#am i that british that i just honed in on her the moment she appeared?

[skzsaxicolous]

My Love Mix Up (Thai) Ep. 3

ummm hello? is that?

yeah, it is!

Queen Liz! what're you doing here? let's go, I guess?

[yourdeepestfathoms]

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

[paths-of-my-childhood-candid]

OH, TAYLOR! Taylor Swift On Side-Stepping Into Acting, Owning What You Make & Loving The “Weirdness” Of Cats

On a grey London afternoon in late September, Taylor Swift slips quietly through the doors of a north London recording studio. It is an auspicious moment: the queen of confessional pop has come to meet Andrew Lloyd Webber, the king of musical theatre. Together, Swift, who turns 30 this month, and Lloyd Webber, 71, have written “Beautiful Ghosts”, a new song for the soon-to-be-released film adaptation of Cats – Webber’s 1981 extravaganza, which ran in the West End and on Broadway for a combined total of almost 40 years. In it, Swift plays Bombalurina, and like her co-stars – Idris Elba, Judi Dench, Francesca Hayward, Ian McKellen, Jennifer Hudson, Rebel Wilson – appears in full, furry CGI glory. Track finished, these two titans of the music industry sit down to talk… 

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Well, the first thing we have to clear up is that we both love cats. Taylor Swift: [Laughs] We do! One of the first things you said to me when we met was that you’re president of the Turkish Van Cat Club.  ALW: Professionally, there is nowhere I can go to top this, as you can completely understand. TS: I have three cats. How many do you have now?  ALW: I have three, too – they are all Turkish Vans. And you’ve got a Scottish Fold I believe. TS: I have two Scottish Folds, we think the third is a Ragdoll mix. ALW: You’re probably never going to talk to me again, but you know I’ve got a puppy? He’s called Mojito.  TS: I heard about this! How does he get along in the hierarchy?  ALW: Well, he believes he’s a little bear actually. He’s a Havanese dog, which I got because Glenn Close has one. TS: I’ve met that dog, he’s really good. ALW: You come from Pennsylvania. TS: I do. People seem to think I was raised in the south, but I’m from the north – grew up on a Christmas tree farm, then moved to Nashville when I was 14. ALW: And you wanted to move to Nashville for the songwriting or the singing? Or both? TS: Both – I was just obsessed with Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Dixie Chicks, and the thing they had in common was that they had gotten discovered in Nashville. So I had it in my head that this is a magical place where discoveries are made and people are able to do music as a living. ALW: Was it the storytelling side of country songs that you liked? Absolutely. It reminded me of the ’90s, when you had these amazing female singer-songwriters like Alanis Morissette and Sarah McLachlan; incredible female writers like Melissa Etheridge, Shawn Colvin; and these types of Lilith Fair women. Then you started to hit the 2000s and the only place I could find real confessional storytelling was country music. ALW: Did you know anybody when you got to Nashville? TS: No, we didn’t really. I’d been going there on vacation with my family, and my mom, my little brother and I would stay in a hotel and try to meet people. Eventually, after several trips, I got a development deal – it’s a non-committal record deal, like, “We’ll watch you develop for a year and then we’ll decide if we sign you.” That was grounds enough to move the family. ALW: Presumably you were in school in Nashville as well? TS: Yes, I was going to high school during the day and doing my songwriting sessions at night. It was a double life. I’d be writing notes in class, and my teachers never knew if they were notes for my class or if I’d gotten an idea for a song. ALW: How many songs would you write in a day? TS: Usually, never more than one. I had these sessions every day, and if I didn’t come in with a good idea, I’d get stared at. You’re not inspired every day, as you know, but you have to show up and treat it like a job. That’s where I learned the craft of songwriting. ALW: I’ve never worked like that, because I’m so story driven. What interests me, though, is how Nashville works. How did you get your foot on the performing ladder? TS: It was really writing first. At the same time, I was singing the national anthem every time I could – at festivals and fairs and bars, anywhere I could get up on stage. I was trying to hone both sides of what I was doing, but I’m very well aware that I would not have a career if I hadn’t been a writer. I wouldn’t have just been a singer, it wouldn’t have worked. ALW: I guess that, today, very few people have a major career unless they write. TS: Yeah, I agree. I think it’s really important – also from the side of ownership over what you do and make. Even if you aren’t a natural writer, you should try to involve yourself in the messages you’re sending. ALW: How does a young country artist get their first break? TS: I worked as hard as I could, reached out to as many people as I could to make sure I got meetings with publishing companies and labels. They didn’t come about very easily, but once I got in the room I’d just get out my guitar and play for them. ALW: Do you have to sing in a certain club to get to the next stage? TS: Everyone does it a different way, but the Bluebird Cafe is a place where everyone was discovered – from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill to, arguably, me. I remember being at your house after we’d written a song, and you telling me you’d bought it when you were 24 or something, that’s when I realised just how young you were when you had a vision to be doing this at such a high level. ALW: I was writing for the theatre when I was eight-years-old. I had a little toy theatre and did dreadful musicals on terrible subjects. Then, when I was about 13, I met a boy who wanted to write lyrics, and we did a couple of musicals at school. TS: So from the beginning you would pair up with a lyricist? ALW: One of the things I worked out very early was Lloyd Webber and lyrics are not a good idea. TS: Wow. It is a good alliteration, though. ALW: You were 19, weren’t you, when you had your first big hit? TS: I was about 18 when “Love Story”, a song I’d written alone, was a worldwide hit. I was lucky enough to work my way up in country music, for new artists nowadays, it feels like the trajectory of their career is like being shot out of a canon into a stratosphere they could in no way be prepared for. I got to sort of acclimate to every step of the path I was on, and by the time I had a massive hit I’d been working since I was 14. Moving from country music to pop was a crazy adjustment for me. ALW: And now we’ve written “Beautiful Ghosts” together for Cats. TS: I remember the moment. I went over to your apartment to rehearse “Macavity” and you sat down at the piano and started to play this haunting, beautiful melody, and I think I just started singing to it right away. ALW: You wrote the lyrics more or less then and there – it was fantastic. TS: It’s a different perspective on the song “Memory”, too, and the character of Grizabella [played by Jennifer Hudson], who used to have majestic, glamorous times and doesn’t anymore. On the other side of it, you have this little white cat [Victoria, played by Francesca Hayward] who’s been abandoned – she’s afraid she’ll never have a chance to have beautiful memories. So that’s where she’s singing “Beautiful Ghosts” from, to counter Grizabella’s idea of tragedy. ALW: I’d like to come back to something I thought when I heard your album, Lover – which is really absolutely brilliant. Am I right in thinking you approached its recording just as though you were giving live performances? TS: I did. I was really singing a lot at that point – I’d just come from a stadium tour, and then did Cats, which was all based on live performances – so a lot of that album is nearly whole takes. When you perform live, you’re narrating and you’re getting into the story and you’re making faces that are ugly and you’re putting a different meaning on a song every time you perform it. ALW: That’s the point isn’t it. TS: Yeah. ALW: Does that ever make you feel you want to be an actress? TS: I have no idea. When I was younger, I used to get questions like, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” I’d try to answer. As I get older, I’m learning that wisdom is learning how dumb you are compared to how much you are going to know. I really had an amazing time with Cats. I think I loved the weirdness of it. I loved how I felt I’d never get another opportunity to be like this in my life. ALW: It’s weird, what I’ve seen of the movie. TS: It’s decidedly weird [they laugh]. ALW: I think Tom [Hooper, the film’s director] has really tried to make something original. And I agree, I think as you get older you do become less sure of yourself and start to question what you can do. Would you consider doing a musical? TS: A musical? Absolutely, absolutely. ALW: Or writing your own? TS: That is way up there on my list of dreams. ALW: You should. TS: Was it really wonderful for you when you got the news that Judi Dench had accepted the role of Old Deuteronomy? ALW: Judi was in the original version in 1981 but she snapped her Achilles tendon and had to withdraw. Then I had this idea, which I ran past Tom, that we could make Old Deuteronomy a woman. Seeing her perform this time was quite an emotional thing for me, because it was a very, very sad day when she had to leave the original show. TS: She’s lovely. I remember being on set, and there is one scene that Idris [Elba, who plays Macavity] and I do with Judi, and someone walked up to me with this kind of gummy candy and I was like, “Oh, I’ve never had this before, this must be British candy, this is amazing.” I was raving about this candy so much, and Judi must have overheard me, because the next day I got to my dressing room and there was a signed photo from Judi and, like, six bags of it [they laugh]. Andrew, we both started young. What do we have in common from our experiences? What do you think was hard about it? And what was great? ALW: I suppose what was hard for me was that I was a fish out of the mainstream water. In the 1960s, to love musicals was as uncool as you could possibly be, and kids in my class at school would laugh at me. TS: I was the same. I loved country music and, where I was in school, the kids were just completely perplexed by that. It’s gotten more mainstream, but when I was a 13-year-old in Pennsylvania, I got similar reactions. Do you feel like you’re glad you were really young when you started? ALW: Yeah, are you? TS: I’m really glad, even though there are challenges to it – like you’re not allowed to make the same mistakes as everyone else because your mistakes are a commodity. ALW: And your mistakes are made in public. But we share something in common, in which we are extremely lucky. We both knew at an early age what we wanted to do, and most people in life don’t have a clue. TS: That’s very true. I think, also, a lot of the time when people see a career that they want it can be results-based. Rather than wanting to write musicals, they want to be a person who has written musicals. But when I see you work, I see you consistently creating and being curious about the next idea. You relish in the process even more than the rewards, which is the advice I would give anyone who wanted to do anything remotely close to this job. It cannot be about the results. ALW: It’s the process isn’t it? TS: It has to be. It’s supposed to be fun!

MEET & GREET: Introducing the faces behind this month’s issue

When it came to interviewing Taylor Swift about her musical-movie debut in Cats, there was only one man for the job: Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer of the original West End and Broadway mega hit. The two colossi of songwriting had plenty to discuss at a recording studio in north London – art, ambition and authenticity, plus what we can expect from the soon-to-be-released film.

Vogue: What was it like to work with Taylor? Andrew Lloyd Webber: She’s supremely professional and very charming with it. In my view, she could go far. Vogue: What was your first impression of her? ALW: She’s a lot taller than me, and a lot more attractive. Vogue: What’s your favourite Swift hit? ALW: “Blank Space” from the album 1989. It’s a great pop song with great lyrics.

[skyfirewolf]

Edward Stevens: facts

After the suicide of his uncle and guardian Peter Lytton, James Hamilton went off to train with an elderly carpenter and his younger brother, Alexander Hamilton, was whisked off to the King Street home of Thomas Stevens, a well-respected merchant and his wife, Ann. Of the five children born to the married couple, Edward born a year before Alexander became his closest friend, "an intimate acquaintance begun in early youth," as Hamilton described their relationship. As they both matured, the often seemed to display parallel personalities: both were quick and clever, disciplined and persevering, fluent in French, versed in classical history, held the same morals and were interested in medicine. In later years, Edward reminded Alexander of "those vows of eternal friendship, which we have so often mutually exchanged," he often fretted about his friend's delicate health.

Their physical appearance was close. Thirty years later, when Timothy Pickering, then secretary of state, first set eyes on Edward Stevens, he was torn by their resemblance. "At first glance, I was struck with the extraordinary similitude of his and General Hamilton's faces–I thought they must be brothers." Pickering confided with shock to Edward's brother-in-law, James Yard of St. Croix only to be told that this remark was said many times before. Pickering even concluded to himself that they were in fact brothers and Hamilton was an illegitimate child of "Stevens".

Edward Stevens also went to Kings College and years before Hamilton. November 11th, 1769 is Hamilton's oldest letter surviving in his pen–the recipient was Stevens. Arriving in New York 1773, the only person he knew was Stevens. In his first months at King's, he and a friend, Robert Troup, formed a club that gathered weekly to hone debating, writing and speaking skills. Stevens was one of the members.

While married to Elizabeth Schuyler, Edward Stevens became "the guardian angel" of the household and he appeared at providential moments and tended to Eliza reassuring her she was in no danger at times of illness. During the yellow fever epidemic in 1793, Edward Seven turned up Philadelphia and attended to both Alexander and Eliza when they both contracted the disease. He treated with bark, wine, and cold baths, a regimen that stirred some controversy since Stevens scorned the bloodletting treatment advocated by most doctors including Rush. Upon his recovery, Hamilton became an advocate for Stevens's method.

(Text above is credited to sonofhistory)

- He cured Eliza and Alexander of the fever within five days

- Stevens graduated from King's College in 1774 and then sailed to Britain to study Medicine at the University of Edinburgh

- He gained his doctorate (M.D.) on September 12, 1777

- Stevens' dissertation on gastric digestion was entitled "De alimentorum concoction"

- Based on this work, he was the first researcher to isolate human gastric juices

- His work confirmed that of René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur, who showed the digestive power of gastric juices, and helped dispel earlier theories of digestion

- Stevens's work on digestion would influence Lazzaro Spallanzani

- On January 20, 1776, Stevens was admitted to the university's Royal Medical Society

- He served as the Society's president for the academic year 1779/1780. Stevens remained in Edinburgh until 1783 and was one of the joint founders of the Royal Society of Edinburgh in that year

- Stevens returned to St. Croix in 1783. He worked there as a physician for ten years

- He maintained his friendship with Hamilton through correspondence

- In adulthood, Hamilton tended to shun his turbulent adolescence, and Stevens was the only person from his childhood, including even his closest living family members, with whom he kept in regular contact

- Following the death of his wife, Eleanora, in 1792, Stevens decided to move to North America

- Stevens had considered a move to Guyana, but William Thornton urged him to choose the United States

- Also in 1792, Stevens married Hester Kortright Amory. Stevens ended his ten years of practicing medicine in the Caribbean and moved to Philadelphia in 1793

- (A/N" so he was widowed one year and married that same year, good job Ned)

- While in Philadelphia, he engaged in a controversy with Benjamin Rush on methods for treating an outbreak of yellow fever

- Stevens was admitted to the American Philosophical Society on April 18, 1794. Stevens's work in digestion may have influenced other researchers in Philadelphia, notably John Richardson Young

- In 1795, Stevens was appointed as a professor at King's College

- Stevens served as the United States consul-general in Saint-Domingue (later Haiti) from 1799 to 1800

- Stevens's title, "consul", suggested a diplomat attached to a country not a colony, reflecting the administrations view of the Haitian situation

- Following his arrival in Haiti in April 1799, Stevens succeeded in accomplishing several of his objectives, including: the suppression of privateers operating out of the colony, protections for American lives and property, and right of entry for American vessels

- Stevens pushed for similar privileges for the British, who, like the United States, were engaged in war with France

- Negotiations between Haiti and Britain were difficult given Haiti's fears of Britain's desire to take control of the colony, and Britain's fears of the Haitian slave revolt spreading to its own Caribbean colonies. In fact, Stevens had to serve as the British agent for a time since Haitian troops feared having a British official in the colony

- Little is known of Stevens's last years. For two and a half months in 1809-10, during the British occupation of the Danish West Indies, Stevens served as President of St. Croix. He corresponded with David Hosack, including a letter introducing his son in 1823

- He outlived Hamilton by thirty years

- He also referred to Hamilton as "My Dr. Ham"

- Meanwhile, Hamilton called Edward "Ned" and "Neddy" and often reffered to him as his "particular friend"

- "Throughout the remainder of 1803 Stevens attended the American Philosophical Society regularly. He is recorded as being present on October 7, October 21, November 4, November 18. In 1804 he attended on February 17 and February 24. A minute on August 17 of that year is confusing. Apparently he donated two volumes of books, but the precise readings of the Minutes is unclear. The description is "Steven's Wars. 2 Vols". Thereafter Stevens never attended again. It will be recalled that in 1804 Alexander Hamilton died in a duel with Burr, and possible then, or later Stevens retired to St Croix. David Hossack wrote to him in St. Croix in a letter dated September 20th, 1809, from New York, so by that year, certainly, Stevens had left the United States."

— Edward Stevens: Gastric physiologist, physician and American statesman

(Ned must have been significantly distressed by Hamilton's death and perhaps even moved back to St Croix because of this)

Some letters between Ned and Alexander:

"I have written you so repeatedly since my Arrival in Scotland, without having ever received an Answer... I am perfectly at a Loss I assure you, my Dr: Hamilton, to account for your Silence. I have written you frequently, and, as I know that you was at a Distance from New York, enclosed your Letters to some of our common Friends in that City, and requested them to transmit them to you. But I have not been able to collect the least Intelligence concerning you from any Quarter..."

—To Alexander Hamilton from Edward Stevens, 23 December 1777

"Who could have imagined my friend that a man of your greatness, of your delicacy of constitution, and of your tranquility, would have shone so much, and in a short space of time, in the Champ de Mars, that you did it? I assure you, my Colonel, that I have tormented myself a great deal about your health, which has always been very dear to me since the beginning of our acquaintance. I do not know how you can sustain the hardships and fatigues of a winter campaign in America. Surely your constitution would never have sustained such severity without the assistance of something very extraordinary."

— To Alexander Hamilton from Edward Stevens, 1778

"Dear Edward

This just serves to acknowledge receipt of yoursper Cap Lowndeswhich was delivered me Yesterday. The truth of Cap Lightbourn & Lowndes information is now verifyd by the Presence of your Father and Sister for whose safe arrival I Pray, and that they may convey that Satisfaction to your Soul that must naturally flow from the sight of Absent Friends in health, and shall for news this way refer you to them. As to what you say respecting your having soon the happiness of seeing us all, I wish, for an accomplishment of your hopes provided they are Concomitant with your welfare, otherwise not, tho doubt whether I shall be Present or not for to confess my weakness, Ned, my Ambition is prevalent that I contemn the grov'ling and condition of a Clerk or the like, to which my Fortune &c. condemns me and would willingly risk my life tho' not my Character to exalt my Station. Im confident, Ned that my Youth excludes me from any hopes of immediate Preferment nor do I desire it, but I mean to prepare the way for futurity. Im no Philosopher you see and may be jusly said to Build Castles in the Air. My Folly makes me ashamd and beg youll Conceal it, yet Neddy we have seen such Schemes successfull when the Projector is Constant I shall Conclude saying I wish there was a War.

. . .

PS I this moment receivd yoursby William Smith and am pleasd to see you Give such Close Application to Study."

- Alexander Hamilton to Edward Stevens, St Croix, November 11th, 1769

(Alex, hon, GET YOUR GRAMMAR TOGETHER MY BOY)

[canyouimaginethatstory]

Forever (Crowley X Reader)

AUTHOR NOTE: This was 1 of 2 prize stories picked from my 50 Tumblr followers celebration. Also, Bonjour is French for hello and chienne is French for bitch.

Summary: You are a hybrid of a witch and demon and in love with the king of hell himself, Crowley. You two were happy until something happened and you had to flee. How will you take it when you find out about his death?

You were what humans referred to as a hybrid. You were half witch and half demon. Centuries ago, a demon had taken a liking to your mother and possessed her which ended in your birth. Your mother kept you in hiding fearing for your safety. Being a witch was bad enough, but being half demon, hunters would search far and wide for you if word got out. You were lonely usually. Even after you had grown up and went off on your own. You kept to yourself honing your witching skills. The only place you felt even the least little bit at home at was in Hell. At least there you were around others like you, well the demon side anyway. That’s where you met him. He had just become the king of the crossroads when you met him, but the minute you laid eyes on him you fell head over heels in love. You could still recall the day you met him.

You were walking around the catacombs of the hell castle. You felt oddly at peace there. Even the screams of the damned didn’t seem to bug you. “Don’t see many witches here,” you heard a thick British voice say. It seemed to be mixed with a bit of Irish as well. You looked to see a demon dressed in a nice suit, his dark hair combed back.

“I’m not just a witch,” you said letting your french accent escape a little as you flashed your black eyes.

“A demon witch?” he said intrigued, “never thought such mix would assist,”.

“Yes well,” you said, “who are you?”

“You can call me Crowley,” he said, “king of the crossroads,”.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, “other than being a hybrid nothing too special about me,”.

“Oh I’m sure there’s more to you than that love,” he said, “how about I take you to dinner and we can get to know one another,”.

“Sure,” you said smiling at him, “sounds lovely,”.

From that point on you were pretty much joined at the hip. You became closer every time you two were together. He loved when you would flirt with him in French. Before long you two were a couple. You even tagged along when he made deals. Truth be told you would even get others to make deals. Usually flirting around the bar. Evan the hell hounds Crowley had seemed to like you. You could pet them whenever you wanted. Then you met her. His mother, Rowena.

You walked into Crowley’s then little office. “Hello love,” he greeted you with a hug and kiss.

“Who is this Fergus?” you heard someone ask. You noticed a mix of anger and annoyance cross his face.

“I’m afraid we have company,” he said, “mother this is my girlfriend Y/N, Y/N this is my mother, Rowena,”. You had heard of Rowena here and there. She was a witch known for joining and then being kicked off every coven she ever tried to be part of.

“Bonjour,” you said holding out your hand. She just looked at you.

“You’re a witch?” she asked. You nodded.

“But there’s something different about you,”, she said, “something not witchy, but not human either,”.

“I’m not human,” you said flashing your black eyes. Rowena looked shocked.

“She’s a demon witch?” she asked, “you went and got yourself mixed up with a hybrid?”.

“Mother, stop being rude,” Crowley said taking your hand, “Y/N may be a hybrid, but she is very important to me and I will not allow her disrespected,”.

“If hunters get wind of her they’ll kill you both,” Rowena warned.

“Let them try mother,” Crowley said and turned to you, “come love, I’ll treat you to dinner someplace less crowded,”. And with that, you two vanished. Later while you were going through some spells in the castle library Rowena appeared.

“I know what you’re up to,” she said, “you are only with Fergus because he’s a successful man,”.

“No,” you said standing up, “I could care less if he was successful or if he was even any kind of demonic royalty. Your son treats me like I matter. I love your son and he loves me so get used to it,”.

“I’m warning you right now Y/N,” Rowena said, “you either leave my son alone or I’ll make every hunter I can find aware of your existence,”.

“Chienne!” you shouted, “you don’t scare me, Rowena, just wait until your son finds out,”. With that, she huffed off.

Unfortunately, Rowena made good on her threat when you didn’t stop seeing Crowley. You didn’t think she was serious, but to you, Crowley was worth the danger. You had never known love or true freedom until you met him. You loved him. It hurt so much when you realized you had to run. To hide so no hunter could find you. You remember Crowley holding as you cried. Begging him to find some other way to keep you safe from the hunters that didn’t involve leaving him.

“Please Crowley,” you pleaded into his neck as you held onto him tight, “there has to be another way to hide. Don’t send me away,”. Crowley gently cupped your face in his hands as you looked up at him.

“For the moment love there isn’t,“ he said wiping away stray tears with his thumbs, “but I promise you as soon as I take care of my mother I’ll come for you,”. That just caused more tears to flow. He gave you a soft kiss and just held you for as long as he could.

That was the last time you saw the man you loved. Not a day had gone by you didn’t think of him. You missed feeling his arms around you. The only place you felt safe and protected. You missed his kisses. You missed being with him in hell. Your true home. What you missed most was his voice. What you wouldn’t give to hear him call you love or darling again. You could always sense him in a way, but lately, you felt off. Like something was wrong. The feeling grew by the day and eventually, you just couldn’t take it anymore. You decided to go home, find Crowley, and make sure he was ok.

You searched all over the castle and found nothing. Not even demons would tell you where he was. Some would just smirk and vanish. You had only one place left to go but really didn’t want too. You used a tracking spell to find her and you stood in front of her door. Taking a deep breath you knocked. She opened the door and looked shocked. “Y/N?” she asked.

“Bonjour Rowena,” you greeted, “I'm in no mood for games. I need to know is Crowley ok?”. You noticed a look cross the witch’s face. It was a mix of sadness and grief.

“Come in,” she offered as you walked in.

“Something has been off lately,” you said, “like I can’t sense him anymore,”.

“You really don’t know?” she asked. Panic started to set in.

“Know what?” you asked.

“Y/N dear,” she said, “Fergus...is dead,”.

You remember a coldness spread through your body and an ache so strong in your chest you screamed as you ran out of Rowena’s place. You weren’t sure where you were running to, but you felt you had too. Like running would somehow lead you to Crowley. Like it would change what Rowena had told you. Eventually, you couldn’t run anymore and you slumped down against a tree. You had ended up in a forest somewhere. All you could do then was cry. Soon you felt yourself drift off until there was nothing but darkness.

When you woke up you were laying on a bench in a huge yard. You sat up and looked around. When you looked behind you there was a huge mansion. It was almost the size of the hell castle. You walked to the doors and went inside. “Hello?” you called, “anyone here?”. You didn’t get a reply at first.

“Y/N darling,” you heard a familiar voice say, “you’re looking even more beautiful than I remember,”.

Crowley?” you asked, “is that really you?”.

“Of course it is,” he said. You couldn’t stop yourself from running to him and jumping right into his arms.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you said.

“And I’ve missed you, love,” he said.

“But, I don’t understand,” you said, “how are you here? How am I here? Where are we?”.

“Come, love,” he said, “I’ll explain everything,” Crowley lead you inside and as he showed you around he explained everything.

“So, I died?” you asked, “in that forest?”. He nodded, “how?” you asked.

“Of a broken heart love,” he said, “now our dream world is complete because we’re together again,”. You smiled and gave him a soft kiss.

“I’m glad,” you said, “being without you is something I never wanna experience again,”.

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[degreeprojectjg]

Reshoots

There some photographs that I wasn’t completely satisfied with therefore I decided to re shoot couple of the shots that I had taken in the previous year. In addition, I also want to create additional photographs to fill in as supplementary images. I wanted the project to have more varieties and options to experiment with, whilst I already had some strong photographs, I want to re-shoot to refine them.

Winter Holiday Shoot

Portrait of my Father

New Shoot

I want to improve on portrait of my father as he’s quite an important figure in my project and life. He’s quite central to my project’s theme as he represents my Nepalese identity as he’s former Nepalese British soldier. His presence and status made me who I am. In the previous semester, I thought some of the photographs of him wasn’t strong enough, they were great starting point but it lacked the power punch to me. 

For the new shoot, I want to re shoot the photographs of him wearing the ‘Gurkha Beret’ who is symbolic to that of Nepalese identity. I want to style him, where he wears something that makes him authoritative whilst being subtle. I have couple of shots in mind where I want to make him quite prominent in the shots whilst also vulnerable.  Within the shoot, I  want to play upon this role of an retired Gurkha soldier looking back at his younger years. I want the photographs to appear reflective in that sense.

This shoot was predominantly be about my father, creating photographs that reflects a sense of Nepalese identity which is quite prominent in the photographs, suggested by the Gurkha Beret.

The stronger images are in the first contact sheet where the portraits of my father on a garden against the house in the background is quite striking, making my father appear prominent as his figure is authoritative and bold. The close-ups aren’t as strong, the only striking one is the ‘portra40004-4′ where my father appears vulnerable yet physical in the sense of his figure.

The shoot was result of spur of a moment, whilst I was with my camera with few rolls. The evening light was just right to photograph, the sun was coming straight through our window and the light was falling fast. In the shoot, I aimed to capture raw and intimate moments between our family, it showed a different perspective to previous photographs. The first portrait of my father is a quite strong, it’s visually striking and bold with the use of bright, vivid colours. The detailed shot of my father’s hand (with a gold ring) caressing his head offers a more ‘poetic’ way to his life where it could suggest life after retirement. In the later stage of the shoot as the light was fading fast, I had this idea to create photographs of my father and niece through a window, I liked this idea of a layer of glass between us, it provides you with an insight to the subject’s life whilst being quite distant, this could perhaps suggest my separation from my Nepalese identity through the distance from my father in the photograph.

Final Conclusion:

I think the shoot was very effective as  they reflect this sense of nostalgia as I photograph my father wearing his  soldier hat. I mentioned previously that despite this project is very personal, the work has universal themes that explores the sense of belonging, I think the shots reflect this. As I photographed, I confronted my father  about Nepalese identity, the process was quite meditative, I think this shows  in the photograph. The active dialogue between the photographer and the subject (and inevitably the viewer) became for me the  essential point of a photograph.

The photographs of my father are quite important in the project as I explore the notion of being a ‘Nepalese man’. In the project, there are some universal themes of having a sense of belonging and  questioning of identity. Through the portraits, I’m confronting the notion of being a Nepalese man, they’re my ideas of a Nepalese man. 

Now that I have covered my father. I'd like to re-direct my focus on my mother who's the most important aspect of  this project. In the previous semester, I had one of my strongest photographs in the project of my mother. The black and white portraits were striking and had this classic timeless yet nostalgic feel to them. Although they were strong, I want to do couple a re-shoots with the ideas mentioned.

She is very central in the theme of this project, as well as my  life, she's the reason I'm here and the reason I'm able to do what I do. So  far, I have created photographs that are quite unusual and intimate, I want  to move away from and want to hone in on her Nepalese identity.

Photo-shoot II

New Test:

In this shoot, I want to focus strongly on my mother, she's a very strong figure in this project therefore I want to  make her quite dominant yet sensitive in the photographs. To make this a strong shoot, I want to use black and white film (Ilford FP4) to highlight  her as a significant figure. I want to use a Nepalese scarf/ blanket, also  known as 'stole' which is what typically a Nepalese women will be seen in, especially where my mother is from, a village near the top of the hill where  it's very cold therefore the stole is quite effective in that sense.  Especially the pattern of the stole, which is plaid, this type is prominently  in seen in Nepalese women.

I want to create photographs in a  studio like situation since we don't have one. I have this idea of using our back garden as a studio backdrop which acts as a studio backdrop to highlight my  mother. Although it's quite a formal situation, I want to experiment with  various shots that aren't so formal.

The nature of black and white is very  minimal, it leads you to focus on the important aspects of a photograph such  as the frame, lines and figures. I want to use this nature of black and white  to create strong looking photographs that emphasise the strong figure of my  mother.

Conclusion:

The photographs turned out be effective  in my eyes. The use of black and white worked really well as it shows the  figure of my mother, making her seem prominent in the photographs. Although the photographs seem straightforward, they are photographs with a strong  framework of exploration of my mother's identity and my very own, of my home  and what it means with careful examination of it.

The photographs feel quite nostalgic to me. I think I have instinctively created photographs of my mother as I see or how I’ve seen her throughout the years. My mother is a prominent figure in my identity, she has transcended the ideas of Nepalese identity throughout my life. The photographs seems like romanticised ideas of my mother, it’s how I see her, striking and dominant whilst she depicts her soft, delicate side, especially evident in ‘img404′.

The portraits of my mother evoke the questioning of home, my very own sense of belonging and  identity since I began my life with her. My identity started from her.  Photographing my mother is a way of confronting my identity and it's a way to  build it as well. It's this strong urge to preserve my Nepalese identity that drives me as I attempt to rekindle my relationship. The whole project has been a way of creating a  sense of attachment to my Nepalese identity but also my separation from them.

The re shoot was a great success for me, the photographs reflect an intimate relationship between me and my parents. My work draws huge influences from Larry Sultan & Nigel Shafran where my photographs convey a feeling of attachment and a deep exploration of my family. Photography is ultimately personal; it contains sentimental knowledge and a truth that can serve as a point of departure for our own interpretations. Photographs in this project have a very strong link to the idea of "punctum" which Roland Barthes describes it as "the love of an image". In my work, I aim to convey such feeling, that personally touching detail which establishes a direct relationship with the object or person with it to the viewer. The camera becomes this "bridge" that enables me to connect with my family on a personal level. The whole project has been a way of creating a sense of attachment to my Nepalese identity but also my separation from them.

Overall, the work has an intimacy to it which underscores the closeness and bond of my family. Although the work varies from still life, portraits and landscapes, the photographs draw you in and you instead gaze on the intricate personal details of the figures seemingly lost in their own world. Although deeply personal, the work welcomes you into it's lost world, evoking a sense of understanding and vulnerability.

Project Proposal

My work focuses on this idea of being lost, with me being Nepalese who has long lived in the UK. It explores intimacy, distance, and often tensions between my torn identity. I aim to use experimental photographic medium such as polaroid and film to interrogate the personal and culture issues around migration, displacement and colonialism found within the South Asian Diaspora. Focusing on my family and how our relationship, memories and bodies are intertwined. The photographs reflect a mood of confinement and my relationship with the Nepalese/British identity.

Semester B

I have effectively completed my re shoots, I will focus on on refining the project to be more clear and clarify the project to be more straightforward whilst also quite open and ambiguous. Now, I want to focus on promotion, design, exhibition layout, printing options, etc. This semester will primary focus on promotion, publication, refinement and having tangible products of the project.

Goals moving forward

-Scan film on Hasselblad scanner for high quality scans (Backed Up on 2 HD) by end of February

-Enter Competitions / Open Calls- Focus on promoting

-For the exposure, get artistic statement and the project statement ready

-Short PDF explaining about the project and the collection of photographs

-Critical Rationale, talking about your process and practice

[snarkymonkeyprime]

I feel I’ve lost whatever talent I had with this book but, at least Xerynn can be fun to write still.

    “And this,” Destiny said, pointing toward the man behind the desk, “is your benefactor, Xerynn.”

    “My benefactor?”  He took a step back as the man rose, the single, thick braid of gray draped over one shoulder and perched there like a waiting snake.  Black eyes.  Kai’s stomach twisted violently.  He’d read about people with eyes so dark they appeared black but these . . . these were black.  Kai was certain he could go crazier than he already was by staring at them.  He swallowed and glanced away.  Not that it helped.  He could feel Xerynn’s eyes on him like fire pokers.  “Aren’t benefactors those creepy old guys who groom kids?”  He risked another look, relieved to find that whatever threat he’d thought he’d seen there had faded.

    The creep factor hadn’t, however.  Xerynn was a strikingly handsome man, tall and visibly strong. Skin clear and flawless, dark brows in contrast to the silver gray.  He didn’t look much older than Kai so he had to wonder if it was premature graying; not that he’d ever ask.  He was pretty sure Xerynn would disembowel him for suggesting it.

    Still, as pleasant looking as the man was, he oozed menace.  The expensive suit he wore and the manicured hands did little to ease that feeling.  If anything, it only increased it.  As did the office itself.  Exquisite dark woods and floor-to-ceiling shelves of law books and god knew what else.  

    Kai tried not to fidget but his feet wiggled of their own accord and he only tried to keep it from being obvious.  Xerynn’s sneer proved he failed.  Surprise.

    “Groom?”  One dark brow lifted.  “While I am impressed you have heard of the word, I doubt that anyone would waste an ounce of energy grooming you for anything.”  

    While still nervous and bewildered by the last two hours of events, his usual behavior surfaced quicker than he could stop.  “Fuck you, too.”  The blood drained from his face but he was able to glare at Xerynn for almost two whole seconds before he stared at a spot over the man’s shoulder.

    “Charming.”  Xerynn’s lip twitched.  His gaze remained on Kai a moment longer before he shifted, focusing on the woman at Kai’s side.  “Destiny.  Darling.  Why did you bring this twat into my office?”

    “I’m not British but I know that’s not a compliment.  I’ve watched Monty Python.”  He cringed when Xerynn focused on him again.

    “Excellent.  He’s educated.”  He sighed and looked at Destiny again.  “Well?”

    Unaffected by Xerynn’s obvious antagonism, she smiled.  “I’m doing you a favor, brother dear!”

    Kai’s neck almost snapped with the speed he turned to her. “Brother?!  This asshole is your brother?”  Which . . . okay fine, maybe that meant they were step siblings?  Not that he wanted to ask about parentage. He coughed at her amusement.  “Well, I mean . . . uh, he’s not Japanese.”

    She shrugged.  “Oh, that.” She waved a hand, rings dancing under the office lights.  “Believe me, he’s my brother and he’s being purposefully dense right now.”

    Xerynn sniffed.  “Care to explain?”

    Head tilted, black hair swinging, she grinned.  “Do you forget that you’re the only one who can seal a Servitor?”  She reached up and rested a hand on Kai’s shoulder.  “I figured I’d save you a trip and bring him here.”  She wagged a finger.  “And don’t play coy; you sent Tony to us.”

    “Frankly, I had hoped he would arrive too late,” Xerynn replied. He stared at Kai.  “What he failed to mention, however, was how old this one is.”

    “’This one’ is right in front of you,” he grumbled.

    “By rights, you should be dead,” Xerynn went on.

    Rude.  And against his better judgment, he began to believe Destiny’s insistence that she and Xerynn were gods.  What little reality he had left faded like so much smoke.  Which mean Xerynn was already fully aware of all that had happened and was just being a dick about it.  “So you know about the whole Dek thing?”

    He frowned.  “Dek . . . thing?”

    “Oh, right.”  Destiny straightened, hands folded at her back.  “There may be a slight complication with this one.”  She pointed at Kai.  “There might have been a Chaos demon with him.”

    At the last Xerynn’s eyes darted to Kai, the black now cracked with gleaming red.  “Oh?” he prodded calmly.  “Be thankful it likely a wayward minion; it will be dead soon enough.”

    “Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to think that, Xerynn.”  Destiny patted Kai’s shoulder as she said, “Demon lord.”  She patted Kai again, almost proud as she said, “Lord of Clan Tulath, no less.”

    Kai didn’t even register movement.  One moment, he stood beside Destiny, the other god across the room and the next, Xerynn loomed before him, a bright gleaming blade held out, its honed tip lifting Kai’s chin painfully.

    “My, but you do learn fast,” Xerynn stated, sounding far more calm than he looked given the spread of crimson along eyes and cracking through his skin.

    “Y-you mean, Dek?” Kai stammered through clenched teeth, wary of making his chin move too much.  “He’s kind of a dick but he won’t do anything.”  I hope.  Oh, man; I hope I’m not lying.

    “Brilliant, you’ve named it,” Xerynn remarked.  Still holding Kai in his gaze, he snapped, “Where is the monstrosity?”

    “Here.”  The door edged open full and Kai heard Dek’s heavy tread behind him.  “I want no war with the gods of Curat.  I only wish vengeance upon the one who slew my clan.”

    Xerynn’s eyes narrowed to a bright, painful ember.  “Indeed.”  The sword snapped away and Kai rubbed his chin frantically as Xerynn slid it back into its scabbard.  The light was gone from his eyes and face, the handsome façade once more in place.  He leaned the sword cane against his desk and added, “Lord, correct?”

    Still rubbing his chin, Kai began, “He sa—“ he stopped at Xerynn’s upheld hand.

    “Yes,” Dek replied.  “I know that Kai Walker is not my enemy.  If he is yours, neither are you.”  

    Xerynn’s thick dark brows lowered along with his hand.  “I have no need to chaperone a creature such as yourself.  Your kind is anathema to this world.”

    “I am aware,” the demon answered.

    “At least someone is,” Xerynn said.  He rested his ass against his desk, arms folded.  “Why should I trust that you will not harm this world?”

    Kai watched Dek’s lenses spin rapidly before going still.  “This is not my world.  But my home is no longer my own.  Without my clan, I am nothing there.”  Dek sighed.  “Though it pains me, I feel I will need to remain here.  I would not wish to destroy that which would house me.”

    “Very well.”  He pushed away from the desk and strode to Kai.  “You.  I hold you responsible for anything and everything he might do.  Should you fail, I will take you apart myself; clear?”

   “Crystal.”

    “Good.”  Xerynn grinned.  “And while it may be petty of me, I am aware that this next step is quite painful for your kind.”

   Kai’s eyes widened.  “What?”

   He squawked when the god grabbed him by the forehead.

   “Do try to avoid pissing yourself like the last one.  Ms. Lusk is not a fan of explaining such messes.”

[elphenfan]

The Great Bakerstreet Bake Off - Chapter 6

No, this hasn’t been forgotten. Quite the opposite and we’re definitely moving in this chapter :)

Recipe for the day (sorta)

So…what did all this behaviour add up to?

That was the question that John mulled over the next few days. It wasn’t a question easily answered, though, by the simple fact of who was the cause of the question.

On the one hand, there were several different things that had been done which fell decidedly outside the norm. It wasn’t just the fact that they were baking together or even that Sherlock had decided baking programmes couldn’t be watched without being plastered up against a poor army doctor. It was the amount of seemingly unintentional touches, the accidental almost-kiss and the patience that doesn’t normally exist outside running experiments.

On the other, however, none of it had happened until they had started baking and that had only started because of a bet, hadn’t it? Furthermore, the things that had changed had stayed very firmly confined to the times connected in some way with baking.

The trouble with that was that it meant it could as well be the brunette performing some form of experiment on his flatmate. He had no real idea what that experiment would be but then he wasn’t the genius in the house, was he?

But then that past week had happened. That past week which had included not only Sherlock being mindful of John in general, but mindful and caring of his hand and what he could manage, going so far as to choose a bake that they could make with only three functioning hands between them.

As if that wasn’t enough, the downright impossible had happened; Sherlock had turned down a case. A case that was interesting, which he would normally have jumped at, he had turned down and turned down quite emphatically and for what? A day spent together with John, baking.

He hadn’t even called Lestrade back when they’d finished baking to say that he was available then. instead he’d stayed with John, trying their bake and fussing around to make sure that baking hadn’t worsened the few blisters that had appeared on his hand.

Despite that, and it was quite a major that, especially given it was Sherlock, John was still a bit reluctant to think of it as definitive indication. He knew he was being overly cautious and suspicious but he couldn’t really help it.

The thing that had definitively pushed it over into the territory of ‘intentional and genuine’ in the doctor’s mind was the combination of the consideration and care with the fact that he had made heart-shaped bakes not once, but twice. One or the other on its own he wouldn’t dare call it but in combination, he felt like he could nourish a tentative hope.

His resolve was strengthened by the fact that the care to his hand continued well after there was no real need for it. There was no other indication but there didn’t need to be.

Wednesday was a quiet day at the surgery but John still came home late, just twenty minutes to the start of the show, due to a few incidents on the tube, to find the coffee table cleared and stocked with not only the by then customary selection but with a few bits and pieces that looked decidedly homemade. Homemade but quite a far cry from the misshapen lumps supposed to be scones from a few weeks previous.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking quite nonchalant as he toyed with his violin but his eyes honed in on John the moment he was through the door, then followed his gaze to the coffee table before returning to stare at the doctor.

“When will you learn that taking the tube home when it’s pouring down will only add approximately 18 minutes to your journey?” he asked by way of greeting. He made no comment on the things he’d obviously made which John found a bit odd, given his normal tendencies.

It didn’t take a genius to work out the brunette had thought he wouldn’t make it in time.

“Pouring down is the status quo of the British weather, Sherlock, and I’m hardly going to walk the whole way when it’s bucketing, am I?”

“You’ve got a reasonably durable coat.”

John shrugged off said coat which was dripping water onto the floor. ‘Reasonably durable’ was apparently a way of saying ‘not really capable of withstanding the heavens opening’.

“I’ve also got shoes with a crack in the soles that I only found out about this morning when I stepped in a puddle.” He toed off said shoes and made straight for the sofa. “So, you can perhaps see why I wasn’t all too keen on walking the entire way back home, overcrowded tube or not. Now, as much as I enjoy it when you decide to play your violin, I’d rather watch the Bake Off with you.”

He smiled warmly. “Come on. It’s about to start. You made all the preparations, you can’t really back out now.”

The lanky body practically propelled itself out of the chair, stopped briefly to deposit the instrument and then moved quickly over to the sofa, almost falling onto it. “I had no intention to,” he said softly, smiling.

“Right.” John smiled back. “It’s…what is it this week? I forget.”

The answer came promptly. “Botanical week.”

“Ah. That might explain why I didn’t remember. Sounds like a girl’s tea party, serving her dollies ‘cakes’ that are bunches of plucked dandelions.”

“Good to see you’ve got no preconceptions.”

“All I’m saying is that I am not baking anything that’s mainly petals.”

“Guess my plan for sprinkling rose petals all over a wedding cake is out the window, then.”

John made a sound between a choke and a laugh. “Like we’d ever be able to eat that, never mind bake it.”

“Who said we’d eat it on our own?”

Don’t go there, Sherlock. Don’t go getting my hopes up for something that’s never going to happen. “People will talk if we ask them to help out with eating the remains of a wedding cake. Everyone knows what a traditional wedding cake tastes like.”

“People do little else.” With that, Sherlock tilted sideways until he was in his customary place snuggled up against John’s side and turned on the TV. “Now you’ve made us miss the intro.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” John knew better than to point out that nothing important was said during the cold open; when Sherlock had decided that something was worthy of his attention, he gave it completely.

“It’s alright. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to tape it for us.”

Why all the blooming fuss about us missing the show, then? the doctor groused internally though he thought he might know the reason.

As the talk about the signature challenge, a citrus meringue pie, started up, John settled himself in a little bit better. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, though, his eyes fixed on the screen. You could almost hear him take mental notes, though it didn’t mean he’d settled on that bake.

“Hang on, Italian meringue? French? I thought meringue was meringue. What’s the difference?”

“For those two? What the consistency of the sugar added is. For French, it’s granulated sugar and for Italian, it’s sugar syrup. As for the Swiss that she – “

“That’s Jane.”

“That she is making, that is a French meringue done over a ban marie, a water bath. Well, more or less that.”

“Well, ta for assuming I don’t know what a ban marie is, plonker. We, no, I used the ban marie on our very first bake together, if you remember. Actually, as I recall, you were the one who wanted to melt the chocolate in the microwave oven.”

“Live and learn, John.”

“Funny how you always say stuff like that when you’re the one in the wrong.”

“Mmh,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “Go back to drooling over that lipstick-woman and pretending it’s over the cakes.”

“It is over the cakes. Some of those look downright amazing. She’s really not my type.” There was a snort. “She’s not!”

Sherlock looked up from his position snuggled against John’s side. “True,” he conceded, smiling a smile that made John’s stomach do an odd but pleasant tumble. “You’ve gotten far better taste in the time I’ve known you.”

“Thanks. I suppose you’ll be taking credit for that one as well, then?” John said with an answering smile, trying to ignore his suddenly thumping heart.

The smile only widened. “Of course.”

“Right.”

There was a pause as they just sat looking at each other.

A noise from the TV broke the moment.

“Do you…do you want to watch the judging of the pies?” John knew his voice was shaking ever so slightly.

Sherlock nodded, the bobbing coming quickly.

John couldn’t help smiling when Tom got first place in the technical challenge.

“I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”

“Not exactly a hard-won deduction.”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. We are not doing a three-tiered cake of any sort, let alone with blooming flowers on or in it.”

“Interesting choice of word. What, scared you can’t pull it off?”

John hesitated but not because he was unsure of whether he could do a tiered cake or not. He was fairly certain that he could, even if it wasn’t exactly up to snuff. What he was contemplating instead was a thought he’d toyed with all evening; to snake his arm out and rest the elbow on the back of the sofa in a way that would effectively put his arm around Sherlock without touching him.

The risk was minimal, really, when he thought about it. If the detective noticed, it could be chalked up to just happening to rest his arm there and besides, Sherlock was hardly in a position to complained, practically snuggled up against the shorter man as he was.

So why was John hesitating?

You’re scared of the next step that’s going to come if this goes right, an inner voice told him. Nothing fancy about it, you’re just scared because if you muck it up, you might end up losing your best friend.

But he was given, for Sherlock, some rather major signals that advances wouldn’t be turned down, wasn’t he? Was he?

Not that, idiot. How many girlfriends have you had that have clearly wanted you as a romantic partner only for that to go south? And they were not infuriating, mercurial, insecure, brilliant, gorgeous madmen who’d probably never had a romantic partner in his life.

He realized he still hadn’t answered the question but he had thankfully not paused long enough to rouse suspicion.

Stretching a bit in an attempt to make the arm movement seem somewhat more natural, he answered, “No more scared than you – and no, that doesn’t mean it’s another bet. We’re not baking that. If nothing else, we haven’t got the tools or the materials.” His arm had landed exactly where he wanted it to.

“That can be arranged.”

“No. Just please, no.” He briefly considered pleading that his hand was not healed enough but knew that wouldn’t really go over too well. “Look, if you really want to do a showstopper, and I can understand why you’d want to, we’ll do the next one, yeah?”

“The next two.”

“I’m not going to argue with you like you’re a kid begging for another go on the dodgems, Sherlock.”

“Dodgems are boring.”

“Sherlock.”

“The next two.”

“Oh, alright, fine. The next two are going to be the showstoppers – “ he held up a finger “ – providing, no, listen, providing that they don’t go absolutely nuts with the brief. They are getting progressively more difficult.”

“That’s rather the point, John. In any case, they’re not the only ones who have advanced, are they?”

John smiled. “True,” he conceded.

His smile broadened when Sherlock settled back against him, the wiggling pushing at the back cushion enough for John’s arm to slip further and land firmly across the detective’s back instead of just hovering just around it. There was no indication of discomfort. If John was to call it, he would actually say it was quite the opposite.

Another tick in the ‘intentional and genuine’ box, I should think.

“No way.”

“John, you’re being ridiculous.”

They were standing in a somewhat crowded supermarket Saturday morning.

“It’s not being ridiculous not wanting to ruin an otherwise possibly good bake with a taste that brings bake some rather unpleasant memories.”

“They were a bit off, that was all.”

“’Orange with fingers’ is not something that can be described merely as a bit off. We are not using oranges and we are not arguing here!”

“You’re the one who’s raising his voice in the middle of the fruit and veg, not me.”

“No, but you’re the one who insisted on coming with me, only to hover behind me like some stupid scarecrow and put things in the trolley we don’t need.”

“Having a bit of a domestic, are you?” came a sweet voice from behind them. They turned to find a smallish middle-aged-going-on-old woman with a hairdo more commonly seen in the eighties and clothing more suited for a young woman smiling at them.

“None of your business,” Sherlock snapped.

The woman’s smile wavered slightly at the brusqueness but she persevered. “I’m so sorry, too nosy for my own good, I know. My husband’s always telling me, ‘Bez’, he says…oh, listen to me prattling on.” She fiddled with her earring. “All I wanted to say was it’s so sweet to see two young people comfortable enough with each other to have a small, boring row in the supermarket over trivialities – just like the rest of us.”

With that, she turned and headed back to her equally smallish husband, complete with sensible jumpers and glasses.

“The thought of being ‘just like’ her is quite frankly appalling,” Sherlock commented, his face and subsequently voice very close to John’s. “The most interesting thing about her is the fact that she’s involved with not one but two of her bosses, both significantly younger than her.”

“Does the husband know?” John couldn’t help asking.

“Only about one of them. He feels proud of her.”

In a strange way, I get why. “Each to their own.”

“Still doesn’t give her the right to interfere where she isn’t wanted.”

“She was just attempting to diffuse an apparent situation, Sherlock.”

The brunette snorted. “She was being nosy and attempting to boost her own confidence by assuring herself that what she does is what everyone else does.”

We were arguing, you have to grant her that and it’s not the best place to – oi, don’t just try to sneak the oranges in when I’m distracted.”

“Fine. We’ll let your irrational, sudden aversion to oranges be this time. What else do you suggest, then? Lime and coconut?” The suggestion had a sharp tinge to it.

“Oh, come off it.” If he didn’t know better, John might suspect a tiny slip of jealousy. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t thinking of copying any of the pies in there, actually.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“What, you can’t guess it?”

“I cannot pull deductions out of thin air. That’s guesswork. I don’t deal in guesswork.”

“I thought we could use some mangos,” John suggested, reaching for the fruit as he spoke. “If we’re going to make a citrus meringue pie, we need to make a curd and…well, I happen to like mango. We could puree it.”

“We could still make a three-tier sunflower cake.”

“We could but,” and John’s smile turned into something of a smirk, “either you’re eating all of it yourself or you’re going around the Yard with the leftovers.”

“Mango meringue pie it is.”

“Okay, which recipe have you deemed worthy of your time for this one, then? Another Berry one?”

“No.”

John got out the pie tin with the loose base they’d also ended up picking up while out shopping. The argument had been that it would be much easier to get the pie out of such a tin instead of a regular one.

“Fair enough. Might be good to use someone else’s recipe for a change. Who, then?”

“No one. We’re not following a specific recipe.”

“What?” John stopped his rummage through the fridge for the eggs, having pushed aside a few experiments that had thankfully been put in jars this time, to look up at his friend with a frown. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve made shortcrust pastry before.”

“We haven’t made curd before. We haven’t made meringue before. Both are things that can be mucked very easily. Look, do you want this one to go wrong? Is that it?”

“What? No!” Sherlock looked hurt as well as indignant. “Of course not!”

“Oh, really? Cause it sure sounds like it – or is the great Sherlock Holmes arrogant enough to think that once he’s had a few passable bakes he can just freestyle everything?”

“It’s not freestyling.”

“Really? What is it, then?”

The doctor could feel his annoyance building. This was supposed to be something they did together, something that they put time and effort into and all of a sudden, Sherlock had decided to be cavalier and laissez-faire about it; about a thing where he’d previously lavished attention and care, not just on the bake but on John, too.

The implications of the new attitude weren’t something the blonde liked at all.

“I was going to find separate recipes for each one!”

“You what?”

Pale eyes skittered around, not meeting John’s, and of all things, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip ever so slightly. “I…I don’t want us to fail baking. I want to make a perfect pie.” He met John’s gaze. “But I couldn’t find one that was with mango at all so I thought that maybe if we took the shortcrust we knew worked and then got good separate recipes on the curd and the meringue, we could be far more certain of a good bake!”

That made John pause. “You’re…you’re not just backpedalling, are you? Not just trying to placate me?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said, emphatic.

That was…incredibly sweet and suddenly the doctor felt an idiot. Right…okay, right. That…makes sense, a whole lot of sense. Thank you.” He reached out and grabbed a bony hand, squeezing it.

“Thank you,” he repeated, smiling up at the other.

Sherlock, however, was looking at their hands. There was a visible swallow.

“Sherlock?” They’d held hands before, although unintentionally, at least on John’s part. He hadn’t gone too far by doing this, had he?

“You’re welcome,” the brunette said eventually. He slowly tugged his hand back but it didn’t seem to be out of discomfort. “I... I found this for the mango curd.”

He dug into his trouser pocket for his phone, unlocked it and showed it to his flatmate.

John leaned closer to see, thinking that the time might be right for reading glasses after all, and scanned the recipe.

“Alright. That looks rather doable,” he admitted. “It’s just for a normal lemon curd, though, with just the juice. Are you sure we can transfer that to a mango?”

“If we puree it properly and then add some more butter, we can do it.”

“We’ve never done even regular curd before.”

Sherlock smiled. “But isn’t doing something new where we excel?” he asked, voice strangely soft.

John swallowed. The air suddenly seemed somewhat stifling. “True,” he answered, equally softly.

He wanted so much to just close the gap and kiss Sherlock, finally feel if those lips were as plush and soft as they appeared, soppy as that sounded.

His moment was gone before he mustered the courage; Sherlock had turned to continue pulling out the things they’d need for the bake. There was some definite colour dotting those high cheekbones again.

“So…we’re to blind bake this one, too, right? That’s what the contestants did, right?”

“If we want to minimize the risk of a soggy bottom, it would seem the smart choice.”

“Don’t go knocking the soggy bottoms, they can be a lot of fun,” John said completely straight-faced as he got the eggs and the butter out and put them on the table. He thought he heard a small snigger but he wasn’t sure.

“Bugger.”

“What now?”

“How are we supposed to puree it? We don’t have a blender.”

“Ah.” Curls bobbed as Sherlock dipped down to pull something out from a shelf. “Will a hand blender do?” he asked, holding it up almost triumphantly.

“When did we get that?”

“Months ago; I needed to see if eyeballs – “

“Sherlock, what did I say about discussing things like that when we’re baking?”

“You’ve said nothing of the sort. You said I shouldn’t mention entrails at the dinner table – and to forestall you asking, no, I never used it.”

“Good.” John reached for it, letting himself enjoy the feel of their hands touching briefly. “Which meringue type are you going for, by the way? Swiss?”

“French, I think.”

“That seems awfully simple for you, no offense.”

Conversation was postponed while John turned on the hand blender and blitzed the chopped-up mango in the bowl.

“No need to make it overly complicated just for its own sake.”

“Oh? So, I’m not worth impressing, am I?”

“Impress? No.” John’s heart didn’t have time to sink. “Amaze? Most definitely.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the oven and pulled out the tin so he could remove the baking parchment with the beans and then put the pastry back in for its final bake pre-curd.

He straightened back up to find John cutting the butter into cubes before he turned his attention back to the pot.

“Is it just the yolks?”

The doctor shook his head. “The recipe you found said to use whole eggs so that’s what I’m doing. Got the preserving sugar, the mango and the eggs in here but damned if I know whether it’s thickening or not. I think we might have been better off just using some mango juice, if I’m honest.”

“Is it harder to stir than when you started?” Sherlock asked, moving closer.

“I think so, actually, if I – oi, you keep a bit of distance when I’ve got anything hot on here. It was your fault last time.”

“I have to be close to the oven if I’m to watch the pastry, John – if you’re that worried, you could have bought a portable stove.”

“And have the whole fire brigade in here again? Ta, I think I’ll pass.” Deeming the concoction had indeed started to thicken, he slowly started adding the butter, stirring throughout. He was cheered by the fact that it started to look right, if nothing else.

“You’re such a worry wart.” Sherlock bent to check on the pastry again and, apparently deeming it sufficiently baked, took it out and left it on the table to cool a bit.

“With an overgrown toddler in the house, I have to be to survive.”

Sherlock merely shrugged in response. “Remember that there should be some thickening agent in that, too,” he commented, his back to John as he separated the eggs and put the egg whites into a clean bowl. We don’t want it wobbling or the moisture seeping into the meringue.”

“Yeah, cheers, I remember that.” He hadn’t but Sherlock didn’t need to know. “You just whisk the meringue properly, please.”

Sherlock sniffed and turned on the electric whisk. The noise drowned out pretty much everything else but the whisk was thankfully rather effective and the mix was quickly stiff enough to risk putting the bowl over, of course, John’s head.

“I ought to throw this right over you,” the blonde groused, holding up his pot of only slightly cooled curd for emphasis before he poured it into the pastry case. “What if it hadn’t been stiff enough?”

“You can tell if it’s not ready as soon as you start tilting the bowl. You were never in any danger.”

Satisfied with a job well done, Sherlock started up the whisk again and began to slowly add first the caster sugar and then the icing sugar.

When it was thick and glossy, he stopped the whisk again and straightened up.

“Right. That’s all done for – why are you staring at me, John?”

Because you’ve managed to get small globs of meringue all over your bloody face, John thought and, without thinking, reached out a hand and wiped off a white dot sitting on Sherlock’s cheek just beside his nose.

A giggle escaped him at the completely nonplussed look on Sherlock’s face. It didn’t stop them from continuing to stare at each other, the tension back in the room.

Then, as it wobbled and threatened to overbalance in his other hand, he remembered the pie.

“Hang on, just give me a moment to put this in and I’ll kiss you.”

He quickly bent down so he could slide the pie in and close the oven door. When he straightened up again, it was to find Sherlock blinking at him as though the hard drive was trying to reboot but kept encountering an error.

John felt his smile return. For all the sweetness and care and hints that he’d shown through the weeks, such a blunt declaration was not only unexpected but slightly difficult to comprehend.

I do hope he didn’t expect his advances to have gone appreciated but otherwise unrequited. Bloody hell, that would be horrible but also make a whole lot of sense.

Pushing that uncomfortable thought very firmly out of his mind, John made sure he was still smiling softly and moved closer. He brought a hand up and gently cupped one cheek, giving Sherlock time to pull away, if he wanted to.

Instead those pale eyes stared down, a flicker of hope in the depth of them.

John leant up and pressed his lips against his those of his flatmate, noting in the back of his mind that they were indeed soft but not quite as soft as he’d imagined. It didn’t mean they didn’t feel wonderful to finally kiss.

Sherlock was unresponsive but only for a moment. Then he might a strange, strangled noise and pressed back. One hand came up to grab hold of John’s shoulder, presumably for balance and support. The other still held the electric whisk.

John started to pull back, not wanting to go faster than his detective was comfortable with, but he was followed and his lips were claimed again, this time in a flurry of shorter kisses, each landing slightly differently, as though Sherlock was trying to catalogue the feel and taste of the doctor’s lips in every possible detail. John certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

He could have happily stayed there, being kissed and kissing in turn, but after a few minutes Sherlock pulled back.

“Cake,” he said softly, the smile adorning his face as soft as his voice and the look in his eyes.

“What?” For John, for a moment he was speaking right gibberish. Then it dawned. “Oh, right. The pie!”

They scrambled to get it out of the oven and check whether the filling had set. Thankfully, it had and they got it out completely.

“So…you’re the meringue expert, how do you want to put it on? In the shape of flowers or something?”

“Meringue always look good when you manage to get that golden colouring to it so…just tops, I suppose.”

“Right. I’ll get the piping bag for you.”

“Hold on,” and before John could move away, Sherlock leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. He pulled back almost immediately but John didn’t mind. Too much, at least.

“You’re not going to keep that to just when we’re baking, too, are you?” he asked as the fished for the bag, hoping his thumping heart wouldn’t betray his nervousness at the question.

“Not unless they are unwelcome at other times.”

“Like hell they are.” John grinned and shook his head. “You daft, wonderful sod, why couldn’t you just have come out and asked instead or something?”

He half-expected Sherlock to brush it off somehow. What he got instead was a look of uncertainty before the brunette looked down, focusing on the piping of the meringue with a telling intensity.

“Sherlock?”

“Still need to get this finished.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’ll go flat if we leave it and then it’s unusable.” Despite everything, the meringue came out in perfectly formed, swirled tops.

“Sherlock, would you stop and look at me? Please?”

Pale eyes slowly lifted but the hands didn’t stop their work. Then the eyes lowered again. “I didn’t want you to go.”

“Go? What do you mean, go?”

“Leave.”

“Why would I leave?”

“You’re not stupid, John, why do you think?” There was a pause. “If I…tested the waters, I could see what you were comfortable with without you catching on.”

“Did you ever expect me to? You didn’t, did you?” Silence was as good as an answer. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“What was I supposed to think?” The words were spoken very quietly. “You haven’t exactly given any hints or picked up on what I was doing.”

John moved in close again and brought his good hand up to once again gently cup the cheek furthest from him, vaguely noting that there was still meringue on it. “I know. I’m a bit dense at times and I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the other cheek. “I got there in the end, though, didn’t I?” he whispered.

Finally, Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his gaze searching, scrutinizing. John let him, hoping that he’d see something that would reassure him sufficiently.

It seemed like he did for a small smile slowly bloomed across the defined features and he leaned into the hand gently pressed against his cheek.

They stayed like that for a moment or two.

“We still need to get the pie into the oven.”

“Hm? Oh, right, yes.” John turned his eyes towards the pie, halfway covered in swirled meringue tops. “You’ve got a knack for piping and all that stuff, I must say. Really wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Chemistry requires precision and a steady hand.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why there’s corrosion spots and small blackened areas all over this kitchen, then?”

“No, that’s just artistic flair.”

“Right.” John pressed another small kiss to Sherlock’s face before he withdrew, tongue darting out ever so briefly to catch a small glob of meringue. He was pleased to see the small shudder that caused.

“That really does look amazing.”

“Yes, John, so you’ve said. Around five times by now – and you’ve taken several pictures. Would you just cut into it already?”

“What was that about patience?”

“I said ‘precision’, not ‘patience’.”

“Ah. Of course – silly me, really.”

“John.”

“Alright already, I’m cutting the damn pie.”

He felt a hand on his thigh as he cut two slices, feeling oddly pleased that it looked good inside, too.

It tasted quite great, as well, and he said so, mouth full of pie. He got an orange-and-white smile for his effort.

“I think we can safely call this bake a success,” was Sherlock’s only comment after he’d swallowed, “don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Roaring success – ah, no. We’re not signing up for the Bake Off, Sherlock. We’re not.”

“We did all of this without following a recipe.”

“Without following a specific recipe, you mean, there’s a difference.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“Yeah, that figures. Can we just…can we try and master a few more things first?”

“Oh, alright. If you insist.”

John leant in and stole a kiss. “I do.”

I could end it here. Not that I want to or don’t have more to tell but if there’s no one who wants to read more, then this isn’t a bad place to end.

See, @thebluecarbuncle, we got to the citrus meringue pie. Hope it lives up somewhat to what you wanted.

Tagging:@mandysimo13 @willowgrovecreates @sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on @one-thousand-splendid-stars Did I forget anyone? I don’t think so

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5

[wendyimmiller]

A Desperate Grasp at Redemption From One Struck Down by the Wrath of Marianne Wilburn’s Poison Pen

“There are peaches to be eaten warm from the brick of the wall they are grown against, peas picked off the tendrily plant and shucked straight from pod to mouth…tomatoes waiting to release their own musty muskiness as teeth break their skin.”

This, I was informed by my friend Marianne Wilburn in her brutal rebuttal to my good-natured, innocent, lighthearted, little column, Time for a Grexit, (published in the July/August issue of Horticulture Magazine)[i], is the high prose of English garden writer, Monty Don. It is her first of many examples of English garden writing superiority over that roughshod American lot. A citation so lovely, she more or less admits, that it compels her (and, apparently, a clique of Facebook Friends and other supporters) to sigh, swoon, and otherwise behave in a manner that works best in a room in a house down a long lane that offers plenty of privacy. Despite trying hard not to “go there,” given this reaction to “peas shucked straight from pod to mouth,” I couldn’t help but wonder how over the top her pleasure would be if Mr. Monty Don were to, oh I don’t know, perhaps eat an apple on the other end of a telephone call? Assuming, of course, that the call came from England. Conceivably from the Walled Garden at Wisely. Monty Don wearing wellies. Monty Don perhaps wearing only wellies.[ii] Eating an apple. Again, trying hard not to “go there” mainly because it might be a sin, but I can’t help but imagine something along the lines of Jamie Lee Curtis responding to John Cleese barking Russian at her in A Fish Called Wanda.

The offending column. My happy go lucky Deep Roots piece in the July/August 2019 issue of Horticulture Magazine.

The rebuttal that broke me. https://www.google.com/search?q=the+gulf+stream&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwil7p2q9IDkAhUbCM0KHUj3CYQQ_AUIESgB&biw=1006&bih=563#imgrc=zk5ACnjGVOKjYM:

I must admit I was rocked by Marianne’s withering rebuttal, Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. (Guest Rant, July 18, 2019, https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/07/dismiss-british-garden-writers-absurd.html). Came out of nowhere, appearing, even, right here on Garden Rant, my home turf. For I, too, had enjoyed our visits, including a lovely dinner (thankfully one without peaches or peas), and delighted in good-natured repartee at a speaking engagement. But her piece landed some pretty heavy punches and, sadly, derailed whatever confidence and momentum I had managed to patch together since being bullied in my childhood. Oh, and after the loss of our beloved little black dog, Basil.[iii] Oh, and since surviving cancer.[iv]

Best little black dog ever!

I suppose, as my therapist pointed out, I should take some solace in the fact that my 500 word column inspired such a heartfelt, well-documented,[v] erudite (“Lloyd was as caustic and clever as Dorothy Parker, but as loveable as Ogden Nash.”), revealing (“When he starts undressing figs with his fingers, I need a moment to compose myself.”), occasionally pretentious (“went to university there”) sometimes profane (“he has his head right up his smart ass”), opportunistic (stealthily inserted plug for her British garden tour business), and masterfully scathing 5000 word screed.

Frankly, dammit, I’ve been outclassed. Forced to admit I’ve never heard of Ogden Nash. Nor Monty Don. Whatever I thought I had become, I was again reminded that I’m just another troglodyte American from the hinterlands, bumbling along, thinking most of the time only about my next Big Gulp. Worse, post-rebuttal, I’m too afraid to even Google “Monty Don.” From Marianne’s drooling description, I fear one mistaken click and, damn, I’ve downloaded one of those nasty Ukrainian viruses again. Or, even worse, my dear wife, Michele, will see “Monty Don” in my search history, click out of curiosity, and scarper off on the first aeroplane to London. You see, like Marianne, she too is an Anglophile. Always watching English dramas, documentaries on the Queen’s corgis, and other crap like that, and, therefore, vulnerable to suave, sophisticated, Monty Don-like, Englishmen.

My Anglophile Wife, Michele (right) and her twin sinister, Kathy, at a Jane Austen festival. All dressed up and ready to be married off (to men of good fortune).

But I have heard of Christopher Lloyd. In fact, I’ve got a few of his books. But somehow in the busy life I live, I managed to miss this brilliant bit of prose, gleefully quoted by Marianne, in which Lloyd calls out snobs:

“There are some gardeners in whose company I feel vulgar. They will expect you to fall on your knees with a magnifying glass to worship before the shrine of a spikelet of tiny green flowers… yet will themselves turn away disgusted from a huge, opulent quilt of hortensia hydrangeas.”

Huh. Interesting. So Christopher Lloyd was no fan of snobs.

I wonder what his opinion would be, then, of the dogged American writer dutifully putting out relevant, applicable information fully capable of making American gardens better even if, let’s surmise, that writer happened to be some clause-mauling, clod-hopping, t-shirt wearing, Big Gulp slurping, overworked, underpaid, privately insured, American public garden worker who finds his will to live sustained only by the slim hope of a Timber Press contract.[vi] Yeah, I wonder.

Likewise, I wonder what his opinion would be of the reader who goes all a quiver, requiring a coterie of handmaids to scurry hither and thither until full consciousness is restored, simply because Penelope Hobhouse articulated a description of a white garden that included no less than three particularly clever turns of phrase?

I don’t know much about Christopher Lloyd, but I’m just going to guess that it would be more likely he’d be found in a pub with the former than seen sipping tea with the latter.

I react to irony about the same way Marianne reacts to Monty Don undressing figs with his fingers, so I’m very glad no one is here right now. But I don’t expect that recognizing such irony is the forte of one who writes, “The best British garden writers have honed the ability to inflict dagger-sized wounds with the prick of a pin.” Can we pause it right here? Can we think about that for just a minute? Can you all just humour me while I ask, “What kind of she-devil admires such a thing?” Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m too kind. Maybe I’ve got a little attitude, being as I am, one who has spent the month since Marianne’s rebuttal struggling to keep my internal organs from slithering out of just such a wound, but does such a sentiment really exemplify an ideal we all really should want in good garden writing?

Later in her piece, Marianne goes on to argue that British garden writers are at an advantage because they ride upon the tide of a long gardening culture. She states, “They [the Brits] have simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are indeed older. Their tools are better oiled.” [citation needed] “There is nothing television worthy,” she continues, “about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.”[vii] All this, in my jaded opinion, is simply an eloquent way of offering a dismissive, backhanded excuse to American writers who are, apparently, hamstrung by a coast to coast populace of hopelessly un-horticultural hominids who need any narrative that might be gaining momentum to be repeatedly interrupted so they can be reminded of which part of a plant is supposed to be pretty and which part goes in the ground.

Sold only in the United States.

To this, I again raise the main point from my Horticulture Magazine column. Is the gulf between English gardening success and ours the fault of inarticulate American garden writers woefully trying to counsel a dismally ignorant American gardening public? Or is it because American gardeners, so easily impressed by Victorian language, vainly and stubbornly continue to force square, gulf stream-buffered English style gardens and the favourite garden plants of spoilt English garden writing prats into bitterly continental, round, American planting holes?

The Gulf Stream. America’s gift to British gardeners.

There is only so much time in a day. There is only so much room on a shelf. How many fresh, exciting, informed books that could lead to more and better American gardens go unpublished and therefore unread because so many seek the entertaining flourish of Lloyd dissecting snobs with the prick of his pin and because Beth Chatto’s Damp Garden continues to sell so well? Despite Chatto suggesting readers plant Meconopsis (the cause of all my frustrations), Heracleum mantegazzianum (a wickedly invasive weed), and Houttuynia cordata (the leading cause of American gardener suicides).

So, in the end, Marianne, you brought me to my knees, but you didn’t change my mind. On some things, as friends, we’ll just have to agree to disagree.

That said, we do share a common fondness for Hugh Johnson, and I recommend The Principles of Gardening to anyone who will listen.[viii] No better guide to the full glorious spectrum of gardening exists anywhere. I’m not sure if it’s still in print, but it is available on Amazon, and everyone reading this (you are getting sleepy…sleepy) must go buy it (when you awake). I need to also mention John Seymour, author of the Self-Sufficient Gardener, whose infectious enthusiasm hooked me to the point where, for an anachronistic period of time, we just about went off the grid.[ix] Never did, though, develop a taste for parsnips.

So, time to let bygones be bygones. I’ll recover. Don’t worry about me. And I look forward to the next time our paths cross. I just learned I’ll be speaking in Waynesboro, Virginia next March. Somewhere near you, Marianne? Maybe Michele and I can swing by and enjoy “the wine that flows softly and smoothly.” We’ll laugh at the best barbs from your rebuttal, and at my floundering efforts here. I’ll try to live up to my attributes, which you were so kind to ascribe, and do my best to entertain, be clever, and self-deprecate. And, you and Michele can both enjoy uproarious conversation about Shakespeare, corgis, Prince Harry, Shepherd’s pie, and Monty Don long into the night. I’ll just good-naturedly smile and nod, struggle to follow, flail to “get” the constant stream of witticisms, and stand flabbergasted by minds that can retain something they read only once and then quote off into the future, seemingly at will. I wish I was like that, but I’m just not. Not even close. But, in the end, I’m okay with being a passionate advocate for more and better American gardens and any writing that pushes that forward, whether such writing inflicts dagger sized wounds or not.

[i] Horticulture Magazine, July/August 2019 issue, Deep Roots column, Scott Beuerlein

[ii] Fully Monty?

[iii] Named for Basil Fawlty, the John Cleese character in British sitcom, Fawlty Towers. 

[iv] If one is dealt the cancer card, it is considered poor form to not use it. I once avoided getting beat up by saying, “Don’t. Stop, I’ve got cancer.” BTW, free and clear now. Thankfully.

[v] Marianne had five, count ‘em, five endnote references.

[vi] Timber Press? Call me.

[vii] What does Marianne’s husband know of this Monty Don?

[viii] Oddly, I’m not so fond of Johnson’s book on wine I bought, which bogged down in wineries, regions, varietals and offered few opinions on good wines and values that could guide my wine-drinking journey. Which, come to think of it, is why I like the American garden writer Michael Dirr over, say, Hillier. You might not always agree with his opinions, but Dirr at least puts them out there, and doesn’t phone it in by simply describing the leaves in botanical language.

[ix] Include the 1970s BBC program, The Good Life as also partly responsible for this madness.

    A Desperate Grasp at Redemption From One Struck Down by the Wrath of Marianne Wilburn’s Poison Pen originally appeared on GardenRant on August 21, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/08/a-death-rattle-response-from-a-mortally-wounded-blogger-to-marianne-wilburns-brutal-rebuttal.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

A Desperate Grasp at Redemption From One Struck Down by the Wrath of Marianne Wilburn’s Poison Pen

“There are peaches to be eaten warm from the brick of the wall they are grown against, peas picked off the tendrily plant and shucked straight from pod to mouth…tomatoes waiting to release their own musty muskiness as teeth break their skin.”

This, I was informed by my friend Marianne Wilburn in her brutal rebuttal to my good-natured, innocent, lighthearted, little column, Time for a Grexit, (published in the July/August issue of Horticulture Magazine)[i], is the high prose of English garden writer, Monty Don. It is her first of many examples of English garden writing superiority over that roughshod American lot. A citation so lovely, she more or less admits, that it compels her (and, apparently, a clique of Facebook Friends and other supporters) to sigh, swoon, and otherwise behave in a manner that works best in a room in a house down a long lane that offers plenty of privacy. Despite trying hard not to “go there,” given this reaction to “peas shucked straight from pod to mouth,” I couldn’t help but wonder how over the top her pleasure would be if Mr. Monty Don were to, oh I don’t know, perhaps eat an apple on the other end of a telephone call? Assuming, of course, that the call came from England. Conceivably from the Walled Garden at Wisely. Monty Don wearing wellies. Monty Don perhaps wearing only wellies.[ii] Eating an apple. Again, trying hard not to “go there” mainly because it might be a sin, but I can’t help but imagine something along the lines of Jamie Lee Curtis responding to John Cleese barking Russian at her in A Fish Called Wanda.

The offending column. My Deep Roots piece in the July/August 2019 issue of Horticulture Magazine.

The rebuttal that broke me. https://ift.tt/2ZiubVC

I must admit I was rocked by Marianne’s withering rebuttal, Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. (Guest Rant, July 18, 2019, https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/07/dismiss-british-garden-writers-absurd.html). Came out of nowhere, appearing, even, right here on Garden Rant, my home turf. For I, too, had enjoyed our visits, including a lovely dinner (thankfully one without peaches or peas), and delighted in good-natured repartee at a speaking engagement. But her piece landed some pretty heavy punches and, sadly, derailed whatever confidence and momentum I had managed to patch together since being bullied in my childhood. Oh, and after the loss of our beloved little black dog, Basil.[iii] Oh, and since surviving cancer.[iv]

Best little black dog ever!

I suppose, as my therapist pointed out, I should take some solace in the fact that my 500 word column inspired such a heartfelt, well-documented,[v] erudite (“Lloyd was as caustic and clever as Dorothy Parker, but as loveable as Ogden Nash.”), revealing (“When he starts undressing figs with his fingers, I need a moment to compose myself.”), occasionally pretentious (“went to university there”) sometimes profane (“he has his head right up his smart ass”), opportunistic (stealthily inserted plug for her British garden tour business), and masterfully scathing 5000 word screed.

Frankly, dammit, I’ve been outclassed. Forced to admit I’ve never heard of Ogden Nash. Nor Monty Don. Whatever I thought I had become, I was again reminded that I’m just another troglodyte American from the hinterlands, bumbling along, thinking most of the time only about my next Big Gulp. Worse, post-rebuttal, I’m too afraid to even Google “Monty Don.” From Marianne’s drooling description, I fear one mistaken click and, damn, I’ve downloaded one of those nasty Ukrainian viruses again. Or, even worse, my dear wife, Michele, will see “Monty Don” in my search history, click out of curiosity, and scarper off on the first aeroplane to London. You see, like Marianne, she too is an Anglophile. Always watching English dramas, documentaries on the Queen’s corgis, and other crap like that, and, therefore, vulnerable to suave, sophisticated, Monty Don-like, Englishmen.

My Anglophile Wife, Michele (right) and her twin sinister, Kathy, at a Jane Austen festival. All dressed up and ready to be married off (to men of good fortune).

But I have heard of Christopher Lloyd. In fact, I’ve got a few of his books. But somehow in the busy life I live, I managed to miss this brilliant bit of prose, gleefully quoted by Marianne, in which Lloyd calls out snobs:

“There are some gardeners in whose company I feel vulgar. They will expect you to fall on your knees with a magnifying glass to worship before the shrine of a spikelet of tiny green flowers… yet will themselves turn away disgusted from a huge, opulent quilt of hortensia hydrangeas.”

Huh. Interesting. So Christopher Lloyd was no fan of snobs.

I wonder what his opinion would be, then, of the dogged American writer dutifully putting out relevant, applicable information fully capable of making American gardens better even if, let’s surmise, that writer happened to be some clause-mauling, clod-hopping, t-shirt wearing, Big Gulp slurping, overworked, underpaid, privately insured, American public garden worker who finds his will to live sustained only by the slim hope of a Timber Press contract.[vi] Yeah, I wonder.

Likewise, I wonder what his opinion would be of the reader who goes all a quiver, requiring a coterie of handmaids to scurry hither and thither until full consciousness is restored, simply because Penelope Hobhouse articulated a description of a white garden that included no less than three particularly clever turns of phrase?

I don’t know much about Christopher Lloyd, but I’m just going to guess that it would be more likely he’d be found in a pub with the former than seen sipping tea with the latter.

I react to irony about the same way Marianne reacts to Monty Don undressing figs with his fingers, so I’m very glad no one is here right now. But I don’t expect that recognizing such irony is the forte of one who writes, “The best British garden writers have honed the ability to inflict dagger-sized wounds with the prick of a pin.” Can we pause it right here? Can we think about that for just a minute? Can you all just humour me while I ask, “What kind of she-devil admires such a thing?” Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m too kind. Maybe I’ve got a little attitude, being as I am, one who has spent the month since Marianne’s rebuttal struggling to keep my internal organs from slithering out of just such a wound, but does such a sentiment really exemplify an ideal we all really should want in good garden writing?

Later in her piece, Marianne goes on to argue that British garden writers are at an advantage because they ride upon the tide of a long gardening culture. She states, “They [the Brits] have simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are indeed older. Their tools are better oiled.” [citation needed] “There is nothing television worthy,” she continues, “about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.”[vii] All this, in my jaded opinion, is simply an eloquent way of offering a dismissive, backhanded excuse to American writers who are, apparently, hamstrung by a coast to coast populace of hopelessly un-horticultural hominids who need any narrative that might be gaining momentum to be repeatedly interrupted so they can be reminded of which part of a plant is supposed to be pretty and which part goes in the ground.

Sold only in the United States.

To this, I again raise the main point from my Horticulture Magazine column. Is the gulf between English gardening success and ours the fault of inarticulate American garden writers woefully trying to counsel a dismally ignorant American gardening public? Or is it because American gardeners, so easily impressed by Victorian language, vainly and stubbornly continue to force square, gulf stream-buffered English style gardens and the favourite garden plants of spoilt English garden writing prats into bitterly continental, round, American planting holes?

The Gulf Stream. America’s gift to British gardeners.

There is only so much time in a day. There is only so much room on a shelf. How many fresh, exciting, informed books that could lead to more and better American gardens go unpublished and therefore unread because so many seek the entertaining flourish of Lloyd dissecting snobs with the prick of his pin and because Beth Chatto’s Damp Garden continues to sell so well? Despite Chatto suggesting readers plant Meconopsis (the cause of all my frustrations), Heracleum mantegazzianum (a wickedly invasive weed), and Houttuynia cordata (the leading cause of American gardener suicides).

So, in the end, Marianne, you brought me to my knees, but you didn’t change my mind. On some things, as friends, we’ll just have to agree to disagree.

That said, we do share a common fondness for Hugh Johnson, and I recommend The Principles of Gardening to anyone who will listen.[viii] No better guide to the full glorious spectrum of gardening exists anywhere. I’m not sure if it’s still in print, but it is available on Amazon, and everyone reading this (you are getting sleepy…sleepy) must go buy it (when you awake). I need to also mention John Seymour, author of the Self-Sufficient Gardener, whose infectious enthusiasm hooked me to the point where, for an anachronistic period of time, we just about went off the grid.[ix] Never did, though, develop a taste for parsnips.

So, time to let bygones be bygones. I’ll recover. Don’t worry about me. And I look forward to the next time our paths cross. I just learned I’ll be speaking in Waynesboro, Virginia next March. Somewhere near you, Marianne? Maybe Michele and I can swing by and enjoy “the wine that flows softly and smoothly.” We’ll laugh at the best barbs from your rebuttal, and at my floundering efforts here. I’ll try to live up to my attributes, which you were so kind to ascribe, and do my best to entertain, be clever, and self-deprecate. And, you and Michele can both enjoy uproarious conversation about Shakespeare, corgis, Prince Harry, Shepherd’s pie, and Monty Don long into the night. I’ll just good-naturedly smile and nod, struggle to follow, flail to “get” the constant stream of witticisms, and stand flabbergasted by minds that can retain something they read only once and then quote off into the future, seemingly at will. I wish I was like that, but I’m just not. Not even close. But, in the end, I’m okay with being a passionate advocate for more and better American gardens and any writing that pushes that forward, whether such writing inflicts dagger sized wounds or not.

[i] Horticulture Magazine, July/August 2019 issue, Deep Roots column, Scott Beuerlein

[ii] Fully Monty?

[iii] Named for Basil Fawlty, the John Cleese character in British sitcom, Fawlty Towers. 

[iv] If one is dealt the cancer card, it is considered poor form to not use it. I once avoided getting beat up by saying, “Don’t. Stop, I’ve got cancer.” BTW, free and clear now. Thankfully.

[v] Marianne had five, count ‘em, five endnote references.

[vi] Timber Press? Call me.

[vii] What does Marianne’s husband know of this Monty Don?

[viii] Oddly, I’m not so fond of Johnson’s book on wine I bought, which bogged down in wineries, regions, varietals and offered few opinions on good wines and values that could guide my wine-drinking journey. Which, come to think of it, is why I like the American garden writer Michael Dirr over, say, Hillier. You might not always agree with his opinions, but Dirr at least puts them out there, and doesn’t phone it in by simply describing the leaves in botanical language.

[ix] Include the 1970s BBC program, The Good Life as also partly responsible for this madness.

    A Desperate Grasp at Redemption From One Struck Down by the Wrath of Marianne Wilburn’s Poison Pen originally appeared on GardenRant on August 21, 2019.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2HjzBJW

[missjennmurray]

1883 Magazine Interview

Rising star Irish actress Jenn Murray is a name you will be hearing a lot more of over the coming months and years. Having appeared in a number of recent high profiles British films and TV series her career is about to be taken to the next level with a starring role in J.K. Rowlings ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’.

Jenn started her professional career playing a disturbed young girl with a multiple personality disorder in ‘Dorothy Mills’, that got her nominated for ‘Best Actress in a Lead Role’ at the Irish film and Television Awards in 2009. After moving to the UK, she picked up appearances in the award winning supernatural drama ‘The Fade’s’ for BBC Three, the romantic comedy/Sci-fi feature ‘Earthbound’ and then the role ‘Dorothy’ in the feature ‘Testament of Youth’.

Last year she played ‘Dolores’ in the Oscar nominated film ’Brooklyn’, that was a smash hit across both sides of the Atlantic; finally, her most recent appearances are in the role of ‘Lady Lucy Manwaring’ in Whit Stillman’s ‘Love & Friendship’. But all this pales in comparison when she takes on the role of Chastity Barebone’ in the hughly anticipated ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ out this week.

This charming Irish actress who possesses an ear-piercing-yet-heartwarming laugh talks about her first steps in acting, tips to aspiring performers, her cravings for Parma ham and we do our to get her to reveal secrets of  ‘Fantastic Beasts’.

When did you first realise you wanted to act?

I’ve always wanted to do it since I was a little girl. But when I was leaving school and had to choose a university, I sort of thought to myself ‘Are you going to try, or are you not?’ So I think when I was 18 I decided that I was going to be a professional actress. Not decided because you don’t become one. I was going to try, and I was going to audition to drama school. It was something I always wanted to do but, you know, it didn’t really become a reality until I was an adult - so when I was 18 and I actually had to make choices that were going to make that possible. It could no longer be a dream in your head.

You once said that the best actors you’ve met have eyes on the back of their heads, what do you mean by that?

I just mean that the best actors I’ve met, they observe. They pay attention to what’s around them. They are aware of everybody. When you’re on set you have to focus and you have to deliver, so you can’t be exerting energy into all these other things. Obviously always be polite and have manners. But you need to bring it when you have to bring it, because then people will watch that film for years and years and years, and what you did in that frame is what’s going to matter. Not like, did you crack that joke that everyone laughed at on set. But what I mean is that they’re just aware, aware of people’s emotions, they’re aware of people around them, like geographically. If the director is giving direction to a group of people and you’re all in a semicircle, the actors are aware of who needs to hear and bring people in. Just sensitive to their surroundings, emotionally, physically, those kinds of things. That’s what I mean.

Do you think you have eyes in the back of your head?

Oh no! Do you? Until someone comes and smacks you from behind. No, like, I just mean… I pay attention, I just pay attention to the people around me. When I’m on set I like working with actors, I like working with the props department, I like working with the costume [department]. It’s a collaboration, it all comes together, and I am aware of everybody’s passion and hard work. And the more you listen, the better everything will be. But I also know I have to tune out things that are not useful. If you worry too much about what people think you’ll get lost, you’ll lose yourself. It’s different isn’t it? In a professional atmosphere you need to listen and do what you can do. But for your own personal life there’s people that you will listen to and there’s people that you just have to tune out, or just don’t go looking. Go looking? Don’t google.

Your first film appearance was in ‘Dorothy Mills’, where you play a young girl afflicted with multiple personality disorder, or at least it is what the film makes us think in the beginning. How did you feel having such a complex and major role for your debut film?

It was amazing… I still remember the day my agent rang me and it went to voicemail, and I was still at drama school and I was doing rehearsal. It was a break and I looked at my phone - and it was a really old, like Nokia, not that it was like a million years ago or anything, but you know it was like a flip phone - and I had a little sign that said voicemail. And I rang him and I got the part. I remember everything about that moment, because that was the moment when literally I was like, ‘I can be an actor now,’ like, I’m actually professional. Someone’s going to pay me to do something creative. It was fucking ma… (covers her mouth and asks if it’s ok to swear) It was magical because I was young, not so young, but I mean, I hadn’t worked in the professional world before. So to get this part with all these complex personalities, it was a challenge, it was just work, it was pressure, it was excitement, it was a gift, it was a gift. Because I remember when I was 16 and going to bars with my friends and we’d have fake IDs but my friends all looked like women. When I was 16 all my mates looked like 20 and I looked 12. I never got in. I was always in McDonalds having chips on my own. So my mum always said to me this will be a gift one day, that you look young. And then when this part came along that’s exactly what it was. In reflection now I realise just how wonderful that was, because your career does weird trajectories; I started off doing leads and independents in Ireland, then I moved over here [England] and landed some British TV and independente roles; then i started getting small parts in big movies - and you’d think it’d be the other way around. So at the time I was just excited. Now that I look back that really was really special. To be given that kind of platform at the beginning.

You’ve had such a busy couple of years. Between 2015-2016 you’ve starred in 4 films: ‘Angel’, ‘Brooklyn’, ‘Love & Friendship’, and the highly anticipated ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’. It sounds like a lot of hard work.

Yeah, it’s been a lot of hard work. But the acting is not the hard work, the acting is the nectar, that’s what I do it for. The hard work is only exterior stuff, like the auditioning, the not getting the parts, the setting your own disciplines, setting your daily routines, the instability, can I book a holiday, what will happen, managing your expectations, being hopeful, not being cynical. Those things are tough, especially when acting is such a unique way of life. You have to really fall in love with that way and accept it, not fight it. When you see your friends doing the house, the mortgage the marriage, the holidays, the routine, the Christmas parties that are booked in September and you’re like, ‘I don’t even know where I’m going to be in 3 weeks!’ You have to learn to fall in love with what you have chosen, no matter if people can’t relate to you, that’s ok, you know, the beauty is in the differences.

When can we expect to see you again on the big screen?

Well after ‘Fantastic Beasts’ I have a small role in ‘Star Wars’, which is next year. There’s so many things right now. I feel very lucky. I’m in a very exciting moment where anything could happen. I don’t know how to answer that. There’s so many possibilities and I don’t know which one it’s going to be, but it’s really wonderful. I’ve worked very hard for this. It’s not that I’m entitled to, it’s just like you have to enjoy the moments of when it comes together.

In Whit Stillman’s ‘Love & Friendship’ you play the role of Lady Lucy Manwaring, a lady who upon finding she has an adulterous husband, goes to her guardian, Mr.Johnson, played by Stephen Fry, and hysterically begs for him to help her deal with her husband. Your role must have been so much fun to play, how was the environment on set for your scenes?

It was amazing; it was intense, because that one scene where I was hysterical I think was like 8 pages long, we shot all day, 12 hours, 13 hours; therefore you’re staying at that energy all day. I like to give it all no matter what. When the camera is on other people you have to deliver, because it’s acting, it’s not like ‘right this is my take,’ it’s like a collective thing. So you want to do your best for everybody. It was so good because I love comedy. Comedy is like music, you know, there’s beats and rhythm and you need to hit it, and when you know you hit it, you feel it in the room. It’s discipline, and it’s like, I do yoga, and you know when you do those crazy balances and you can’t think of anything else because you need to balance? It’s like that with those kind of scenes, you just hone in on what you have to do, and you’re trying to hit all the beats. And it’s wonderful because you forget everything else around you, which is the most wonderful thing about acting. I don’t know how to say that without sounding crazy. I don’t wanna escape my life, I love my life, but when i’m in that role it’s just so electric. Then when you’re working opposite actors and they throw things at you, it’s so unexpected, it’s so spontaneous; you’re so vulnerable but you’re so vibrant in those moments, it just makes you feel alive.

Were you a big Harry Potter fan when the original films came out?

I was a fan… I was aware of it, who wasn’t? Obviously… I am a fan of everything that it was about, like escapism and magic, not just like actual magic but the way it swept up, everybody came together. It was like a mutual enjoyment, you know when somebody enjoys something and then their friends enjoy it, their aunts and uncles enjoy it, you know, you feel a sense of community - that’s what I love about film. Specially a film that’s about escapism, it really ignites the imagination, it collects people together and brings people closer. It’s so wonderful because sometimes I think at school, when you’re a child and maybe you have interests and there’s nobody in your friendship circle that have those interests, you can feel quite isolated. But then there’s a huge community with this film that if you go to those, it, you know, it can bring people together. Sometimes I think when you’re young, you have to wait until university until you’re focused in on your interests, and then you meet like-minded people, but at school maybe not, but then you have this outside thing like something that was ‘Harry Potter’, which was this huge thing, you feel connected to other people. That’s is what I think is so wonderful about art, it brings people together, it doesn’t bring people apart. So yeah, I was definitely a fan. I’m a fan of just great storytelling.

In ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’, you find yourself in the witch-hating side of the plot, playing a part of the Barebone family. Can you tell us anything about your family in this film?

That just came out at the weekend didn’t it? Someone asked me so what’s your surname and I was like, ‘I can’t tell you’. The Barebone family, I can’t say much, I mean… we’re a family and we look very happy (sarcastic tone). No, I can’t, I just don’t wanna be responsible for messing up, you know it’s so secretive. This is the thing: I’m not trying to deflect, but secrets are the best! Nowadays, when there’s access to everything, they expect immediate responses. This is just a secret. When you’re in the cinema, eating your popcorn, and you don’t know what’s going to happen next; I don’t want to take that away from anyone; I don’t want anyone to take that away from me! So it’s magic.

What are your goals in respect to your career?

My goals… Holy bananas… I would like to play different types of characters. I always want to be learning. I want to work with the best people. I want to work with people that are creative spirits, believe in storytelling and have integrity. I want to travel. You know, there’s these dreams of being in front of Roger Deakins’ lens. I would love to work with Tim Burton. I would love to work with Derek Cianfrance. I would love to work with Daniel Day-Lewis, John Hawkes. There’s people out there that you just want to be part of their vision. Like Jim Sheridan was the reason I wanted to be an actor; I saw his films; he tells stories about families, intimate details… I just want to be part of those kinds of visions. I love a collaboration; I would love to work with John Crowley, who directed ‘Brooklyn’. He would give direction in one word terms, and it was so succinct, and on the money, and you just feel so safe, but you also feel so terrified because you know that they can push you, and I just want to take risks. Like, Sarah Paulson talks about working with Michael Fassbender in ’12 Years a Slave’, and she describes him as, what is that thing called? You know, when electricity… when the wires are attached to the things in the field and one comes loose in the storm, and it flies around like a wild animal? She was like, ‘that’s what Michael Fassbender is like, you don’t know what he’s going to do’. That to me is thrilling. I just want to work with people that are gonna push you out of your comfort zone and surprise you, and then you surprise yourself. So those are my goals.

What do you do when you’re not acting?

I cook, and I run, and I do yoga, I take photographs, and I write plays. I like to write a lot. I’ve written a couple of plays and some short films. A friend of mine and I are going to start a production company together because, you know, no matter how successful you are in acting, you’re always gonna have time off, and what are you going to do with that time? I love to be creative, and I love to write. So that’s what I do when I’m not acting - I’m writing.

Do you have any advice for aspiring actors?

Yes. My advice would be ask yourself why you want to be an actor, and if you feel like there’s nothing else that you can do, then do it. Then I guess it would be: believe in yourself, take care of yourself, and your own mind, and your own heart, and protect your dreams and don’t let anybody tell you that you’re not deserving of them. Leave no stone unturned and don’t give up. But most importantly, take care of yourself, because then you can handle anything. If you know who you are and you know what you want, nothing will deter you.

What do you love at the moment? What is your latest obsession?

I love listening to “Here’s the thing” with Alec Baldwin. I’ve discovered his podcasts and I just love Alec Baldwin! He is so articulate and smart. He’s really into politics and he was going to be a lawyer. He is so funny, and when he interviews these people in his podcasts… they are magic! For me, because I’ve always wanted to be an actor, I always listen to other people who became an actor. So I love to listen to Michael J. Fox, I love him, like how did he get into it? Or Lauren Bacall and her autobiography. Or Julianne Moore… You realise, when you pay attention to the people who really made it, that it’s a long road, it doesn’t happen overnight and if it does so happen overnight, basically that’s actually 6 years of work. There’s no such thing as an overnight thing. So yeah, “Here’s the thing” with Alec Baldwin is my latest obsession.

What else… I’m obsessed with Ina Garten, Barefoot Contessa. Oh god! I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud! But yeah, I love that cook, she’s amazing, because she’s an amazing business woman.

Ok, last question, what’s the food you’ve been craving the most?

Parma ham. I haven’t eaten meat in a while and suddenly I was like, I need meat, so I had loads of parma ham, it was immense. I like lemon sole, god how boring does that sound? I like fish, and I like Nopi, the restaurant Nopi, which is like Ottolenghi [Israeli-born British chef]; all that kind of food is amazing, like aubergine, vegetables, all that sort of thing. And I like a good omelet. It’s really not that exciting, yeah, I’m just going to stop talking.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

Meet Krypton’s Wallis Day - THE badass heroine we have been waiting for

http://fashion-trendin.com/meet-kryptons-wallis-day-the-badass-heroine-we-have-been-waiting-for/

Meet Krypton’s Wallis Day - THE badass heroine we have been waiting for

Wallis Day may be the star of Krypton – a new TV tale based around the origins of everyone’s favourite lycra clad hunk, Superman – but IRL she doesn’t need a coy cape and directional Dynasty shoulders pads to appear badass.

My first encounter with the 23-year-old came on one of the hottest summer days at the Audi Polo. Whilst many use this event as their only opportunity in the year to channel their inner Julia Roberts circa that ‘polka dot dress moment’, Wallis tackled ‘reveal and conceal’ head on with a white skirt suit and an unapologetic black lace bralette. “What a queen,” was my immediate thought and the lewk summed up everything that Wallis is, she is an actress who is so unapologetically her.

But as I call her for this interview I wonder: how badass actually is Wallis in comparison to her hardened Princess-esque character, Nyssa? “I mean I do have to do stunts in the show,” Day declares proudly. Laughing she continues, “We are a similar level! Don’t get me wrong I don’t murder people, but I think we don’t take sh*t!” See – I told you she was a Queen!

Think of Wallis as the ‘edgier’ British version of Jennifer Lawrence with the vivacious personality and captivating talent to match. For instance, the first four minutes of our interview is practically inaudible for our incessant giggling – such is the infectious nature of one of our best-rising actresses, who initially honed her craft in Hollyoaks.

For those who haven’t exactly been Keeping Up With Krypton, Wallis assures me that you don’t have to be well versed in comic books to enjoy this humanised hoot. “The characters really speak for themselves. I never really knew much about that world until Warner Brothers and DC dumped a load of comics in front me and said, ‘you have nine months before we start filming – so read!’”

But prepare yourself as Wallis’ skills at building a fully-fledged three-dimensional character in a supernatural setting (a rare feat!) means much like the actress herself, you are going to be geeking out hard. As she confesses, “I actually got really into it and was reading up loads and watching all the films! I am definitely a bigger geek than ever before now.”

Nothing could, however, prepare Wallis for her induction into the Comic-Con World which I can attest in the immortal words of Mis-Teeq is so so scandalous, “Comic-Con was literally bat sh*t crazy in the best way imaginable. I can’t even describe it to you. I found it quite nerve racking, especially the panel – where we talked about the show – because it is when the comic book fans stand up they ask really intimate questions about things I haven’t even learnt yet as they really know their sh*t!” Praise be the lord for Google, then?

Geek chic, however, has never looked so good on anyone as illustrated by Wallis’ equally badass peroxide blonde lid. The process of chopping off her long locks had a metamorphic effect on of superhero proportions on her, despite it meaning she had to labouredly dye her hair every night ahead of filming. “I have had long blonde hair my whole life and when I cut my hair I finally felt like it had caught up with my personality,” Wallis shares. “I am a bit of a rebel, so I kept the long blonde hair for auditions as that is what I thought casting directors wanted but it’s brought a new wave of freedom and confidence. I am so much more me now. I literally booked three jobs the week after and I think that was my aura and my vibe in the room- that made a difference!” Her refreshing attitude is making me wanna reach for the hair dye and get scissor happy – STAT!

Going blonde wasn’t the only game-changing thing Wallis pulled the trigger on recently, gurl went vegan with quite the results. “Since I became vegan last year my mood and energy levels have plateaued but in a good way as they are really steady now,” Wallis confides. “I never really feel fatigued anymore – that changed my life, that changed everything. First of all, it was due to the way that animals are treated, and I thought, ‘hell no, I am not contributing to that,’ so I educated myself on what was really going on. But my reasons really tie into one – the changes to my mood are what kept me vegan!” When I compare it to the kind of clarity we get when one wakes up on Sunday without a hangover, Wallis characteristically howls.

Is Meghan Markle vegan or a fegan? Here are the vegan celebrities who are making us wanna eat veg

Much has been made of how the supernatural universes inhabited by DC characters and Marvel stars alike are rapidly becoming more inclusive of the real-life world we actually live in. It’s something Wallis is equally championing. “It is heading in the right direction. I think these are characters who have been deprived of airtime for a really long time, so I am over the moon that they are finally getting their time to shine.” Can we get a here, here in here?!

But with casting calls infamously being called into question Wallis speaks with caution about the steps we still need to undertake to ensure our entertainment is truly representative. “I think it’s really important that they are cast correctly – that is a really important aspect and that the writers really understand what they are writing about. I think it’s important to get an opinion in the room from the person who has actually experienced what is being written about and point the script, the filming and the portrayal correct.” W.O.R.D.

But like the character who is born of Krypton, what does Wallis want to stand for a-la Superman? With her growing Instagram following of 213k – which I proudly count myself as one of, after all, Wallis is the definition of ‘girl crush’ – she is all too aware of her growing responsibility. “I think it is really important that with those followers comes a sense of responsibility. It took me a long time to realise that.”

A new superheroine in the making, then? Wallis continues, “Growing up I had really strong female role models and I think it’s really important to not feel pressure to be a role model but just be the best person you can be. It’s taken me a long time to get to that point, but I am still growing, and I am still learning every day.” There lies the charm of Wallis, just like us she is still just figuring it all out. Watch this space because we certainly are.

‘Krypton’ is on E4 every Sunday at 9pm and you can catch up on All 4 now.

[reviewsfeed-blog]

Today, I am continuing to clear Goodreads of unwanted books (so obviously, I can just fill it up again!) For anyone who hasn’t come across the tag before (in which case, where have you been?), here is a refresher on what this entails:-

This meme was started by Lia @ Lost in a Story. Here is how it works:

Go to your Goodreads to-read shelf.

Order on ascending date added.

Take the first 5 (or 10 if you’re feeling adventurous) books

Read the synopses of the books

Decide: keep it or should it go?

Here are the next ten books on the TBR up for review:-

  1 & 2   Worldwaker and Hometaker by Dean Wilson

Goodreads – Worldwaker

Every victory is its own defeat. General Rommond’s efforts to amass technological superiority over the enemy has resulted in the creation of a weapon that could destroy everything, and a faction just mad enough to use it.

The Armageddon Brigade has awoken from its deep slumber, and it seeks to wake the world with it. Attracting the brightest, and most unstable, of minds, this splinter group of the Resistance has become the greatest thorn in Rommond’s side.

The Resistance and the Regime must unite to defeat a foe that answers to neither of them. Yet their deep divisions and long-held suspicions threaten to end the Great Iron War once and for all—by ending everything.

Goodreads – Hometaker

The Resistance races against time to complete the missile-launcher known as the Hometaker, capable of opening a gateway to the land the Regime came from, and exposing the Iron Emperor for all the evils he has done.

Everything rests on the secrecy of the mission, but from day one tongues are wagging. The atmosphere is like dynamite. An overheard word could light the fuse. With no time left on the clock, General Rommond is forced to make an audacious plan: finish the construction of the Hometaker on the move, driving straight towards the enemy, who have assembled in unimaginable force.

The Great Iron War is coming to an end. It’s all or nothing—their world or ours.

I started this series this year and whilst I enjoyed the first few books, it has lost its appeal for me. I think the foundation plot is excellent, but in trying to up-the-ante the books become so farfetched and at the same time manage to be repetitive, the series loses its sparkle. I mean, who starts a war and has a spare blimp tucked up their sleeve, you know, just in case the giant submarine just happens to be sabotaged and run out of air?

Oh, you DO?! It’s just me then…

Verdict: Go

  3  The Thief Taker – C S Quinn

Goodreads – The Thief Taker

The year is 1665. Black Death ravages London. A killer stalks the streets in a plague doctor’s hood and mask…

When a girl is gruesomely murdered, thief taker Charlie Tuesday reluctantly agrees to take on the case. But the horrific remains tell him this is no isolated death. The killer’s mad appetites are part of a master plan that could destroy London and reveal the dark secrets of Charlie’s own past.

Now the thief taker must find this murderous mastermind before the plague obliterates the evidence street by street. This terrifying pursuit will take Charlie deep into the black underbelly of old London, where alchemy, witchcraft and blood-spells collide.

In a city drowned in darkness, death could be the most powerful magic of all.

Doesn’t this just sound so dark and delicious?! I am a huge champion of historical fiction, in case any of you are unaware, so this is right up my street. I had half forgotten I added this to the list. Now I’ve seen it again, I’ll have to add it to the actual reading list I am working from… and probably near the top!

Verdict: Keep!!

  4  The Feedback Loop – Harmon Cooper

Goodreads – The Feedback Loop

Stuck in a virtual dreamworld called The Loop, a man named Quantum Hughes struggles to free himself from a glitch that forces him to live the same day on repeat. His life changes when a mysterious letter arrives one morning from a woman named Frances Euphoria, the first human player he has made contact with in a very long time. Once Frances appears, members of a murder guild known as the Reapers begin surfacing in The Loop, hoping to capture Quantum or worse — kill him. To further complicate matters, The Loop itself is doing everything it can to stop Quantum from finding the hidden logout point by turning everything in the virtual dreamworld against him.

With time running out, will Quantum break free from his digital coma before he’s captured or killed by the Reapers? Who is Frances Euphoria, and what does she actually know about how long Quantum has been trapped?

Technology meets Groundhog Day.  I like it. I’m trying to read a little more in the science-fiction branch, and at less than 200 pages, I think I can manage this no problem!

Verdict: Keep

  5  Red Sister – Mark Lawrence

Goodreads – Red Sister

I was born for killing – the gods made me to ruin.

At the Convent of Sweet Mercy young girls are raised to be killers. In a few the old bloods show, gifting talents rarely seen since the tribes beached their ships on Abeth. Sweet Mercy hones its novices’ skills to deadly effect: it takes ten years to educate a Red Sister in the ways of blade and fist.

But even the mistresses of sword and shadow don’t truly understand what they have purchased when Nona Grey is brought to their halls as a bloodstained child of eight, falsely accused of murder: guilty of worse.

Stolen from the shadow of the noose, Nona is sought by powerful enemies, and for good reason. Despite the security and isolation of the convent her secret and violent past will find her out. Beneath a dying sun that shines upon a crumbling empire, Nona Grey must come to terms with her demons and learn to become a deadly assassin if she is to survive…

I loved the Broken Empire series. On that and faith alone, I decided to get a copy of this book, in the hope it will be just as good as his other books. I’m sure it will!

Verdict: Keep

  6  Blue Skies – Matthew Mather

Goodreads – Blue Skies

Olympia is a high-powered New York advertising executive with perhaps the chance of a lifetime when she lands the biggest account of her life – the new Cognix synthetic reality promotion. The stress, however, is killing her, and she desperately needs relief from the distraction of everything and everyone around her…

All of the Atopia stories begin at the same moment in time so that you can start by reading any of them, and then read the others in any order you choose to slowly reveal the mystery and terrifying danger that connects them all. Atopia is a near future world without borders that balances on the brink of post-humanism and eco-Armageddon.

I must have added this on a whim because I genuinely don’t even remember looking at this before. I have a lot of great books on the list so I’ll put this aside for now.

Verdict: Go

  7  The Keeper of Lost Things – Ruth Hogan

Goodreads – The Keeper of Lost Things

A charming, clever, and quietly moving debut novel of of endless possibilities and joyful discoveries that explores the promises we make and break, losing and finding ourselves, the objects that hold magic and meaning for our lives, and the surprising connections that bind us.

Lime green plastic flower-shaped hair bobbles—Found, on the playing field, Derrywood Park, 2nd September.

Bone china cup and saucer-Found, on a bench in Riveria Public Gardens, 31st October.

Anthony Peardew is the keeper of lost things. Forty years ago, he carelessly lost a keepsake from his beloved fiancée, Therese. That very same day, she died unexpectedly. Brokenhearted, Anthony sought consolation in rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidentally left behind—and writing stories about them. Now, in the twilight of his life, Anthony worries that he has not fully discharged his duty to reconcile all the lost things with their owners. As the end nears, he bequeaths his secret life’s mission to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, leaving her his house and and all its lost treasures, including an irritable ghost.

Recovering from a bad divorce, Laura, in some ways, is one of Anthony’s lost things. But when the lonely woman moves into his mansion, her life begins to change. She finds a new friend in the neighbor’s quirky daughter, Sunshine, and a welcome distraction in Freddy, the rugged gardener. As the dark cloud engulfing her lifts, Laura, accompanied by her new companions, sets out to realize Anthony’s last wish: reuniting his cherished lost objects with their owners.

Long ago, Eunice found a trinket on the London pavement and kept it through the years. Now, with her own end drawing near, she has lost something precious—a tragic twist of fate that forces her to break a promise she once made.

As the Keeper of Lost Objects, Laura holds the key to Anthony and Eunice’s redemption. But can she unlock the past and make the connections that will lay their spirits to rest?

Full of character, wit, and wisdom, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming tale that will enchant fans of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, Garden Spells, Mrs. Queen Takes the Train, and The Silver Linings Playbook.

I can’t help but think that this sounds like a lovely read. To my mind, it’s the kind of book I expect you would want to read to wind down. It doesn’t sound like it will be heavy reading (and trust me, I read my fair share of those) but that makes a refreshing change once in a while.

Verdict: Keep

  8  King Arthur’s Rise: The Forgotten Emperor Omnibus – Paul Bannister

Goodreads – King Arthur’s Rise

Paul Bannister’s epic Forgotten Emperor series tells of the legendary rise of the British Emperor. Books 1-3 are now available in this special omnibus edition.

ARTHUR BRITANNICUS

Carausius’ father was a respected warrior chief, a leader of men. But just a boy, Carausius witnesses his violent death.

As the boy grows into a man and then a soldier, he dedicates himself to the cause of Rome.

As a centurion in the Empire’s mighty Army, he earns the respect of his men. But, just like his father before him, he is surrounded by enemies.

Will Carausius emerge victorious and earn the greatest title of all. Or will he meet an early, violent death, as his father did before him…?

ARTHUR IMPERATOR

The Roman fleet has been defeated and the threat of invasion removed.

Arthur Britannicus has taken the throne as Imperator – Emperor of Britain.

However, as the threat from Rome retreats, the intimidation from Saxon warlords intensifies.

Arthur must draw his sword and muster his forces again if he is to keep his island under British rule…

ARTHUR INVICTUS

Britain has lost its battle with Rome and the city lies in ruins.

But the Romans, under threat in their homeland from barbarian invaders, have retreated.

Arthur Imperator must reunite the fractured British tribes to lead them back to victory – and reclaim the kingdom.

Can Arthur persuade Rome’s enemies to join him and create a strong enough force to take down Gaul?

Or will Maximian’s might once again prove too strong for the British people…?

The verdict I have come to has actually surprised me. As stated above, I love historical fiction, but I think I am going to take these off the list for now and maybe come back to them later on. It isn’t one of the periods of history I find myself drawn to, but maybe is something to explore in the future?

Verdict: Go

  9  Hild – Nicola Griffith

Goodreads – Hild

Hild is born into a world in transition. In seventh-century Britain, small kingdoms are merging, usually violently. A new religion is coming ashore; the old gods’ priests are worrying. Edwin of Northumbria plots to become overking of the Angles, ruthlessly using every tool at his disposal: blood, bribery, belief.

Hild is the king’s youngest niece. She has the powerful curiosity of a bright child, a will of adamant, and a way of seeing the world—of studying nature, of matching cause with effect, of observing human nature and predicting what will happen next—that can seem uncanny, even supernatural, to those around her. She establishes herself as the king’s seer. And she is indispensable—until she should ever lead the king astray. The stakes are life and death: for Hild, her family, her loved ones, and the increasing numbers who seek the protection of the strange girl who can read the world and see the future.

Hild is a young woman at the heart of the violence, subtlety, and mysticism of the early medieval age—all of it brilliantly and accurately evoked by Nicola Griffith’s luminous prose. Recalling such feats of historical fiction as Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall and Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter, Hild brings a beautiful, brutal world—and one of its most fascinating, pivotal figures, the girl who would become St. Hilda of Whitby—to vivid, absorbing life.

This is the kind of historical fiction that I like, (as well as the Victorian period). There’s actually a lot of historical fiction on this list at the moment, I notice.

Verdict: Keep

  10  Strange the Dreamer – Laini Taylor

Goodreads – Strange the Dreamer

The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around—and Lazlo Strange, war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s been obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross half the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance or lose his dream forever.

What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went by the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving?

The answers await in Weep, but so do more mysteries—including the blue-skinned goddess who appears in Lazlo’s dreams. How did he dream her before he knew she existed? And if all the gods are dead, why does she seem so real?

I currently have the hardback of this sat on my bookshelf, and since getting a copy I have heard wonderful things about it. I can’t wait to dive into this either!!

Verdict: Keep

  Have you read any of the books on my list or are they on your list too? Have I made any mistakes? Any comments are much appreciated!!

Down the TBR Hole #9 - which books have evaded the scrap pile? #bookworm #bookblog #amreading Today, I am continuing to clear Goodreads of unwanted books (so obviously, I can just fill it up again!) For anyone who hasn't come across the tag before (in which case, where have you been?), here is a refresher on what this entails:-

[mredwinsmith]

Be Still, My Watercolor Artists | Skip the Ripples and Waves — For Now

Canoe Beach in July (watercolor on paper) by Carol Evans

Watercolorist Carol Evans paints the sort of idyllic scenes you’d expect to see in a tourism brochure or dream vacation photos. But in reality, she just taps into the inspiration that surrounds her every day.

As a 30-year resident of Salt Spring Island off the west coast of British Columbia, Canada, she has lived much of her life surrounded by water. All those crashing waves, gorgeous sunsets, gentle water ripples and charming fishing boats beckon to be painted.

It’s nearly always the water, though, that becomes the star of Evans’ watercolor paintings. “It’s just endlessly fascinating to me,” she says. “It’s never the same, it’s constantly moving and it refracts the sunlight. I like its transparency and how it magnifies objects underneath. I love the actual color of the water, the blues and greens. There’s something about it that just draws me.” Evans has used this fascination with water to teach herself to capture it in nearly all its iterations in the wild.

For artists just starting to explore water scenes, Evans recommends painting still water first before moving on to ripples and waves.

4 Tips for Painting Still Water

I am in awe of Evans’ approach to watercolor. The way she paints the almost therapeutic calmness of water gives me a serious case of goosebumps—I mean the hair-raising almost-chills-you-to-the-bone kind.

My “slight” (OK, huge) obsession with her art could be because I also have an intense passion for water (I mean my favorite quote is about sailing away from the safe harbors by Mark Twain).

Nonetheless, her paintings allow me to escape the daily bustle and grind of the workday and travel to a serene haven—even if for just a moment, or two.

Pendrell Sound (watercolor on paper) by Carol Evans

Capturing the calmness and luster of still water when painting in watercolor can be a difficult skill to master. However, when you break it down by specific qualities like Evans’ does, you’re able to hone in on the unique elements of water to more easily paint from what you observe.

If you’re painting a landscape featuring still water, Evans suggests you focus your observational skills on these four different areas:

1. Get a sense of depth. Shallow water at the shore tends to be lighter than the deeper water you’ll see farther from land.

Shells in the Shallows (watercolor on paper) by Carol Evans

2. Look at what’s below. What’s underneath that river, lake or shallow seashore? Look for sand, shells, pebbles or other objects you’ll need to capture.

3. Study the Surface. Play close attention to the reflections on the surface of the water, which might be created by anything from trees to a boat.

4. Explore what’s breaking through. Look for items such as sticks that might be floating on the water, or rocks or logs breaking through the surface.

  Seabound Stream (watercolor on paper) by Carol Evans

Once you’ve identified these elements, how do you capture them? “It takes [a lot] of observation to see how those things work together,” notes Evans. Instead of quick washes, plan it out. Focus on what draws you in and center your composition on that. Don’t overthink it. Don’t let fear of making a mistake get in the way.

Find what speaks to you, and get to painting. With a strong will and steady hand–and taking the time to truly observe your subject–you’re well on your way to painting your own masterpiece. Happy painting, artists!

*Contributions by Michelle Taute and Maria Woodie

You can find the entire article here.

  This article first appeared in a past issue of Watercolor Artist. Explore all Watercolor Artist has to offer by issue and check out the magazine’s blog for more watercolor inspiration, tips and tutorials.

The post Be Still, My Watercolor Artists | Skip the Ripples and Waves — For Now appeared first on Artist's Network.

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