
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parabelled · 1 year ago
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All things considered, Episode Four of Masters of the Air was definitely my favourite episode so far. Which surprised me- considering coming in, I was definitely dreading this episode, for a multitude of reasons:
WORLD WAR TWO MEDIA GENERALLY SUCKS AT MAKING FEMALE STORIES INTERESTING OR NOT RELATED TO HOT MEN: This will be the name of my rage thesis I will eventually figuratively write on how World War Two media as a whole. Like, traditionally, let's be honest, none of our favourite series, even a masterpiece like Band of Brothers, really has particularly strong female leads or characters. If there are characters, even if they have more of a featured role, we usually just see them in relation to nursing, or caring for men in some way. And while this obviously is an important part of women's legacies in World War Two, it barely scrapes the surface of what women were responsible for during the war on all fronts, and usually is just a vehicle to be like AND THE NURSE FELL IN LOVE WITH THE PATIENT WHO'DA THUNK IT. I like to snarkily call this, "Pearl Harbour Fever."
HBO War/ Tom Hanks/Steven Spielberg Series Are Great- But Sideline Representation for the Sake of a Streamlined Story: I think I speak for most people in that I would rather have a well-written story rather than tokenism left, right, and centre, in any given series. That being said, to pretend other interest groups rather than white dudes did not contribute to any war front is laughable. World War Two's theatre of war, no matter where you place it, had so many more stories of people of all backgrounds, genders, ages, and abilities pitching in, and I'm happy we're seeing more of those, with characters who actually have built out character arcs rather than sideline "gee whiz I'm helping the war" washerwomen.
Marketing led with LOOK AT THESE LADIES KISS THESE MEN ISN'T THIS SALACIOUS: Ninety percent sure I was worried when the past few episodes (And I'm ninety percent sure it's also in the intro), had Bucky kissing the Polish refugee Paulina that it was going to be some cringe paper-thin side love interest, that we meet once, and is never commented again. But the series proved me wrong- we had not one, but TWO women who, while they were love interests for male characters, had at least SOME build out to why they were in London at the time. And if you look into the history of how many different cultures, refugees, service people, etc., were actually coming to London, or residing in London at the time, despite the bombings, it's a wonder why war media doesn't showcase more of those stories, even in love interest characters.
Even though we only got two scenes between Paulina and Bucky, we understood where she was coming from- she still described herself as married, despite sleeping with him- she wanted to at least feel something before he was able to feel something in terms of her going to bed with him- she refused past fleeting moments together to emotionally commit any further, due to seeing her husband in him- yet she doesn't see anything wrong with bombing the Germans, because she knows what the Germans have done to the Poles, and to all of Eastern Europe. She clearly knows what people have sacrificed, and she wants the Germans to feel the pain she and her people have felt. She has set morality aside in this sense. She's a fucking INTERESTING character, despite sleeping with Bucky- not because of it. And even though she hesitates at the door, and wants to stay- she doesn't allow herself to. A FULLY ROUNDED. INTERESTING FUCKING FEMALE CHARACTER. WELL FUCKING DONE TEAM WE DID IT GOOD FOR YOU WAHAY.
Same with our Red Cross donut girl Helen. Even in a couple of lines, we establish what they volunteered for, and what was open to women to volunteer for at the time. When Nash says playfully something along the lines of, "You came all the way over here to give out donuts?", she basically responds, "That's what they gave to me/ allowed me to do." It's clear it's not what she had in mind, but she wanted to contribute to the effort, any way she could. And her experience was very true to many women who served donuts and coffee and were the "last pretty face" many of these men saw before entering these planes.
But then guess what also happened? HOLY FUCK RESISTANCE FIGHTER LADIES WHO AREN'T EXPLICITLY LOVE INTERESTS AND ARE MORE COMPETENT THAN THE MEN THEY'RE LEADING ISN'T THAT A KICK IN THE PANTS AND THE MOST INTERESTING TENSION-FILLED PLOTLINE YET.
In short, I'd like to direct Hollywood as a whole to the astonishing premise of, "Look what happens when you write women as well-rounded individuals with different motivations, holy shit, you have the best episode in the series."
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online-tutors-group · 2 years ago
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Top essay writing mistakes to watch out for
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Common essay writing mistakes to watch out for
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Lack of clear thesis statement
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A well-structured essay is easier to read and understand. The power of your thoughts can be diminished by poor organization, which can also confuse the reader. By separating separate aspects of your essay using paragraphs and headings, you can ensure that it flows logically. Before you start writing, create an outline to help you organize your ideas and maintain a logical flow of thought throughout your essay. You can also hire a dissertation writing service in London to observe and learn from them over time. No proofreading and editing
Grammar, punctuation, and spelling errors can affect the quality of your essay and annoy the reader. People often skip editing and proofreading the whole thing. Re-read your writing carefully, looking for typos, bad language, and grammar problems. To make sure your essay is perfect and error-free, consider using grammar checking tools and getting feedback from others.
Do not respond to critical arguments
The overall effectiveness of your essay will be weakened if you ignore or refute opposing points of view. Acknowledge different opinions and give fair consideration to multiple points of view. Addressing opposing views shows your knowledge of the subject and builds your credibility as a writer. Use persuasive arguments and facts to refute and refute opposing points of view. For starters, take the help of essay writing service in London for how to approach critical arguments so you can learn and improve over time.
Final thoughts
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hellothetutorshelp-blog · 2 years ago
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writer-to-rescue · 3 years ago
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myassignmentshelpuk-blog · 4 years ago
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inkwolvesandcoffee · 2 years ago
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Ink & Rum Raisins (Alfie Solomons x Reader, Modern AU)
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(Credits for the images in the moodboard go to their respective owners. The absolutely gnarly Anubis is by @/dugagau (IG))
Genre: Romance, Humour, Modern AU
Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Alfie Solomons x Dutch Fem!Reader
Word Count: 12.3K
Warnings: a lot of swearing, Alfie being a gentleman, size kink, unrequited crush/love/lust (or is it? Also, I’m sorry, but the reader, like me, has a thing for older men), allusion to smoking/vaping, allusion to past violence
Summary: Prequel to Mokum Part 1.
Alfie
There was once a little dove, yeah, who found herself in a shithole of a place called Birmingham. Little brave thing that she was, she flew over the wolves living in it, looking for the one she had business with. Now, this wolf, right, was already an older chap, greying and with a bloody bad leg. He was, no, is the King of Camden. Anyways, the little dove found him and the wolf and her agreed upon a contract, according to which he provided his services. He soon found himself rather charmed by her, perhaps because he reminded her of days gone or because she awakened something in him, a reminder of a fantasy he hadn’t dare to fancy in a long time. And that��s why he coaxed the little thing into a deal.
Because he’s a selfish, in her words, bastard.
Caught between vice and virtue, unsure which of the two she is.
Y/N
I had heard the stories about the eccentric Alfie Solomons, owner of King of Camden Ink in London. However, when he announced he’d fulfill a guestspot at Shelby Tattoo Company in Birmingham, there was no way I could pass up the rare opportunity to be tattooed by one of the biggest (though infamous) names in the industry and get myself one of his gnarly yet gorgeous pieces.
In hindsight, if I had to do anything differently, I would have picked any other spot on my body but my thigh, simply to save myself from transforming into a bumbling fool. However, I would happily relive the whole experience even though it was quite... turbulent, to say the least. And, I’ll be honest, Alfie’s a bit of a bastard. Nevertheless, I’d do it all over again.
I wonder if butterflies see the potential danger in roses. The thorns, I imagine, could rip their wings if they come too close. Fancy could be their downfall. Then again, they never live long, do they? 
Author’s Note: Oh my days, it’s at last, the first segment in the behemoth this Alfie Solomons romance has become. This particular story started out as a one-shot, but gradually grew longer and longer up to the point I now have at least enough of a story to write a novella. 
Bloody hell, anyways, I made the reader Dutch because I’ve never seen anyone do that before (mind, I’m willfully ignoring the Dutch fanfiction I’ve come across because it was... not good, and that’s putting it politely) and since I’m Dutch myself and this tale is based upon actual events and conversations, I thought, ‘‘Well, why the hell not?’’
Also, this is the first thing I’ve written and edited since my thesis, so if it sounds rather formal or even academic in places, it might be because of that. I’ve yet to get accustomed to writing fiction again.
But, without further ado, kick back, relax, and enjoy the story.
Monster Masterlist / TH Masterlist
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Having jolts of electricity shooting throughout your body and making your hands a bit jittery while your stomach seems to tie itself into a permanent knot is only natural when something exciting is about to happen. And as long as there is coffee nearby, the nerves can be fairly contained. In my personal opinion, that is.
However, when getting tattooed it’s better to not drink coffee before the appointment and let your emotions run wild. Now, I can only confirm for the former it helps the tattooing process because you do not want to start bleeding more than might be the case in a non-caffeinated scenario. The latter, on the other hand, is perhaps worse than a caffeine overdose. What also does not help my current case is entrusting part of my body to a man, regardless of his talent.
Another unhelpful detail is that I am about to go to a shop where practically only men work. Although, if I’m lucky, the two resident female artists have an appointment today too. We don’t have to have a conversation, interact at all, but it would make the environment more pleasant if I’m not the sole feminine presence.
Then again, I suppose I brought this down on myself. When I saw that Alfie Solomons would have a guest spot at Shelby Tattoo Company, I knew I had to get an appointment somehow. A holiday to Birmingham and getting a tattoo by a brilliant artist? Two birds with one stone, count me in.
Alfie has become somewhat of a celebrity in the tattoo community thanks to his art, inspired by various religions around the globe, specifically focusing on its monsters, demons, and other animal symbolism. The designs are gnarly yet awe-inspiring, the blacks stark and each element easily discernible despite the dark ink. For this specific guest spot he noted he’d only do flash and wanna-dos. Fortunately for the both of us, I’m obsessed enough with ancient Egypt to dedicate a part of my skin to the god of its Underworld and the dead.
The skin of my right thigh, to be precise.
And that’s where the problem lies. 
For my other tattoos, I went to a women-run tattoo studio because I’m more comfortable with having a woman tattoo me. That is, of course, not to say all male tattoo artists aren’t to be trusted, because there are genuine sweethearts out there, and that women can’t be predators or walking red flags themselves. I, myself, have simply heard one too many tales of a woman being mistreated by a male tattoo artist to entrust them with the intimacy that comes with getting a tattoo.
Quite a contradiction, innit, considering the fact I’m about to let Alfie, a bear of a man, tattoo my thigh? Let’s call it a leap of faith, spurred on by incredible talent no one else possesses.
A sacrifice of principles in the name of art.
Sounds rather poetic when I put it like that. Better than ‘I want new ink and that Anubis looks fucking awesome. I want it. I’m gonna get it. Don’t care if I’m gonna have to travel.’
Yes, a sacrifice for art. We’ll keep it at that. 
The bus stops on Victoria Street, a small straightforward walk away from Shelby Tattoo Company in Small Heath. Red brick worker’s houses line the wide cobblestone street, the occasional old storefront among them hinting at what the edifice was used as in days past. Stone steps inlaid in a patch of grass lead up to the main street, an older couple descending them. The woman holds firmly onto her husband, her arm looped in his. He, in turn, clutches the railing for dear life. Nonetheless, it’s a sweet sight, an affirmation Love and Romance still exist.
‘‘The destination is on your right. Shelby Tattoo Company.’’
I turn off the navigation and tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. For a second I remain unmoving, merely looking at the handle of the door. 
Breathe in… breathe out. It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be okay. Alright, let’s go!
The mental prep has done little to still the tremble in my fingers, but my racing mind becomes eerily clear when I push the front door open. 
The single step across the threshold must have been noisy or his hearing is like a bat’s because my entrance rouses the bulking figure in the corner of the shop. He’s clad in a white shirt and jeans, his long brown hair tousled and haphazardly slicked back as best as possible. 
The man spins around on his stool, the movement languid and wary. A brief silence settles in, a moment in which we look at each other quizzically. In fact, it might even be safe to say we’re trying to estimate each other, guessing at how much danger hangs in the air.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asks, a note of caution in his Cockney accent as he strokes his beard. 
“I- I have an appointment. W- With Mr Solomons,” I stammer, feeling like a child caught red-handed trying to steal a cookie.
And that immediately shows how much of an actual threat I am
“Ah, Y/N! Shalom!” Alfie rises to his feet and swaggers over, precariously balancing his weight to hide his limp as best as possible. His broad shoulders block out the light as he comes to a halt, a polite distance between us. I tilt my head to look up, mentally cursing my genes for making me a head shorter than him and myself for the flutters of a butterfly storm in my stomach, caused by the height difference. “Welcome.”
He tilts his head and huffs, strangely amused. “I see you’re wearing new pants.”
“How- How’d you know they’re new?”
This is already getting sus. Maybe I should turn tail and run.
“I follow you on Instagram,” he says matter-of-fact and shrugs. “I saw you had a new Story, one about buying pants to get tattooed in.”
“You,” I point at him and then at me, still not registering his words, “follow me? On Instagram?”
“I do,” Alfie casually confirms. “If you don’t believe it, go see for yourself.”
He gestures for me to grab my phone.  “Go on, check.”
My face pales when the follow button turns a light blue and states follow back. 
Oh God, he’s seen my Stories. Seen my cat Stories. All the bullshit I posted.
Alfie leans in, the light providing extra definition to his toned arms, crossed firmly over his chest. “I don’t think you looked like shit. Those jeans look good on you.” The glee of being proven right melts into a curious pondering. “Boyfriend jeans, was it? Yeah… They look good on you.”
What does he mean by that? Is he flirting? Or is he being himself? I mean, I’ve heard he’s a bit eccentric, but what do I do?
Apparently nothing, because my feet are rooted to the spot, my mind erupted into pure chaos with not a single coherent thought thinking of walking out the door. So I remain where I am, still like a statue.
Until Alfie claps his hands. “Right! I won’t lie and say I’m not ecstatic about you picking the Anubis design.” 
He turns around and walks to his station to grab something. After a quick search, he returns with two pieces of paper and his tablet. An expression like water has been poured over him to wake him from a dream passes over his face. A funny contrast with the warm gesture towards the worn leather sofa.“Where are my manners? Please, sit down. Tea? Coffee?”
“Ah, no, thanks. I’ve already had two cups of coffee and I don’t want to turn into a bouncy ball.”
“Water, then?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I printed the design in two sizes, the original and a smaller one. I think both will work fine, but I’ll leave the decision up to you. Also, I’d like my clients to fill in a form. It’s kind of a dossier, right, only accessible to me of course. It’s due to the new regulations on ink, you know how fond the authorities are of control and paperwork, and to document which ones I used in case you get a reaction. It’s also nice to know, in general, I have your consent to place the tattoo. All you need to do is put your signature on the line at the bottom.” He puts the pieces of paper on the coffee table and carefully hands the tablet and stylus over.
I look over the form, fill in the missing details, and sign the form. In the meanwhile, Alfie pours a glass of water, judging by the sound of an opening and closing fridge from a bottle rather than the tap. 
“Piece of lemon?”
“Pardon?”
“Lemon? Would you like a slice in your water?’’ he patiently repeats, adding playfully, ‘‘It’s wonderfully refreshing.”
“My, what luxury!” I exclaim in a terrible imitation of a posh accent.
“I only want the best for my clients,” he says, though it’s unclear whether he’s serious or playing along. All the same, with a bit of a show, he grabs a cutting board, a knife, and a lemon from the net sitting in the corner of the counter. Sonorously, he hums along with the jazz song that plays over the speaker as he slices the fruit and adds two slices of it to the glass of water.
After washing his hands, he holds out the glass like a butler would. “Here you are, madam.”
“Thank you,” I say, cheeks warm. “Let’s trade. Here’s your tablet back.”
“What’s your email?” he asks after looking over the form. “I’ll send a copy to you. It’s always good to have a backup of important documents like this, innit?”
A brief flash of confusion passes over his face when I tell him the part of my email which contains my last name. Unable to suppress a giggle, I resort to spelling it out to not subject him any further to the difficulties of the Dutch language.
“Hold on, slow down.’’ He mumbles the letters to himself, the stylus making soft tick tick tick sounds. ‘‘Alright, carry on.’’
The last bit is evidently easier to keep up with. Everything noted, he turns the screen to me for a final check. ‘‘That correct?’’
I nod in confirmation
‘‘Alright. Now let me just… there. Sent.’’ The furrow in his brow smoothes out now the paperwork is done. Alfie puts the tablet on the coffee table, sits down and leans back in the chair across from me, thick fingers entwined. ‘‘So that’s how you pronounce your last name?” 
‘‘Yep, but I do admit I anglicised it. In Dutch it sounds like this.’’ With a little mental effort, I temporarily suppress the innate tendency to use English. An effort well-spent since it earns me the joy of the look of utter befuddlement anyone who is not acquainted with my native tongue gets once they hear it.
“Okay, now, see, I did not expect such a last name after hearing you talk.”
  I tilt my head, puzzled. “How’d you mean?”
“Your accent and last name don’t add up. Unless you’re married, but you’re not, are you?”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the mention of marriage. “Where’d you think I’m from?”
“Either Dublin and Belfast, but now I’m leaning more towards the latter.” A mischievous though well-meaning grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “You have a tendency to go down with your intonation and your speech almost has a slight underlying growl like they have in the north. Do you have family there?”
“None. I have no ties to Ireland aside from my travels.”
“Do you mean Ireland as one country or do you make the distinction between the north and south?”
It’s the Republic and the north, but I’ll let it slide.
“Are you asking my opinion on the border?” I ask, a wary tone in my voice.
“I think I already have my answer.” Like a pleased cat, he entwines his fingers only to individually crack them a moment later. “Anyways, let’s not talk about politics. It’s all the same, toffs unable to agree on what they think is a matter of the common people like you and me but is essentially a bureaucratic quarrel that’s nothing to do with the public whatsoever. Sharks eat fish smaller than themselves to survive. Big fucks small always.”
He clears his throat and leans forward. “Have you decided yet?”
“Well…” I start, overwhelmed with thoughts of the various outcomes and permanency of the matter. 
Before I can make an attempt at a proper answer, Alfie picks up on my indecisiveness. “If you want, you can try both. We’ll tape both sizes to your leg and you can tell me which size you prefer.”
“Sounds good,’’ I say, letting out a small sigh of relief. ‘‘First, though, let me put my shorts on. Where’s the restroom?”
He points to somewhere behind me. “Behind the door with the chrysanthemums.”
I stand up, grab the pants from my backpack, and slip into the restroom. It only takes a minute or two to change, but nevertheless I find myself unable to go back out into the studio right away.
I bought these especially for today. Shit, he saw that Story too, didn’t he? And what if other men walk in, be it clients or tattoo artists? What will their first thought be?
A gentle knock on the door violently jolts me back into reality. On the other side, a familiar baritone voice calls out, concern evident in the simple question. “Y/N, you alright?”
“Yeah,” I answer, opening the door a crack and slipping through it, “I’m fine.”
Alfie takes me in, gaze unwavering and expression unreadable. His body also shows no hints eluding to his train of thought. The peculiar investigation ends with a low hum.
What was that? Does- Can he read me like an open book? Is that what he just did?
Without knowing whether he did and hesitant to ask, I let the matter rest. 
We move over to the large mirror covering the wall nearby his station. The tattoo artist makes a brief detour to his station to put on a pair of black latex gloves before sauntering over to kneel down. For a second I wonder what it would be like to cup his cheek, how his beard would feel against my palm as I’d turn his face to make him look up at me.
Part of the fantasy comes true, because he lifts his head. “May I?”
More than a second passes before I register what he means. Then I notice his hands a few centimetres from my thigh, ready to place the first design, the one with the original size. Instead of an answer, too afraid of what might come out of my mouth, I swallow and nod.
With precision, he sticks the piece of paper to my skin, smoothing it out to display its full potential. Smiling proudly, showing his slightly crooked teeth, Alfie rises to his feet and puts his hands on his hips. “What do you think? We could also mirror the design, but that would make Anubis face your…” he vaguely gestures, struggling to find the words that are polite enough. Evidently, he can’t find them, settling for “you know.”
I model the design, twisting my leg this way and that, all the while trying to ignore Alfie standing with his arms crossed in the background. However, there is only so long I can close him out so eventually I search for and meet his eyes via the mirror, furiously trying to hide my nerves under only a half-feigned expression of exhilaration. “Let’s do it.”
“Are you sure? You don’t want to try the other size?”
I turn around, forcing myself to maintain his gaze. “I’m a fairly small person, so I think the size is just right.”
“No mirroring?”
“Nah, let’s keep it classy.”
The low chuckle rising from the depths of his throat ignites a pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. “If the lady says so. I’ll get everything ready, so sit back with a snack or, if you want, there’s plenty of time to go outside for a smoke.”
“I don’t smoke, so I’ll go with the former,” I say as I plop down on the worn leather couch.
“That’s likely the better option of the two. Nicotine and tobacco are vices, ones I’m only too guilty of indulging in. Although, I’ve recently switched to vaping. Less stank, less laundry, better for the environment and clients.”
“I don’t mind the smell of cigarettes too much, but I do admit I prefer the smoke of vaping above that of regular smoking. Sometimes it smells quite good, actually. Kinda sweet.”
“Depends on the cartridge. See, like whiskey, yeah, the flavour is dependent on the environment, the way it is brewed. I prefer rum myself, though.”
“I’ve never tried it.”
Alfie turns away from the printer busily cranking out the stencil. “You never had rum?”
I shake my head. “I generally don’t drink, but if I do, I tend to stick to my favourites. Licor quarenta y très, amaretto, limoncello, Guinness, whiskey.”
“Irish or Scottish?”
“Generally Irish.”
“Of bloody course,” he chuckles. “My family has a rum distillery, based near London, but we sell the stuff throughout the country in shops run by family members, of course. There’s one in Birmingham, so if you tell them I sent you, I’ll make sure there’s a bottle ready for you. Free of charge, of course, because it’s the least I can do to save you from that sin.”
“The sin of not knowing the taste of rum?”
“Exactly! When are you leaving England?”
“Tomorrow. And, unfortunately, I only have hand luggage, so there is no way I could take the bottle with me.”
“Hm, that’s too short notice…”
“We can make good on this later? I mean, this isn’t the last time I’ll be in England.” I cross and uncross my legs, feeling rather self-conscious. “Or we could meet at a convention? I don’t know whether you’ll be attending one in Holland any time soon, but-’’
“I’ll be attending the Amsterdam Tattoo Festival in September,” he interrupts me, fortunately saving me from having to finish a sentence I don’t know how to continue. “We could meet then, if you’d like? Or are you planning to go to the London Tattoo Show?”
“Unfortunately, I have to skip that one since I don’t think my bank account will allow it. Especially considering I’m planning to quit my job soon and do some travelling around Scotland and Northern Ireland for about a month, which won’t be cheap.” He mumbles something under his breath in response, the words bleeding into each other to form an incoherent mess. However, the disagreeing tone is a hint that he disapproves of something, whatever it might be. “But I’m planning to go to Amsterdam too, so, could we- we could-’’
Stop being such a coward. Just ask already, for God’s sake! 
“I’d like that,” Alfie cuts in as if he’s read my mind. Stencil in hand, he turns back to me, his features soft. “Gives me plenty of time to make good on my promise.”
We return to his station, a polite distance between us. Alfie sits down on the stool and grabs a disposable razor, which he puts down again with a hint of slight surprise after inspecting my leg. “Already shaven, eh?”
I run a hand through my hair while my stomach quivers. “Yeah. I thought it would be polite. Also, I can’t stand my legs being hairy. My arms neither.”
“I wish more people had that mentality. Then again, humans tend to be selfish creatures,’’ he grumbles while pulling on a new pair of gloves.
“Are there really that many clients who don’t shave?”
“More than you think, darling, but it makes me all the more appreciative of clients like you.”
The ‘darling’ means nothing. Stop being a fucking idiot and don’t get your hopes up. He literally just confirmed you’re just a customer, a source of income.
“Right, before we start, would you like to use numbing cream? We could also use nutmeg oil, if you’d like.”
“Nutmeg oil?”
“It’s completely vegan and helps relieve the pain,’’ Alfie explains. ‘‘It has quite a strong scent, though, so I hope you’re not faint of heart. Or, rather, have a sensitive nose.”
For a moment, I contemplate the options, weighing past experiences against each other. Thus far, line work has never been a problem and blackwork hasn’t been either. “D’you know what? Let’s go without.”
“Tough as nails,” he says with a hint of awe and appreciation. “You’re full of surprises, in’t ya?”
“Am I?”
“So far, yes. A young Dutch woman with a misleading Irish accent wants a gnarly scowling Anubis on her thigh whereas her other tattoos are colourful and less gnarly. One can only speculate regarding her story.” He grabs a big pot with the image of a geisha and red lettering on it, unscrews the lid, and scoops out a dollop of the stuff within to put on the side of his gloved hand. “This is Dragon’s Blood. It helps calm the skin and closes pores. It can be used as aftercare too.”
He screws the lid on again and puts the pot back in place. “May I?”
I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“May I touch your thigh and prep the skin?” he clarifies, his slightly crooked teeth showing.
“Oh, right, right! Yes, of course,” I answer, stumbling over the words and barely refraining from breaking out into a ramble.
Alfie picks up some of the balm with his fingers and leans in to work it into the skin. At first he tries to do it without support, but quickly finds himself struggling a bit. “Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?” he asks, looking up with sincere greyish blue eyes. “It’s easier to work it in if there’s a bit of resistance and support.”
Wow, he has really pretty eyes. But then again, even a rose has thorns.
“Y- Yeah, sure.”
“Are you agreeing because you want to or because you’re feeling intimidated?” 
The question catches me off-guard, its thoughtfulness rendering me speechless.
“Y/N,” Alfie sighs, “I have no ill intentions. I’m a man of honour, one who believes a woman should be treated with the utmost respect. So let me ask you again and I want you to look me in the eye, yeah, as you give me an honest answer. Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?”
“Yes,” I answer, steady. “Yes, it is.”
He grunts in acknowledgment before placing the palm of his other hand on my skin too. 
Though light in touch, the supporting grip nevertheless feels sturdy and the warmth seeping through the latex of his gloves secure. I can vaguely hear myself hum at the thought of holding his hand as we walk through Amsterdam in summer, the temperature still high enough to feel hot and clammy but with the unmistakable first signs of autumn setting in. Halfway through the month, it will become colder, especially at night if you keep the windows open. Then, to have a grip like that on your body, your skin warmed by the friction as the whiskers of a coarse yet soft beard worship it, and a baritone voice in your ear that occasionally falters with pleasure…
The sensation of cold liquid on my skin snaps me out of my reverie. I snap my head down to see where it comes from, only to discover I apparently zoned out and Alfie has cracked on to the stencil stuff.
“Try to relax your leg,” he gently coaxes while trying to apply the stencil.
I take a deep breath and do as he says, forcing my muscles to lose their tension. Although it doesn’t feel like I’m loosening up, I’m apparently doing something right enough to earn myself an oddly prideful whispered “attagirl”. Fortunately, Alfie is blissfully unaware of the fact I heard him and the storm of butterflies the compliment unleashes in my stomach. Nor does he seem to catch on to how badly the pressure of his hands, finally having found the right placement, makes my mind short circuit.
“Go take a look in the mirror,” he says after meticulously peeling the stencil off.
Even the mere outline of the Egyptian god of death looks menacing. Anubis bares his fangs as sharp as daggers, viciously snarling at the viewer. ‘‘Don’t come near me. Don’t even dare to speak to me lest you want me to feed your heart to Ammit’’ he seems to warn. 
It’s absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous.
‘‘Let’s do it!’’ A skip in my step, I walk back to the massage table, which Alfie has covered with an electric blanket. It has heated to a pleasant temperature, not too low yet not high enough to break out into a sweat. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to say it makes you feel all warm and toasty.
‘‘Well, if the lady truly is ready, then who am I to deny her ink any longer?’’ Alfie says, barely able to suppress his amusement. Nevertheless, it shows in the theatrical attitude in which he continues. ‘‘Before we begin, my lady, may this old chap indeed have the ‘onour of tattooing you?’’
‘‘Yes, indeed you may, mister Solomons.’’
‘‘Marvellous.’’
The bell by the door tinkles as a long-faced, clean shaven young man, in his early to mid-twenties, walks into the studio. His casual step gives away he’s one of the resident artists, lost in thought as he hangs his jacket next to mine on the coat rack. He throws the hood of his black hoodie back to reveal muzzled short brown hair the colour of milk chocolate and runs his hand through it, tousling the locks even further. 
“Why are you so early?” Alfie throws a look over his shoulder at the newcomer. 
The question seems to catch the other man off-guard, the pensive expression on his boyish face fading into surprise. “I have an appointment, half sleeve, Japanese style. It’s going to be a koi pond.”
“Right,” Alfie scoffs. “I hate koi fish. Can’t stand drawing them, right, because it’s always the same composition, the same old story.”
“Is that really your reason?” the other asks as he approaches and comes to a halt a step away from where I’m lying. A whiff of fresh cologne hits my nose, mixed with the indescribable smell of rain.
“Nah, mate. I don’t really have a ‘reason’. Simply hate the fuckers. I prefer things that have a bit more life to them, a higher intellect that prevents them from smacking their lips like eternal gluttons. Gluttony is a sin, you know.” Alfie perks up as if he’s remembered something and shifts his attention back to me. “Right, this here is Michael, a show-off.”
So that’s Michael Gray. Strange, I thought he’d be older and more… tough, rough-looking, instead of a lad I could easily cross paths with at the bookshop. In fact, wait, didn’t I see him at Waterstones yesterday?
“Just because you don’t do Japanese-’’ Michael starts, but Alfie cuts him off.
“And a bloody pacifist.”
“I saw your work on Instagram.” To delay or, rather, hopefully stop a fight from breaking out between the two, I speak up before the two can continue catfighting. “It’s really cool. I’ve started warming up to the Japanese style because of your designs.”
Cheeks flushed, he rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you. You know, if you ever have an idea, send it my way.”
Alfie rolls his eyes, which earns him a venomous glare from Michael. “This is how you hold a proper conversation instead of being a cunt.”
“You see, the problem, right, is that so many people have said I am a cunt I don’t fucking care. Because they were all hypocrites, yeah. So, Michael, who’s the real one here, eh?”
My gaze flits from one man to the other while I tense up, ready to jump off the table and run for the hills if the situation worsens. And it’s likely it will because each man seems more than ready to lash out at the other. 
Although I don’t think he’ll notice, I shake my head at Michael. Among the two, he is the most approachable and likely to listen at the minute, so I mentally cross my heart and pray he notices my silent plea to stop fighting. Although it’s Alfie who started it, I wager Michael is mature enough to walk away. At least for now. Afterwards, both men are free to tear each other to pieces.
Fortunately, he sees me. Lips pulled into a straight line, Michael skulks off to his own station, glowering.
Thank God.
I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heartbeat. That was a close call, too close.
“Bad blood?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘‘I don’t mean to pry.’’
“Ah, the boy’s just cross ‘cause Tommy and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. Chap adores him. A little too much, if you ask me, but someone’s got to be the good little soldier, right?” Alfie checks the set-up once more to ensure everything is in place. Now that the threat of imminent conflict has proven false, he, too, relaxes. The tenseness in his muscles fades, his body loosening up. His shoulders lower and he unclenches his jaw, releasing the strain on it.
The last remnant of sharp biting sarcasm has evaporated when he turns back to me, gloved hands in his lap. “Comfy?”
“Incredibly so. I could curl up and take a snooze.”
“That would make my job easier.” He picks up the wireless tattoo machine from the tray, eyes still trained on me, watching out for any withdrawal of consent. “May I?”
I nod, allowing him to touch and stretch the skin. “Okay, let’s first do a line, yeah, to see how it feels. Ready?”
“Yep.” Sheepishly, I give him a thumbs-up.
Alfie shakes his head, chuckles and murmurs something under his breath before he sets to work. 
Every time you get new ink you tend to think you can still remember the feeling of being tattooed and instantly adjust. However, the opposite is true, at least for me. At first, it’s an unpleasant nagging sensation like someone is dragging a sharp-edged though blunt object to and fro over your skin. This only lasts for a few seconds and then gradually fades to an oddly therapeutic feeling that is near impossible to describe. Yes, I’m being poked by multiple needles constantly yet it doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t say it’s enlightening, but it is calmingly enough to stop the on-going flow of various thoughts which consist of everything at the same time. Tattooing brings order in the chaos and is the best therapy out there. 
“How’s that?” Alfie asks.
“Good. Well, I mean, it’s like my cat has its claws in my thigh and by this time, I’m used to that.” I let out a sheepish giggle, only to mentally slap myself in the face for being awkward.
“What’s its name?”
“I have two, actually. One is called Saul and the other Solomon. Not really names you’d expect for a cat, but they’re big.” I try to indicate the size of them with my hands, my heart skipping a beat as he takes a second to pay attention. “Big lads.”
“Solomon was a prophet according to the Talmud, a man of great wisdom and power. Now, Saul was the first king of Israel. Great man, too, who knew that he who lives by the sword, dies by it. I suppose Anubis knew this too, weighing hearts and deciding who gets to go on a boat trip to the underworld or eaten alive. Well, as alive as a spirit can be.”
“Unfortunately, the boys haven’t a sliver of wisdom between them, unless it concerns the knowledge of being charming enough to earn themselves a treat. However, they’re bloody powerful if the need to cuddle strikes. They’ll literally attempt to take me hostage, regardless of what I’m doing at that very moment. But on a different note, it sounds like you know a lot about religion.”
“I tried theology in university, but that didn’t get me far. Doesn’t help I had a couple fights with some Italian kids, Catholics, who saw themselves above a Jew. The last one that saw me kicked out was perhaps my most brutal.” For a second he seems to continue the story, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Instead, a low grunt rises from his throat. “Yeah, definitely the most brutal, that one was.”
Though he tries to move past the topic, I’m not quite ready to let it go. Being a curious cat isn’t particularly a good thing to be when it comes to people because it can go both ways once they realise you’re after a piece of their story. Nevertheless, my curiosity is peaked and therefore I can't help myself. “I’m glad the fights in the classroom remained at heated debates. But, um, and I don’t mean to pry, but how did that fight go? The final one, I mean.”
If I don’t get an answer, it’s fine. I won’t push. Nevertheless, I eagerly hold out hope to get the story out of the enigmatic mister Solomons.
Alfie.
Don’t blush! Take a sip of water, cool down. My God, is even his name now getting me hot under the collar?
He pauses and sits up. A tentative smile builds on his lips as his brows furrow. 
“Only if you want to, of course.”
“Do you really wanna know? Ladies should be spared the violence of the world.” The lines in his face deepen, the expression changing to a frowning grimace.
“It can’t get any worse than Jack the Ripper.” He blinks a few times, letting my comment sink in. In the meanwhile, I bite my lip, desperate to find a way to redeem myself. “What? Am I weird for being intrigued by the case? I am, aren’t I? You know what, don’t mind me. Guess I’m being rather silly.”
“No, you’re not. I’m simply surprised the little lady harbours a fascination with the obscene,” he answers, his tone devoid of any form of judgement.
“Don’t get a lot of those clients?”
“None who admit it outright.”
“Well, here I am.”
“So you are.” His eyes are fully focused as he gazes at me, which does about as little to lower my racing pulse as the comment that follows. “I wonder what else goes on in that head of yours.”
“It’s chaos, to be honest. I don’t think you actually wanna know. Anyways, the fight.”
“Right,” he murmurs, his eyes still trained on me and trying to imagine what goes on in my head. Needles cleaned and dipped in ink again, he returns to work and tells the story. “I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed his face up against a trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking-’’ the snarl on his lips vanishes as he throws me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear in the company of a lady.”
“I don’t mind. You’re literally saying this to someone who has the mouth of a sailor.”
The remark is a small comfort to him. Alfie visibly relaxes, his posture loses most of its tension and his jaw slackens. “Right, I shoved a six-inch nail up his nose and I hammered it ‘ome with a duckboard.” The corners of his mouth curl into a sly grin. “It was fucking biblical.”
“Fucking hell, yeah, okay, now I’m really glad I only have had to deal with debates. Jesus.” I shake my head, caught between believing the story and finding it too far-fetched. “Why, though?”
“He had it coming. Little fucker was harassing girls of the nearby Jewish community. They mightn’t been part of mine, but it’s never right to mistreat a woman. So, one day, I caught him doing it again and made sure he’d be a wiser man for it.”
“Did you get caught?”
“I got arrested for ‘grievous bodily harm’, but didn’t go to jail considering I was still a young chap. And, to be honest, from a well-connected family.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Dang.”
“I’m not as violent as I used to be. It’s all behind me now,” he blurts out, pausing again while the words rush to fill a non-existent gap between us. “No more fights, gangs, or firms. Starting tattooing was me turning a new leaf.”
I don’t know what to say, unable to think of anything appropriate while also trying to figure out his intentions. So I merely stare at him, blankly. 
His eyes flit from me to the ink pots and back to me, likely feeling equally as awkward. 
Neither of us initiates further conversation, me partially because I’m starting to doze off. That is, until Alfie stops and throws me a look. “I’m almost done with the linework. You’re still okay?”
“Yeah, no pain at all,” I say, a slight taper in my voice and half asleep. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good,” he replies, a little unsteady as well. “Let’s finish it and ‘ave a little break, yeah?”
“Sounds good to me.”
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“It’s good to have something to occupy yourself with outside work.” Alfie saunters over to where I’m sitting on the worn leather couch and puts a plate on the coffee table. On it, golden brown raisin buns are stacked in a charming little heap. “Want one?”
“Wait, you made these?” I put my phone away, conscious to neither cross my legs or rest my arms on my thighs as I lean in. My friends will have to wait a little longer on a tattoo update.
“I did,’’ he says, sitting down where he sat earlier today. ‘‘Learned the baking trade from me mum who learned it from her mother, my babushka.”
“You have Russian heritage?”
“I do. My mother fled to England during the Holocaust. My old man was running a distillery and was willing to take her in. In a sense, they saved each other. She got him off the drink… for a time, and kept the books. He taught her English and gave her a ‘ome.” He leans back in his chair, fingers entwined. “Yeah, funny that, how such horror can bring souls together.’’
“Did they survive the war? Like, no interference from the Nazis or fascists?” I stiffen when it hits me how intrusive the question is. Badly concealing my panic, I hastily add. ‘‘You don’t- You’ve already told me so much, so, uhm, you- you don’t have to tell me anything else.’’
“They did,” he nods sagely, ignoring my anxious outburst. “Though I’m glad they don’t have to deal with current affairs.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t be. They’ve been dead for a while, died in their sleep, two months between them. Regardless of the war and England’s policy towards anyone that isn’t one of them, they’ve lived a good life. It was simply their time to go.” He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “What about you?”
“How’d you mean?”
“How’s your family?”
“Not particularly close. I try to avoid father’s side of the family at all costs because they’re these posh- toffs, I think you call them in English. Though, that’s more my father’s sister. His brother is an alcoholic and divorcee with a midlife crisis that’s bigger than my father’s. On mother’s side of the family, I’m only close with my aunt and grandpa. With my mum I try to connect at times, but it’s more like friendly co-existence.”
“Any siblings?”
“A younger sister. Not particularly close with her either.” I shake my head and take a sip of water. “But I don’t mind. I’ve learned how to be a lone wolf and accepted being one. Working, studying, and travelling help with that too. They’re likely the only things preventing me from going insane.”
“Insanity is a gift only given to few. The greatest minds were lonely even in company, the greatest visionaries those that had seen the world by themselves.” Our eyes lock, the strange but tender sentiment in his adding to the sweet comfort of his conclusion. “I think we’re both mad.”
Alfie nods to the plate with buns. “The raisins have been soaked in rum, family recipe. Try one.”
“Are they poisoned, Solomons?” Michael remarks across the room. Judging by the venom in his tone, he hasn’t moved past the conflict earlier.
They’re really gonna cut each other once I’ve left, aren’t they?
“Unlike you, kid, I actually provide service. People have bonded over food for centuries and God gave me the brilliant idea, yeah, to make these buns to share.”
“You never share food. Not with me, at least.”
“That’s because I don’t want a bond of any sort with you, mate.“ He picks up the plate and holds it out to me. “But I’ll always be glad to share with a peer.’’
“Thank you,” I say, though I can’t prevent myself from saying his name, “Alfie.”
Smiling brightly, he leans back in his chair. “My pleasure. But what is it that kills the time for you?”
“Believe it or not, but I sew,” I say while nibbling on the sweet bun.
“An affinity with needles, eh?”
Unable to suppress it, I give into the uncharacteristic urge to giggle. “You could put it like that, yeah.”
“It’s rather broad, though, ‘sewing’, innit? What am I to envision?”
“I make plushies, really bloody adorable ones.” I grab my phone and look up a picture of my latest project: a whale shark made with white, very fuzzy teddy and Delft Blue-printed cotton. “Don’t tell me that isn’t cute.”
I turn the screen to Alfie. The eager confidence doesn’t last because the tingle travelling through my chest, which seems to be weighed down by a heavy stone, ends in a chill down my spine. With bated breath, I nevertheless wait for a sign of his approval.
What the fuck am I doing? He’s a grown man. What would he care for a stuffed animal?
An ache starts at the back of my throat at the thought that follows.
I did post that picture on an Insta Story. Did he see it, though? What if he did? No, he did, didn’t he? I’m repeating myself. Why am I repeating myself? He’s had enough of a look.
However, as I make to put my phone away again, Alfie speaks up. “It’s well-made, especially for an early attempt at the craft. You can see it’s made with passion.”
Fuck, he definitely saw my sewing shenanigans on Insta.
“You already saw that picture, didn’t you?” I respond, mildly sarcastic regardless of his kindness.
“Well, we already established we follow each other and I like to get to know my clients as best as possible. So, yeah… yeah, I did.”
Gaze averted to the floor, I shut the screen off and continue to stare at my shoes, feeling like a stupid lovesick teenager.
  “But it’s indeed adorable. You’ve got a knack for the trade.” His features soften when I raise my head, though there’s a hint of mischief in the raised eyebrow. “You’re no seamstress, though. Or are you?”
“If you want, I could mend your clothes,” I blurt out, the words spilling forth before I can give them a second thought. “Oh Lord, I- I didn’t mean- I’m so sorry, I should’ve-’’
 Alfie’s hearty laugh cuts through my poor attempt to try and justify my idiotic bravery. “Fucking ‘ell. I had a feeling you’re not the type to beat around the bush, but that was more forward than I thought you’d be.”
“Please ignore what I said.” I stuff the last of the bun into my mouth, lest it should blabber any more nonsense, and wave a dismissive hand.
Only to nearly choke at his response.
“Why? I like it, this honesty. Now, see, Tommy, yeah, he likes to beat around the bush and it’s absolutely doing my nut in. I’ve told him before I’ll shoot him if he doesn’t hurry up and quit his little games. Man really needs to learn how to directly make his point, saves both parties involved a lot of trouble. But not you.” His tone turns pensive, the words clear yet strange. “Curious, that. How a little dove flies over the wolves.”
I remain quiet, because no reaction I come up with seems adequate to respond to his reverie. So we let an oddly comfortable silence settle in, lined with the addicting sweetness of rum raisins.
“These are really bloody good,” I say after a while, pointing at the plate on the coffee table. ‘‘We have buns like this back home too. We call them ‘krentenbollen’, which would roughly translate to ‘currant buns’.’’
‘‘Say that again.’’
‘‘What, ‘krentebollen’?’’ Evidently I hit the nail on its head, judging by Alfie struggling to imitate my pronunciation, silently mouthing the syllables. “Kren.”
“Kren.”
“No, no, ‘ren’. A pronounced, not rolled ‘r’ and short and sharp ‘e’. Like in ‘cigarette’, the final ‘e’ sound. Kren.”
“Kren,” he echoes.
“Ten. ‘En’ is pronounced with a schwa.”
“Ten.”
“Bol. With a clear ‘l’.”
“Bol.”
“Len. Again, a clear ‘l’ and a schwa.”
“Len.’’ Having been given an example of how to pronounce each syllable, Alfie tries out the word again, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘‘Kren. Ten. Bol. Len.”
A warm fuzzy feeling spreads throughout my body while watching him sincerely make an effort to mimic the Dutch sounds despite the struggle it proves to be. However, I do have to give him credit for his attempt because, despite his slightly wonky pronunciation, it’s better than some others I’ve heard. 
‘‘Kren- Krentenbollen.’’
“‘Ey, there ya go!” I clap my hands, smiling in satisfaction. ‘‘That was really good!’’
“Dutch is a funny language. Very strange and harsh.”
“Apparently, it’s the scientifically proven hardest language to learn. I’ll be honest, even the Dutch sometimes don’t know how to speak it. The grammar is whack too, sometimes. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe you can teach me some more next time we meet.” His eyes go from the buns to me, beaming. “I’ll bring you some more krentenbollen.”
‘‘Nah, these are better. In fact, I think I prefer these. Much more exclusive, an English delicacy.’’
Can I get any more lame? What kind of comment was that?
“Help yourself, but be quick about it because we need to get back to work. You’ve been sitting like a rock and I don’t want your adrenaline to run out just yet.”
“I’ll leave it for later then.”
He rises from his seat, throwing an imposing shadow over me as his shoulders block the light. “Before we resume, do you want anything? You still got enough water?”
“I’m good to go, though I wouldn’t say no to another glass.”
“One round of Solomons Lemon Water, coming right up.”
As before, Alfie puts care into the simple act of cutting a lemon and adding a slice of it to plain water. And with the grace of a gentleman, he holds it out to me. “A glass of water for the little lady. It’s on the house.”
Whilst the comment is in jest, a funny thought sets my cheeks ablaze. “Th- Thanks.”
What the fuck was that stutter? By Jaysus, pull yourself together! He’s only joking, playing around. It means nothing. Nothing! Besides, he likely has a wife, good-looking and charming as he is.
Glass in hand, I follow Alfie back to the table and clamber back onto the cosy electric blanket while he completes the last preparations to continue the session.
“Comfy?” he asks once I’ve settled in.
“Extremely.”
“Good.” He restarts his tablet, the screen lighting up with Anubis’s snarling face. A new pair of gloves on, he grabs the black pot with red lettering and scoops up a blob of Dragon’s Blood with his pinky before he sets it back in place. 
“May I?” Alfie asks, hands a few centimetres from my skin.
I nod, giving him the permission to resume working. 
Except, he doesn’t.
He pushes his stool back slightly and purses his lips. “Y/N, I need you to relax, yeah. Tense muscles aren’t particularly tattoo friendly. If I start working now, it’s like tattooing a stone and needles, right, don’t do well with hard surfaces.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply in hopes of unravelling the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. What’s on your mind? Something funny?”
“Ah, it’s fine. No worries.”
Don’t mind me. I’m being silly, interpreting things the wrong way. Besides, I’m likely half your age. Unsuitable, undesirable for a man like you.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” My breath tapers, which I hope he doesn’t pick up on. Then again, Alfie has proven to be a very perceptive man thus far. Nonetheless, a girl can hope. ‘‘I’m okay.’’
Please believe that. At least this once.
He lets out a low displeased grunt, blueish grey eyes dark with lingering worry. “If you say so.” He averts his gaze to the unfinished snarling Anubis, the sternness in his voice blurring into resignation. “Can I?”
I hum in response, giving him the sign he still has my consent.
And to keep up appearances a little longer.
Because when you’re crushing hard on someone you can’t have, it’s okay not to be okay.
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It’s not unusual for other tattoo artists to pop by their colleagues to see what they’re working on. Normally I wouldn’t mind it, proud to be a canvas for someone else’s art. Nonetheless, this time, I wish it was someone else other than the resident Japanese style artist sauntering over. Anyone would do. 
Tommy, who came in around two to do a touch-up.
Finn, who’s the youngest in the team and does geometric designs. 
Even Arthur, who Alfie immediately sent away when he felt me tense, genuinely afraid of Cerberus personified, would be better.
Unfortunately, it’s Michael, which means the two might break out into a fight soon. It’s only a matter of time.
“Wow, that looks gnarly.” Maintaining a polite distance, Michael leans in to inspect the fearsome god of the afterlife.
“Oi, don’t you have your own client to look after?” Alfie asks, the first ripples of irritation already noticeable in his voice.
“She’s too busy taking pictures and whatever else she’s doing on her phone.” Michael points over his shoulder at his client and shrugs. I turn my head, doubting how bad the girl’s company can be. She is indeed absorbed in her phone, posing like most girls on Instagram and making all the familiar facial expressions. To keep things polite, let’s say that a tattoo isn’t what she came here for.
I scoff. ‘‘I see she’s one of those.’’
‘‘That’s one way to put it,’’ Michael sighs, but his expression brightens as he changes the topic. “What made you get Anubis?”
“Give the lady some space, treacle. You’re not yet drooling over her like some lovesick puppy. We’re trying to create a bloody masterpiece here, right, and art, yeah, art needs effort, focus, and attention.” A grimace treks over Alfie’s face, foreboding like a black cloud forms the prelude to a storm. “None of which I can muster with you around, mate. So off you go.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Go on, fuck off.”
“The fuck’s your problem, Alfie?” Michael raises his voice.
Oh Lord, here we go.
“My problem?” Fortunately, Alfie turns the machine off and puts it to the side because getting tattooed amidst a fight is the last thing you’d want. Unless you’re a lunatic. “My problem right now, mate, is that I have a massive disturbance in my work environment which prevents me from providing Y/N with splendid service and proper care.”
“‘Proper care?’” the other man echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Now that’s an awfully ambiguous statement, even for you. Proper care… Is that why you didn’t go on your usual vape break?”
“Don’t twist my words, kid. It should be an honour for a tattoo artist that someone is willing to wear their art on their skin. Y/N is doing me that honour so of course I wanna treat her right.”
“Alfie Solomons, the King of Camden,’’ Michael sneers. ‘‘The Jewish gentleman from Margate.” 
“It’s never a bad idea to be a gentleman, kid. Hasn’t your mother taught you how to treat women properly? Then again,” a mean gleam lights up stormy grey eyes, “she did abandon you, didn’t she?”
Michael is positively fuming by now, looking red in the face and fists shaking with an eagerness to throw the first punch.
“Lads! That’s enough!” I bark, propping myself up on my elbows. “Alfie, that’s a fucking low blow and you know it.”
“How do you know it is?”
Is he fucking serious?
“Look at him!” Lips pulled back into a snarl not unlike Anubis’s, I point at Michael. “Obviously that fucking hurt.”
“So the little dove flew down, still not afraid. Although, her wings waver ever so slightly, don’t they?”
I gaze blankly at Alfie, puzzled by the comment, but quickly return to raging. “Shouldn’t you apologise or something? Or is that something men don’t do to each other?”
“Y/N,” I hear Michael mumble next to me, a tone of surprise in his voice.
“Fucking apologise or I’m out, tattoo finished or not.” I look him up and down, barely able to suppress the urge to spit in his face. “I thought I booked a professional, not some… some fucking bastard.”
“I’m a bastard?” he scoffs.
“People who attack others by using their personal lives? Yeah, that’s one of the definitions of ‘bastard’ for me.”
Both men are quiet, startled by my interference. They exchange glances, neither of them helping the other with their confusion. However, Alfie tries to solve his by making an effort to make amends. For the time being, that is.
“Right,” he begins, struggling to sound genuine. “My sincerest apologies, kid.”
“A little more honest,” I grumble.
“I shouldn’t have brought up your mother, kid. Clearly it’s still an open wound and you don’t need salt in it.”
Wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but whatever, it’s Alfie Solomons.
I shift my attention to Michael. “Please accept his apology, at least for now. I don’t want any more fights during my therapy session. You can rip each other to shreds after I’m gone, okay?”
A careful smile tugs on the corners of Michael’s lips. “Then I will, if only to not completely ruin your ink therapy. Seriously, though, Alfie’s not the only one who should apologise. So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for my behaviour. A client should never be put in the crossfire of a dispute which doesn’t concern them. Can you accept mine?”
“Afraid of me ripping you to shreds?”
“Uhm, maybe?’’ He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks rosy. ‘‘You do get kinda fearsome when you get angry.”
“The thick Irish accent doesn’t help, either,” Alfie chimes in. “If someone’s accent deepens, especially if it’s Irish, you better run.”
“How can you possibly be afraid of me? I’m a head shorter than you. I think you can easily have me.” I search Alfie’s expression for signs he’s lying yet end up empty-handed. The second thereafter, however, a surge of heat spreads through my body as the possible implications of my comment run through my mind. Unconsciously, I rub my wrists while trying to get comfortable again on the rather hot blanket. Or does it merely feel like that because I’m a mess? “Take me on, I mean. Have me is… ehm… It’d be easy to overpower, no, ehm, win? Win against me!”
“I’ll leave you two alone.” Michael says, hardly containing his amusement. Then he turns around and returns to his station. Along the way, he stops to explain the situation to the girl, who miraculously has managed to put her phone away for a second and show worry like a normal human being.  
“I really need to learn to shut the fuck up,” I groan as I lie down again, a bit calmer. “Please forget everything I said.”
“Including your tantrum?” Alfie asks, a lopsided smirk on his lips.
“Just remember the apology part. Maybe the bastard one too.”
“If the lady so wishes.” His hands hover over my thigh, the machine still turned off in his left. “Can I?”
I nod, unwavering in my willingness to give him my consent. Perhaps others would have left, but I choose to remain because of the shallow reason he’s at least good to me.
Even if he’s not for me.
Funny thing, innit, Love?
A silence broken up by the whirring of needles settles in. The only other noise in the studio comes from the Bluetooth speaker, continuously playing jazz tunes. It’s the first time to hear the music genre in a tattoo studio since everywhere I’ve been before they seem to prefer hard rock and soft metal. I wonder whether it has contributed to their reputation as ‘the gentlemen of the Birmingham tattoo industry’ or it is simply because the oldest of the Shelbys are at work today. 
“Y/N?” Alfie wipes off the excess ink and dips his needle in one of the little pots besides him.
“Hm?” I turn my head to face him.
“I’m sorry.” Though lacklustre compared to the apology to Michael, the words are sombre with pure remorse and don’t need reiterating.
“No more fighting, alright?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Hey, by the way, what did he mean with you skipping your Vape-’’
“Tell me more about your cats,” Alfie suddenly demands, tone harsh and his gaze not straying from his project. 
“Wha-’’
“Your cats,’’ he repeats, losing his temper. ‘‘Tell me about them.”
What’s gotten into him? Did I do something?
“Uhm, well,” I haphazardly begin, unsure what to tell him. “They are absolute cuddle bugs. They’ll literally go to any length to make me stop whatever I’m doing and give them attention.”
Don’t panic. Don’t cry. Be brave, just like before. He won’t hurt me… I hope.
Alfie closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, forcing himself to calm down. “Men are jealous creatures, especially when a woman is involved.’’
“Was that also the case with the Italian?”
 “No, that was a matter of common decency.”
“The situation just now?”
He lets out a sonorous noncommittal sound, holding the middle between a disagreeing grunt and acknowledging hum. There is no way to know for sure nor is there a chance to ask because he changes the topic, clearly wanting to let the matter rest. “You’re still doing fine?”
“Is there a chance I can get another glass of Solomons Lemon Water?” I ask carefully, the hairs on the back of my neck still raised.
Alfie looks up, eyes warm and a soft smile forming beneath his bushy whiskers. “Always, darling.”
Amidst a storm of butterflies is a prematurely broken heart.
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The remainder of the session remains calm, the conversations between us few. In fact, the only time he speaks up is to comment on how astounding it is I’m like a rock whereas people getting tattooed in the same spot might be having a hell of a tougher time. I merely shrug in response and blame it on my high pain tolerance.
Strange, how much more one can bear physically than mentally. 
Although the fight earlier hasn’t affected the amiability between us, we both unanimously agree to settle for the comfortable silence we seem to create together. Occasionally, he sonorously hums along to a song when not glancing up to look for any signs of discomfort. Each time, I give him a drowsy lazy smile, still as tranquil as the minute before.
“Alright,” Alfie turns off the machine and claps his hands. “You’ve got Anubis looking over you from now on.”
I let out an involuntary yawn, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth to hide. “I’m so sorry. I was literally on the verge of taking a nap.”
“That’s better than fainting,” he chuckles. 
“Does that happen a lot?”
“More than you think, darling.” A piece of paper towel in one hand and a blob of foam in the other, Alfie patiently waits for me to give him the green light.
Which I, again for the same vain reason, do. However, this time it’s bittersweet because it means it’s almost time to go, to let the long moment of pure relaxation and fun come to an end.
To say goodbye to yet another man I find myself fascinated by despite better judgement.
His touch is light as he applies the foam on the tattooed skin, his movement slow as he wipes it off with the paper towel.
“Now that’s gnarly, innit?” Alfie beams while disposing of the used towel and his gloves.
“It is,” I agree, bending my leg to get a proper look at the piece. “And I fucking love it.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gets up, walks around the table to my right side and holds out his hand. “Can we take a picture for Instagram? If the lady wants to, of course.”
“Of course, Mr Solomons.” He grows still, unmoving like a statue, while an indecipherable expression flashes over his face. I swallow hard, but my mouth remains dry. “Did- Did I say something wrong?”
He clears his throat. “No, not at all. Forgive this old soul. You get tired faster with age.”
“You still look fairly young to me.” I place my hand in his big open palm, the skin rough and calloused. His warm thick fingers easily envelop mine.
Stop dreaming.
“Just wait until you’re in your forties.”
“Hey, I’m twenty-three and already complaining about my back. My colleague and I wager we’ll be needing a walker by the time we’re thirty.”
Alfie lets out a hearty laugh. “Fucking ‘ell, lets hope not.”
We come to a halt in front of a brick wall, surrounded by tall lights. “Now, you stand there, in front of it, and I’ll make sure we get pictures nice enough to put in a frame.”
I lean against the cold bricks as he takes care of the set-up, shooing Finn and Michael out of the way and throwing a warning glance at Arthur even though he’s sitting with his back to us, immersed in designing. The only one allowed to come close is Tommy, whose beautiful icy blue eyes meet mine.
Awkwardly, I shift my weight from one leg to the other only to right myself and clasp my hands behind my back. It does nothing to help escape his scrutinising gaze. If anything, it has only worsened how self-conscious I feel.
What kind of stance is this? Fuck, I’m wearing shorts.
“That’s a nice piece of art, Alfie.” I try my best to resist the urge to flinch as the studio’s owner approaches to admire the piece up close, crouching down a polite distance away from me.
“Yeah, it is, innit?” Alfie agrees, switching on the lights. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’re in the shot, mate.”
Without another word, Tommy gets to his feet and throws me one last pondering look before setting off to his station. 
In the meanwhile, Alfie has lumbered over and crouched down in front of the lights, phone in hand. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
He takes a few shots, gives out a few instructions, and beckons me over to check them afterwards. Slowly he flicks through the images, his thumb slowly swiping over the screen. Had it been any other person, I would have paid attention and helped with deciding which picture looks the best regardless of minor differences. However, the musky scent of oud wood mixed with dark vanilla and the proximity of his large warm body, makes it hard to concentrate on anything but the man next to me.
“… one?”
“Hm? Sorry, what?” As if woken up out of a dream, I blink and look quizzically at the man next to me.
“I asked which photo you think is best,” Alfie calmly explains.
“Oh, uhm, well, the first one? I think that one was already good. Fine. You know what I mean.”
He’s in his forties, maybe twice your age. There’s no chance whatsoever. Don’t be such a bumbling idiot and pull yourself together.
“I’ll send them all to you later so you can look through them again.’’
“You really don’t have to-’’ I begin to protest, but find myself cut off by his determination.
“It’s no trouble. We created a bloody masterpiece, didn’t we?” Alfie’s face lights up. “So I’ll let you do the honours of picking the best representation of what we’ve accomplished.”
“Th- Thank you.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, a few seconds in which he takes me in for a reason I can’t fathom. Nor do I get a chance to think about what it might be since he quickly moves back to the topic of business. “Let’s wrap up your leg, eh?”
We return to his station, where he cuts off two pieces of Second Skin. He carefully layers them onto the tattoo after being granted his silent request for permission to touch me. An image of him grabbing my thigh and placing it over his hip while we’re in the sheets flashes by when he applies pressure to ensure the derma foil properly sticks to the skin.
Get your mind out of the gutter! Gods damn it, what the hell’s wrong with ye?
“Y/N, you alright? You’re looking rather red in the face, darling.”
“Yeah!’’ I blurt out, sounding annoying and loud to my own ears. ‘‘Yeah, I’m fine. Let me, ahm, let me just put my pants back on and we’ll- I’ll- yeah… be right back.”
I hasten to the sofa, grab my jeans out of my backpack and rush into the restroom. Carefully, I wriggle out of my shorts and into the loose-fitting jeans, only to recall his comment about the fit.
Was he imagining me wearing one of his jeans? Nah, he’s a professional, he wouldn’t do that.
My vivid imagination, on the other hand, thinks it’s perfectly fine to conjure up yet another intimate image of Alfie’s defined inked arms firmly wrapped around me, a slow but proud smile on his lips, nose buried in the crook of my neck, and me indeed wearing his jeans.
Snap. Out. Of it!
The mirage fades like sand blown away by the wind. I take a few deep breaths to ground myself and step back into the studio.
Alfie’s sitting in the chair opposite the sofa. As soon as I step out of the restroom, he turns in his seat, eyes futilely searching for mine. It surely isn’t the first time it’s happened he’s had a client fawning over him, considering his looks. Nonetheless, I refuse to acknowledge nor allow myself to show him how he affects me. So, still avoiding his gaze, I plop down across from him on the sofa, tuck the shorts back into my bag and fish out my wallet. 
Fully focused on the notes in it, I lean in. “So, how much do I owe you?”
As a response, thick fingers firmly wrap around my wrist. I flinch at the contact, caught between surprise and alarm since he hasn’t touched me today without asking. Certainly not as forcefully as now.
A fact he acknowledges when he explains himself, retracting his hand. “I know I haven’t asked permission, but I wanted you to look at me and ask if you’re alright. You were in there for a bit.”
“I’m okay, Alfie.”
“Something tells me you’re not, darling.” He tilts his head, brows furrowed whilst he strokes his beard. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate. This topic, at least.”
Especially since I’ve only known you for a day.
“You don’t have to if you don’t fancy it.” The deep sigh he lets out through his nose, however, betrays his disappointment.
“I’d rather not tell. But don’t worry, I’m fine. Not sick or anything. My mind’s just… I guess you could say I was gone with the fairies for a bit.”
“Fortunately, they didn’t whisk you away entirely. I don’t fancy myself a man capable of going to the Otherworld.” Although he tries to be humorous, his smile is wistful. “Doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t try.”
“It’s difficult to come back, once you’ve set foot in Tír na nÓg. Anyways, let’s crack on. What do I owe you again?”
‘‘You don’t have to pay me.’’
‘‘You’re pulling my leg.’’ His expression doesn’t change, remaining warm yet stoic. ‘‘You’re serious?’’
‘‘I am. See it as compensation for having to deal with a hot-headed bastard.’’
‘‘Thank you, but this isn’t right. Like it or not, but I’ll still pay you.’’
“Despite the fight?”
“Despite the fight. So, how much?”
He names his price and I count out the notes. ‘‘Wait, that’s not…’’
‘‘Let me give you a discount if you don’t accept a full restitution.’’
‘‘Alright, fine,’’ I sigh, knowing protest will be futile, and continue to count. “Oh, and here’s another twenty. For the splendid service and, well,” I let out a shy giggle, “proper care.”
He hums and leans forward to collect the money. “In that case, thank you very much, my fair lady.”
My fair lady… my… his.
Though my mind is a million miles away, the rest of my body stiffens in reaction to the pet name. He notices, a note of concern in his question. “Was that too much?”
I wave a frantic dismissive hand. “No! No, not at all. Don’t mind me.”
It’ll pass, this feeling. Butterflies never live long. 
Rubbing his lower lip, he mumbles something under his breath. The only words I can make out are “flustered” and “cute”, which doesn’t help with my mood whatsoever.
Neither does the mischief underlining his normally polite suggestion. “Want another round of Solomons Lemon Water before you go?”
“I’m good. Yeah, I’m- I- I should go.” 
I get up and prepare to leave. Alfie rises to his feet too, falling into pace as we move towards the door. On the way, I grab my jacket off of the coat rack, putting my arm through one sleeve, but clumsily grabbing into nothing in an effort to put my other arm through the other sleeve.
A struggle quickly ended by two sturdy palms which help me ease into it. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” I turn away towards the door, ready to go before I make an even greater fool of myself. Then again, my feet won’t move, refusing to budge the slightest inch. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?”
“A Jewish gentleman from Margate,” he merrily quips. But the amusement doesn’t last, fading into an indecipherable expression which seems equally as hesitant to end things here alongside something hidden. “Normally, yeah, I meet up with clients for pictures once the tattoo is healed. So let’s make it a date. Appointment,” he quickly corrects himself as a grimace flashes over his face. “An appointment, yeah, right, make an appointment when your leg has healed.”
“I think it will have to be by the time you come to Amsterdam.”
His brow furrows and he purses his lips, displeased. “I don’t think the convention will provide good pictures. The lighting isn’t that great and there’s all these people walking around.’’ The deep lines in his forehead smoothen out, a devilish smile gradually forming. ‘‘But I’ve booked an extended stay so, considering I’m not familiar with the city, we could meet up and you show me around? Unless you think you won’t be able to handle two days with a bastard like me.”
Don’t squeal. Stay calm. Don’t mess up at the last second. Calm and collected.
And unusually bold, apparently. Without wavering, I make a suggestion of my own. “Will you show me around Margate if and when I’m in England again?”
He chuckles. “Fucking ‘ell, negotiating, are we? I thought Tommy was the only one fond of that.” He scrunches his nose as someone else comes to mind. “And that numpty.”
“Hey, be nice. Michael’s a good guy.”
Alfie grumbles something under his breath, not shy to let on he’s annoyed by me siding with his colleague. Then, like he did before, he forces himself to repress the dangerous mixture of irritation and anger bubbling inside. “Tell you what, yeah, you show up in Amsterdam with your leg properly taken care of and I’ll show you around Margate. I’ll even pick you up from the airport.”
“It seems we have a deal,” I extend my hand, “Mr Solomons.”
Instead of a handshake, his warm big palm envelops my fingers and he lifts them to his lips. His beard feels ticklish against my skin, the whiskers rough yet oddly soft at the same time. “So we do, Miss L/N.”
Alfie holds the door open, plush lips curled into a knowing smile, and I step out onto the street.
A king’s promise in my pocket.
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vancafreader · 3 years ago
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Fine Art Comics of Canada: Sixties to Seventies - Heart of London, Snore & More by Robert Dayton
Part One: The Heart Of London
There was a time where artists were making vast ripples away from Toronto and other outsized hubs. London, Ontario was such a place, all eyes were on it in the late 60’s and not Toronto. The Heart Of London comic book from 1968 was actually an exhibition catalog, an overview of the art that was happening there at the time. Organised by The National Gallery of Canada, this exhibition traveled from London to Toronto, Kingston, Edmonton, Victoria, Charlottetown and, of course, The National Gallery H.Q. itself in Ottawa.
This catalog/comic book consisted of fumetti, comics done using photos for the images. Fumetti was most prominently used in the 60’s by Harvey Kurtzman in Help and Playboy, prolifically in numerous Mexican comic book melodramas, and in Italian comics featuring the masked master criminal Satanik. Heart Of London’s particular fumetti is further stylized by heavily contrasted processing causing colours so bright that they make everything heightened artifice, buzzing as if emanating from a higher plane of being.
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Cover of the Heart Of London catalogue
The Heart of London logo in Pepto-Bismol pink is rendered somewhere between Archie and underground comix titles. Above it, The Comics Code of Authority symbol -a comic book mainstay of the day implying that the work is of safe moral quality- has been altered to “National Gallery of Canada”, the institution that made this comic book and exhibition happen. The cover features what appears to be London public workers, perhaps? These men in yellow hard hats casually stand in front of a store with a Coca-Cola logo also coloured Pepto-Bismol pink, Pop Art style, at the city’s main intersection in what very well may be the heart of London.
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The comic opens with a quote placed above a looming Brutalist parking lot, huddling various small businesses below it. This quote contains the phrase “heart of London” but it is rather self-deprecatingly not about London, Ontario but London, England in World War One. Sharing a name with London, England has often made this Ontario city the butt of many a joke, ie. “I live in London… (long pause) Ontario” with its population being just over 200,000 in 1968. Named in 1793 by Lord Simcoe, Upper Canada’s first Lieutenant-Governor known for starting the abolition of slavery, he was also fervently British, his vision for Canada was for it to be like England which he looooved, desperately (but stiffly) wanting this particular London to become Ontario’s capital. Alas, Toronto was chosen instead. Related, always related to everything: the term “cosmic consciousness”, the higher state of consciousness, was coined in London in 1872 by Richard Bucke, a psychiatrist and head of The Asylum For The Insane, after he received a blinding vision, illuminating him. Besides being active in asylum reform, Bucke was heavily involved in the arts -the vision occurred after an evening spent reading Romantic poetry as well as poems by Walt Whitman, who he later befriended. Yes, London, Ontario is an eccentric place.
The artists involved in the Heart Of London show were part of what was known as ��London Regionalism”, a loose-knit movement of artists who were adamant about residing in London, away from Toronto or New York. Artist Greg Curnoe helped establish some of the very first artist-run centres there. He was an early member and huge proponent of CARFAC, a Canadian organisation that fights for artists to get paid and paid fairly for their work. CARFAC was founded in London by Heart Of London artists Jack Chambers and Tony Urquhart -along with Kim Ondaatje.
Besides Curnoe, Chambers, and Urquhart, the eleven artists in Heart Of London included John Boyle, Bev Kelly, Murray Favro, Ron Martin, David Rabinowitch, Royden Rabinowitch, Walter Redinger, and Ed Zelenak. They are all profiled in fumetti form talking about their practice through speech balloons and captions, along with quick biographical details. Many of these artists were known for their inventiveness, they were influenced by a variety of subject matter -including comic art- without falsely delineating these influences into false boxes of high or low art. They didn’t just make work in the visual art field either. Along with a Hart Of London work-on-paper, Chambers made an experimental film with the same name in 1970. This film intensely shows brutal shots of an abattoir in Spain interspersed with London scenes; it has been described by Stan Brakhage as “one of the greatest films ever made.”  Both Curnoe’s Heart Of London painting from 1967 and Jack Chambers’ 1968 work-on-paper Hart Of London are in the show.
Noted curator and historian Judith Rodger told me that Curnoe’s Heart Of London piece depicts The Forks Of the Thames downtown, “arguably the heart of London” near many of the artists’ studios with Greg’s studio as the main hub or heart of it all. As for the idea of a comic book catalog, it was a mystery until Rodger guided me to Katie Cholette’s PhD thesis Memory and Mythmaking: the role of autobiography in the works of Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe which states that it was the idea of William Bragg, assistant to the director of The National Gallery’s extension services. Cholette’s paper quotes Bragg from the Sept 29, 1968 New York Times’ Arts Notes column, “…The idea was to make a kind of scrapbook, to talk as a group, not individuals. Their work is kind of echoed by the comics—it’s really their bag […] Everyone likes to read comics once in a while, anyway.” Due to its uniqueness, the catalog garnered a lot of press for the show. Beverley Lambert (Bev Kelly in the show) says, “I think we all thought it was pretty neat and it was funny. It got people’s attention.”
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When I talked to artist John Boyle about this comic book catalog, he said right away, “It’s too bad that Greg Curnoe isn’t with us anymore, because he was really interested in comic books. And he always did comic book or comic-like drawings from the time he was a little kid.” In the book Greg Curnoe Life And Work, author Judith Rodger’s description of his 1963 painting Myself Walking North In the Tweed Coat could be ascribed to many of his works. “The flat, vivid colours; schematic outlines; and text all come from his love of the comic book.” As well as the inclusion of the name of the newspaper strip Mary Worth in the piece. Another colourful painting casually inserts Dick Tracy into the frame as a representative of one of his interests. Curnoe’s series of cut-out collages were often shaped into cartoony and anthropomorphic forms.
Curated by Pierre Théberge at The National Gallery, Boyle readily notes, “Both Curnoe and Chambers talked up all the other artists who were around in London, and ended up persuading Théberge to have a group show to get a sense of the whole London art scene.”
The comic book itself doesn’t give William Bragg’s name at all, nada. The designer is credited: Roger Duhamel, FRSC, Queen’s Printer and Controller of Stationery, a federal government official, as well as the design firm: Eccleston + Glossop International. All of the photos, however, were done by the late Don Vincent, of whom Boyle says, “He was a friend of ours, of all of us. And a really terrific photographer. And he documented the whole London scene as it unfolded taking photographs all the time of everybody in this show and just of London, his whole life was photography.” Vincent’s work also appeared in 20 Cent Magazine, a delightfully scrappy local art magazine started in the mid-60’s with many of the people in the show, including Boyle and Curnoe, contributing writings and drawings. 20 Cent Magazine sold for 25 cents, ha! Vincent also photographed The Nihilist Spasm Band who are regarded as the first noise-rock band; this amazing, mind-blowing, intense and milk-spurtingly funny act was founded by the late Greg Curnoe, with Boyle and Favro (playing unique guitars that he builds himself) as still very active members over fifty years later. They are unique cultural ambassadors bringing such songs as “No Canada” to the world, having performed in Japan and in Vancouver at The Western Front with poet George Bowering guesting on guitar, and have had a documentary made about them by the late noise artist Zev Asher.
In one of Heart Of London’s comic book panels about Boyle an early issue of the four color MAD sneaks its way in. I asked him if he read MAD, “Yeah. Although that is from the designer. I read MAD, although not madly.”
A very young Boyle states in one of his panels, “The day I can truly defile myself in public, I will have accomplished everything, and I will no longer have a need to paint.” Reflecting today he says, “I still think that actually, and I think I may have succeeded. Because I do still have the need to paint. But I don’t have the need to show it anymore, or to get applause or approval from anyone. And I don’t know how that arose in me. But I kind of had a fair amount of attention and approval and acceptance and shows in fancy places and meeting important people and pleasing art administrators. And I kind of reached the conclusion that most of them aren’t worth pleasing and their opinion was not as good or not as important as the opinions of other people that I happen to know. And I thought they made a lot of mistakes and people that they chose to support. And also, their approval was very fickle. They were very fickle about it because as soon as fashions would change, their eyes were directed elsewhere and the people they thought were geniuses today were no longer geniuses tomorrow. I did kind of lose my enthusiasm for the art world, but not for painting. So, I was mistaken.”
The final pages of this catalog feature a few reproductions of pieces from the show itself, including Bev Kelly’s window paintings which, with its window panels, adapt quite easily to the comic book form, comparable to an ornate and mysterious painted comic page. The layout, however, was a bit fast and loose with one of her works being printed sideways. In her fumetti section she says, “These windows aren’t ‘real’ windows, they are still paintings. They don’t have sashes and you can’t see through them. A real window is to look through, these are to look at.” Painted on canvas, the window pieces used lumber to make the frames of the paintings, carved to look like the ribbed mouldings of window frames.
Bev Kelly was the sole woman in the show and when I asked her about this she said, “I’m very happy that they didn’t concentrate on this issue that I was the only woman. I didn’t want to be known as an artist because I was a woman.” Having recently moved to London from Saskatchewan with her husband, they were warmly welcomed by Curnoe and she would go see The Nihilist Spasm Band play every week at The York Hotel. Her first solo show was at The 20/20 Gallery in London.
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She spent the first two years of her life in Biggar, Saskatchewan where the signs read, “New York Is Big, But This Is Biggar.” Being in London changed her notions of places like New York being the absolute cultural mecca. Beverley says, “There was a really vibrant cultural community there. You know what a regionalist Greg was. He really believed, as a lot of writers do, that you should write about what you know, or you should do your art about what you know, including where you live and so on. And, of course, when I started on the windows that was right out where I was living. The first ones were of my house and then I walked around and took pictures of various houses that I thought looked interesting. When I got a studio in London above one of the businesses downtown I used some of the windows there as inspiration for my works. And then when I went back to Saskatchewan, I was very into that, looking around at what is there where you live. I even got a grant to travel around small-town Saskatchewan and look at the local -in air quotes- ‘folk art’ or untrained artists, let’s say, just painting odd things on their house or their property or whatever. So, I went and I did interviews, took pictures of them, and I imagine I must have produced some kind of a report on it because I probably had to for my grant. So that led me into being more observant and looking more at where it’s from and what is around you and that you don’t have to go to some huge, big place to find art.”
Bev Kelly was her married name and she returned to using her original name, Beverley Lambert in the 1970’s. Lambert did a series of three large lithographs for International Women’s Year in 1975 on women’s issues dealing with real news stories that happened on the prairies. Many of these prints were donated to many women’s centres across the country. She has also worked in clay doing an entire main street based on the fictional Saskatchewan town in the humour book Sarah Binks by Paul Hiebert. Beverley Lambert currently resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland where she makes art and is active as a conservator.
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Flip the comic over and it is the same but in either French or English depending on where you first started reading!
Boyle comments, “Last night, my wife and I were looking at the Heart of London catalog. She was amazed that this was a National Gallery touring show with a lot of artists who became major artists in the country. And it looked like they were trying to spend as little money as possible by making this skinny little comic book-like thing on newsprint and I think there’s a large measure of truth in that. Because, again, I remember when Greg Curnoe had a big one-man exhibition retrospective at The National Gallery and the catalogue that they did for him was kind of a minimal thing. It was like a paperback book with one colour reproduction and a number of inferior black and white reproductions and basically a list of artworks in the show. And in the same year, The National Gallery did a big one-man exhibition of Donald Judd, the American sculptor, and his catalogue was a huge coffee table book that weighed about 15 pounds and was three inches thick and loaded with colour from beginning to end. And that just, I think, represented a specifically Canadian problem.” When I mention this to Hairy Who member Art Green he responds, “Well, of course, because they’re trying to impress their betters in New York, so you get a job at The Whitney or The Museum of Modern Art. Canada has been an incubator for museum directors since forever.”
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Hairy Who catalog page by Art Green, courtesy of the artist
This style of catalog for Heart Of London corresponds nicely with The Hairy Who, another such grouping of artists around that time who were part of “The Chicago Imagists.” Their three Chicago art shows starting in the mid-60’s were accompanied by comic books that also doubled as exhibition catalogs. The Hairy Who weren’t very aware of the underground comics scene then just barely getting started, they chose this method out of creative necessity, printing a glossy catalog was cost prohibitive. Green explains, “And the printing was expensive and not very good. And we didn’t want to have a show that was called ‘Six Recent Graduates’ or something unexciting like that. And so, we realised we all liked comics and we all knew how to do colour stripping because we’d taken silk-screening courses, we figured out we could do it. And it was cheap.”
Delineating further, The Hairy Who made playful art inspired by a wide range of neat stuff. The London artists were well aware of The Hairy Who. In fact, The Hairy Who were even going to show in London at The 20/20 Gallery. Boyle notes, “20/20 was kind of a precursor to the art in the so-called artist run centres, most of which aren’t run by artists anymore. But anyway, it was one of the first and it was all sponsored by local people in London. And I don’t think it lasted longer than a couple of years, but it was a terrific gallery while it lasted.” Many of the artists in The Heart Of London show were active in 20/20, which lasted from 1966 to 1971. Greg Curnoe discussed the show with Hairy Who artist Karl Wirsum, who in a letter to Art Green wrote, “Well, if they go ahead and publish a comic book, that would be all right.” Green notes, “He may have thought that the 20/20 Gallery was more well-funded than it probably was. But it was on, we all agreed to do it. We were looking forward to it.” Green himself left Chicago for Canada in 1969. The 1968 Democratic Convention had transpired and as Green puts it, “Everybody was angry at everybody.” He was dissatisfied with his teaching job there as well, so when offered a job at NASCAD, the art school in Halifax, he leaped at it.
Alas, the show didn’t happen. In a letter to Art Green, Curnoe writes, “We had to cancel The Hairy Who show and a lot of us were disappointed.” Boyle notes, “I suspect that it got caught up in the death throes of the gallery. And they would have had to cancel whatever exhibitions they had coming up.”
Green notes that both London and Chicago are far enough away from the more major centres that artists can, “…be free to go their own way because there’s not much at stake partly and nobody’s paying attention. And I remember the first time I had been in London, we were driving on our honeymoon to Halifax where I got the job. And I thought, ‘I’m gonna stop here and get a Canada Dry.’ I’m driving down what’s the main street that runs north south and pulled into a corner store. And I said, ‘Do you have Canada Dry?’ ‘No, but we got America Dry.’  I have never before or since seen a bottle of America Dry. I bought it and it wasn’t as good as Canada Dry. And, and that’s not a dream. I mean, I have never seen it ever again. But that made me say, ‘Wow, this is a weird place.’”
While Green was teaching at NASCAD, Curnoe came for what Green calls, “One of his annual excoriations, if that’s a word, he would rip them up one side down the other in public, for being a Canadian art school with no Canadians teaching, hardly any, and all yanks -and it was true! And so anyway, they would invite him and it was almost like a ritual. He would be in the public, there’d be 400 students there and Greg would just rip the place apart. I had known Greg, I heard about the show and so on, and we got along fine. And afterwards he’d come up to me and say, ‘Well, how did I do?’ ‘Greg, you’re doing great, but you do realise I’m a yank’, but I agreed with him 100%.” Both Curnoe and Green commiserated on how Canadian art was neglected at the school. “If he had been in Chicago, Greg would have been a member of The Hairy Who or maybe started it. But he was more political, he had to be, and Chicago, the politics were so acidic that you wouldn’t have wanted to be to be involved in it, unless you went in full immersion. And we were decidedly unpolitical. Although we all agreed on the politics of it. We were a collective in the sense that we wanted people to collect us.” On this, Art Green is a tad glib, having made art responding to and criticizing Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Both Art and Greg would visit with each other in various Canadian cities: Halifax, Vancouver, Toronto. “Nobody appreciated Greg in Toronto, they went out of their way to un-appreciate him. And luckily, they did put a put up a pretty nice retrospective after he was safely gone.”
Of London, Green notes, “I think that for a period of time. I don’t know how long it was maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, maybe a few months? Maybe a few years. London, Ontario was most interesting art scene and literary scene in the whole world.”
The propensity for great art still ran in the water there, the stream flowed, there was a continuum and a recognizing of that history. London has some great galleries including Forest City Gallery, founded by Jack Chambers and Greg Curnoe, where The Nihilist Spasm Band plays every Monday night.
In 2013 The London Museum held the group show L.O. Today with artists Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, Jamie Q, Billy Bert Young, Amy Lockhart, Peter Thompson, and James Kirkpatrick. Many of these artists are a part of the Canadian Psychedooolic art comic movement that began in the 1990’s, captured and collected in the book Nog A Dod, edited by former Londoner Marc Bell and released by Conundrum/PictureBox. Much of the work in Nog A Dod occurred in Vancouver with a couple of these London artists relocating there, immersing easily, doing a lot of collaborative drawing and art books with other Vancouver based artists. Yes, ‘Canadian Psychedooolic’ was named after the fact by Bell, but we weren’t thinking of ourselves as a movement or a group at the time. Yet all of these art books had an unfettered comic wildness, funny, and expansively playful. And Nog A Dod got out there, impacting and influencing a lot of artists the world over. Furthering the connective tissue, in 2003, The Western Front in Vancouver put on an art show featuring ‘documents and ephemera’ from musical acts The Nihilist Spasm Band, The All Star Schnauzer Band (a somewhat fake band as mail art project involving Bell, Mclean, and Thompson) and July Fourth Toilet, a Vancouver based group that often involves many Nog A Dod and Nog A Dod related artists, including yours truly occasionally wearing outlandish semi-functional semi-nude costumes specially designed by Jason Mclean. The show was curated by Jonathan Middleton, who is now Executive Director at Art Metropole, a Toronto based artist-run centre dealing primarily in artists’ publications.
Getting back to Greg Curnoe. Released in two parts in 1970, The Great Canadian Sonnet contained numerous images by Curnoe. Described as a “Beaver Little Book”, the format was modeled after the popular Big Little Books, distant cousins to comic books so named for being small, square and thick. Big Little Books were marketed to children and featured popular comic, cartoon, radio and film characters of the day in text-based stories with illustrations on every other page. Some Big Little Books had flip-it cartoons in the top corner so one could make the character move. With its second volume The Great Canadian Sonnet does this as well, stating “See ‘em move – just flip the pages” on the cover and, sure enough, in the corner a spot rolls up a hill-like abstract shape transforming into a medley of human faces.
Written by poet David McFadden, Curnoe riffed off lines in his text creating a great many detailed pen-and-ink drawings for the book with titles that included “Proud Possessor Of Meaningful Pain”, “One that will be Truly Loved by the Prime Minister”, and “The Empty Universe” which featured a drawing of a tin of apple juice and a packet of bird seed -the book’s drawings contained many such absurdist pairings. The Great Canadian Sonnet was published by Coach House Press who were -and still are- known for releasing all manner of experimental works including poetry, prose and beyond. Both volumes together weigh in at over 400 pages, with every other page being a drawing by Curnoe.
Many thanks to Jason Mclean, Marc Bell, and Judith Rodger for their immense help with this piece.
Thanks as well to Art Green for use of his respective artworks.
Part Two: Scraptures, Snore and More coming tomorrow, Friday, August 20!
Robert Dayton
www.robertdayton.com
www.patreon.com/CanadianGlam
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scotianostra · 4 years ago
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November 18th 1870 saw what has become known as the Surgeons' Hall Riot.
This is a follow on from last weeks post regarding Sophia Jex-Blake and her friend Edith Pechey, the first to female students to be admitted to study at The University of Edinburgh.
I'd just like to get another wee story out of the way before I get on to the main one, strictly speaking these were not the first women to study medicine, the first was called Margaret Ann Bulkley- but she has a remarkable story, the University and the medical fraternity knew Miss Bulkley as a man called James Barry. Born in Cork, Ireland Barry's entire adult life was lived as a man, Barry was named Margaret Ann Bulkley at birth and was known as female in childhood. Barry lived as a man in both public and private life, at least in part in order to be accepted as a university student and pursue a career as a surgeon, with Barry's birth sex only becoming known to the public and to military colleagues after death through autopsy.
Barry had risen to the rank of Inspector General in the British army the second highest medical office, she not only improved conditions for wounded soldiers, but also the conditions of the native inhabitants, and performed the first recorded cesarean section in Africa. Her birth sex only become known to the public and to military colleagues after death through autopsy, she lived as a man for over 6 decades. I will post a link afterwards about her/hm.
Back to Jex-Blake and Pechey.  After these two made history by being accepted their numbers were added to over the year, Isabel Thorne, Matilda Chaplin, Helen Evans, Mary Anderson, and Emily Bovell joined them, they are now known as The Edinburgh Seven.
From the time the first two women matriculated they had been facing consistent opposition. They had people shouting at them in the streets, had to arrange to attend different lectures at the extra-mural medical college and in October 1870 they were denied permission to ‘walk the wards’ of the Infirmary. This was a decision apparently made to protect them, because the sights and illnesses in the hospital made it a place that would be too much for a faint-hearted woman to bear. The Edinburgh Seven had faced opposition every step of the way but it all culminated in the Surgeons’ Hall Riot, which would later be remembered as a turning point not just for their case but for women’s education as a whole. It all started when they were making their way to Surgeons Hall for their anatomy exam.
When the women were approaching Surgeon’s Hall they were met with a crowd of several hundred people – the majority of which were onlookers – that was big enough to stop traffic for an hour. Their male peers, several of whom were drunk and holding whisky bottles, were gathered outside shouting verbal abuse at them, throwing rubbish at them and blocking their entrance. When they were eventually ushered in by janitors and sympathetic peers they were able to get to the exam hall. However the exam was once again disrupted by the students releasing the Royal College’s pet sheep at the time ‘Poor’ Mallie into the room. After the exam the women were escorted home by a group of sympathetic Irish students who were given the name the ‘Irish Brigade’. By this point they were already covered in mud but they were also hostilely met by more screaming and mud throwing as they left the building. Not only did the women have to endure the riot itself but in January 1871 Sophia Jex-Blake had to go to court to defend herself in a defamation case filed by Mr Craig – the student she identified as being the leader of the riot. A student who interestingly was Professor Robert Christison’s classroom assistant, who was a known opponent of the Edinburgh Seven and this supported the theory that some members of faculty were in support of the riot. Mr Craig won the trial, but he was only awarded one farthing of the thousand he initially requested. This resulted in the trial being considered a silent victory for the women, the kind of covert support which was still so rare at the time. The Surgeons’ Hall Riot was an appalling event but its shocking nature was exactly what made it such an instrumental point in the women’s fight for change. The riot gained a lot of media coverage, and a particularly notable article was that written in The Scotsman which urged “all…men…to come forward and express… their detestation of the proceedings which have characterised and dishonoured the opposition to ladies pursuing the study of medicine in Edinburgh.” Although the event was a mere culmination of the abuse and opposition they had been facing for over a year, it was able to showcase the magnitude of injustice these women were facing.In 2015 a plaque to commemorate the Edinburgh Seven as part of the Historic Scotland Scheme – and under the recommendation of one of our tutors, Jo Spiller – was put up outside Surgeons’ Hall on Nicholson Street. The plaque hangs where the Edinburgh Seven where once thrown with mud and prevented from entering an anatomy exam, and where now hundreds of female medical students walk on their way to their classes. Even though the women made it through their three year course the law disallowed them from graduating or becoming doctors. 
Some of you are no doubt interested in what became of The Edinburgh Seven:
Sophia Jex-Blake had a bitter struggle, which divided the faculty and ended with her suing the University unsuccessfully in the Court of Session, she moved to Berne to qualify.
In 1889, however, largely as a result of her struggles, an Act of Parliament sanctioned degrees for women. She was one of the first female doctors in the UK. A leading campaigner for medical education for women, she was later involved in founding two medical schools for women: one in London (at a time when no other medical schools were training women) and one in Edinburgh, where she also started a women's hospital.
Edith Pechey proved her academic ability by achieving the top grade in the Chemistry exam in her first year of study, the women's abilities meant nothing, In 1873 the women had to give up the struggle to graduate at Edinburgh. One of Edith's next steps was writing to the College of Physicians in Ireland to ask them to let her take exams leading to a license in midwifery. Edith worked for a time at the Birmingham and Midland Hospital for Women then she went to the University of Bern, passed her medical exams in German at the end of January 1877 and was awarded an MD with a thesis 'Upon the constitutional causes of uterine catarrh'. Just at that time the Irish college decided to licence women doctors, and Edith passed their exams in Dublin in May
.During the next six years Edith practised medicine in Leeds, involving herself in women's health education and lecturing on a number of medical topics, including nursing. Partly in reaction to the exclusion of women by the International Medical Congress she set up the Medical Women's Federation of England and in 1882 was elected president.
Edith then spent more than 20 years in India as a senior doctor at a women's hospital and was involved in a range of social causes, following which she and her husband returned to England in 1905 and she was soon involved in the suffrage movement.
Isobel Thorne won first prize in an anatomy examination and was one of the women who re-grouped at the London School of Medicine for Women. Her diplomatic temperament meant she was a more acceptable honorary secretary on the executive (although she never actually qualified in medicine) than Sophia Jex-Blake whose nomination had threatened to stir up controversy. Thorne gave up her own ambition to be a doctor in order to commit herself to helping the school run smoothly; to become more solidly established.
An exemplary Victorian Thorne's dedication to duty and service was a precursor for the more violent campaigns of the suffragettes to achieve full enfranchisement for women.
Isabel travelled through China during the Talping Rebellion.  She became convinced of the need for women to have female doctors for themselves and their children, especially women ln China and India.   When the family returned to England in 1868 she started midwifery training at the Ladies Medical College, London, later describing the teaching there as inadequate.
Matilda Chaplin gained high honours in anatomy and surgery at the extramural examinations held in 1870 and 1871 at Surgeon's Hall, before a judgment in 1872 finally prohibited women students.
She also studied medicine in London and Paris and during her studies Matilda maintained connection with Edinburgh, attending some of the classes open to her there.
In 1873 Matilda obtained a certificate in midwifery from the London Obstetrics Society, the only medical qualification then obtainable by women in England, and shortly afterwards She then travelled to Japan with her husband, where she opened a school for midwives and was an author of anthropological studies. In 1879 Matilda gained the degree of M.D. at Paris, and presented as her thesis the result of her Japanese studies. She then became a licentiate of the King and Queen's College of Physicians in Ireland, and, although the only female candidate, came out first in the examination. In 1880 she lived in London, chiefly studying diseases of the eye at the Royal Free Hospital.
Helen Evan got married and did not complete her studies but her link with Edinburgh continued and she remained friends with Sophia Jex-Blake. Helen was active in promoting the care of women by women doctors. She also took a keen interest in education being "one of the first lady members of St. Andrews School Board, a position she held for 15 years". In addition to this she was a member of the council for St Leonards School for girls (now co-ed).
in 1876 her husband Alexander died suddenly from a heart attack leaving her with three children and she was unable to return to study.
When Sophia Jex-Blake began the process of founding another medical school for women in Edinburgh, Helen, with others, formed an executive committee to find suitable premises.
In 1900 and 1901 along with Miss Du Pre, Helen was a vice president of the committee of the Edinburgh Hospital and Dispensary for Women and Children, the hospital in Whitehouse Loan and the dispensary in Torphichen Place.
Mary Anderson in 1879 she received her medical doctorate from the Faculté de médecine de Paris, where she wrote her thesis on mitral stenosis and its higher frequency in women than in men. She became a senior physician at the New Hospital for Women, Marylebone. That's about all I could find on her.
Emily Bovell moved to Paris to continue her studies, when it was no longer possible to continue at Edinburgh, and eventually qualified as a doctor in Paris in 1877. The subject of her medical thesis was "Congestive Phenomena following Epileptic and Hystero-epilectic Fits"
She and her husband (physician William Allen Sturge) set up practice together in Wimpole Street, London,  and Emily renewed her relationship with Queen's College, lecturing on physiology and hygiene, and running ambulance classes for ladies.
In recognition of her contribution to the medical profession, in 1880 Emily was nominated by the French Government for the "Officier d'Academie", an award very rarely conferred upon women.
The University of Edinburgh tried to right the wrongs of the past by awarding a posthumous MBChB on Saturday 6th July last year (2019). Seven present day women students accepted the degrees in their honour, as seen in the publicity pic. More on that here https://www.ed.ac.uk/edit-magazine/supplements/representing-the-edinburgh-seven
And you can read about James Barry/Margaret Ann Bulkley below. https://hekint.org/2020/04/03/a-surgeon-and-a-gentleman-the-life-of-james-barry/
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online-tutors-group · 2 years ago
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cdodd985 · 4 years ago
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Study in the uk in 2021
Mystical stone circles, old castle ruins, rugged landscapes, and crazy, cosmopolitan metropolises – visitors will find all of this on the largest island in Europe: Great Britain. This consists of the three countries England, Scotland and Wales, each of which has its own culture.
The English are known for their understatement and black humor. In Wales, the Celtic language Cymraeg is the second official language. Scotland is often associated with bagpipe music and such unusual sports as throwing logs. You can experience all of this up close while studying in the UK.
History of Great Britain
The differences between the individual countries are due to the turbulent history of Great Britain. Since the first settlement around 10,000 years ago , the island on the other side of the English Channel has been conquered by Celtic tribes, Romans, Angles, Saxons, Jutes, and Vikings.
It was not until 1707 that England, Wales, and Scotland were united to form today’s Great Britain, which rose to colonial power in the centuries that followed. History lovers can discover an old castle, a Celtic place of worship, or another building from the long settlement period almost behind every street corner.
Great Britain also has a unique nature. In fifteen national parks, visitors can explore the solitude of the Scottish Highlands, idyllic heathlands, picturesque lakes, and ancient forests. The metropolises of Great Britain, on the other hand, are modern and cosmopolitan. The multicultural metropolis of London is not only Europe’s most important financial center but also sets the tone when it comes to fashion and music. But not only the hip capital of England is worth seeing. Even old industrial cities such as Newcastle, Birmingham, or Glasgow have developed into extremely livable cities over the last few decades, offering visitors a wide range of cultural activities.
University landscape of Great Britain
Great Britain and especially England is one of the most popular study regions for German students. This is no wonder, after all, England is home to some of the best and most prestigious universities in the world, and Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland also boast a tradition-steeped university landscape. In total there are over a hundred universities in the UK, most of which are in England.
Addition to the universities, there are a number of higher education colleges in Great Britain. A In contrast to universities, these offer courses with strong practical relevance. Many colleges specialize in internship courses or a specific subject, but there are also colleges that offer a wide range of courses.
UK higher education and quality assurance
With a few exceptions, all universities in Great Britain are state-owned. Due to their sometimes very long history, they decide autonomously about the admission of students or the content of the curricula. An exception is teacher training, which, like in Germany, is state-regulated.
The well-known research universities, which include Oxford and Cambridge, for example, also the University of Bristol, Newcastle University, and the University of Birmingham, receive financial support.
The good international reputation of British universities results from the high quality of teaching. Many British universities employ twice as many teachers as similarly large universities in Germany. Accordingly, the courses are small and the universities offer a much more comprehensive service than in Germany. Students receive tutors who are on hand to advise them. The secretariat and the teaching staff are almost always there for the students.
Another quality of British universities lies in their internationality: More than ten percent of the students in the bachelor’s degree come from abroad. In the postgraduate programs in England and Wales, such as a Masters, MBA, or LLM, almost a third of the student body consists of international students. They are coming to the UK to obtain an internationally recognized degree and to perfect their English.
Study system in the UK
The study system in the UK is divided into an undergraduate section and a postgraduate section.
Bachelor’s degree in Great Britain
In the first phase of the study, students acquire a bachelor’s degree. The Bachelor’s degree takes three years in England and Wales. Up to four years in Scotland. Traditionally, the academic year in Great Britain is divided into three trimesters ( terms ). In the course of increasing internationalization, some universities have now introduced semesters. The credits are by the Credit Accumulation and Transfer Scheme ( CATS calculated). The points are awarded for presentations, exams, and essays, among other things.
In England and Wales, at the end of their undergraduate studies, students usually receive the Bachelor with Honors, which is linked to the UK grading system, and the final grade: from the First Class Honors Degree for excellence to the Third Class Honors Degree.
Other UK degrees
In addition to the Bachelor’s degree, the study system in Great Britain has several country-specific undergraduate degrees: the Foundation Degree, the Certificate of Higher Education, the Diploma of Higher Education, and the Higher National Diploma.
Masters degree in Great Britain
In the postgraduate section, students at most universities acquire a master’s degree within one year. Great Britain, a general distinction is made between the Taught Master and the Master by Research or Master of Research. Addition, several renowned British universities offer the possibility of placing students in subject-specific degrees such as an MBA or an LLM.
Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.)
The highest degree British universities can award is the Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.). It is usually acquired by writing an extensive research paper and then giving it an oral defense. On average, it takes students in the UK between three and five years to complete their doctoral thesis. An excellent research-oriented bachelor’s degree or a master’s degree is a prerequisite for the Ph.D. program.
Further postgraduate degrees in the UK
In addition, also in the Postgraduate -Studienabschnitt Certificates and Diplomas awarded. They can be acquired in just a few months and serve to deepen the knowledge acquired in the bachelor’s degree and to further professional qualifications. In some cases, it is possible to have the achievements acquired in postgraduate studies credited towards a later master’s degree. However, this must be checked on a case-by-case basis.
Studies in Great Britain: the requirements
German applicants usually need to have a high school diploma in order to study in Great Britain. Since the universities decide autonomously about the admission of their applicants, they determine the average grade and other admission criteria such as grades in certain high school subjects themselves. In some cases, applicants without a high school diploma can also receive a place at the university if they are judged to be suitable by the university.
Special evidence and deadlines
In addition to school leaving certificates, letters of application and motivation must also be submitted at almost all universities. Good knowledge of English is also expected; this usually has to be proven in the form of a test such as the IELTS or TOEFL.
Full degree in Great Britain
The application for a full-time study in England and Wales in the undergraduate range must be connected to the Universities and Colleges Admissions Service (UCAS ) be directed. The annual application deadline is January 15th; earlier application deadlines apply for Cambridge, Oxford, and medical courses.
The applications for the Master’s and Ph.D. degree programs are directly addressed to the universities. They themselves decide on the admission criteria, but a bachelor’s degree with a certain minimum grade is common (alternatively, hold degrees such as master’s degree, diploma, or state examination are also accepted).
Semester abroad in Great Britain
It is much easier to apply for a semester abroad in Great Britain, where applicants usually only have to prove a (technical) university certificate and sufficient English skills.
Cost of studying in the UK
Most universities in the UK have tuition fees. Since 2013, universities have theoretically been able to charge Bachelor students up to £ 9,000 for an academic year – more than half of all English universities also make use of this right. In Wales and Scotland, more favorable regulations were able to prevail. The bachelor’s degree in Scotland is free for international students from the EU (with the exception of English and Welsh students).
The cost of living in the UK varies greatly from region to region. In cities like London, Oxford, or Cambridge in particular, students have to budget up to £ 14,000 per year for accommodation, meals, and leisure activities. In other regions, a budget of up to £ 12,000 is enough.
Students from the EU who are completing a full bachelor’s degree in the UK can also receive funding through Student Loans. This loan covers part or all of the tuition fees and does not have to be paid back until the annual income exceeds a certain limit.
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soobiaaa · 4 years ago
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