Photo

My Album Cover

Life looks better by candle-light

Ride to No Where

Island Revelry 

The ecstacies of youth and beauty

The Ravages of Time

Autumn's false promise

Photos

It was a perfect Autumnal day, the sun's rays breaking through the fine wisps of clouds that were strewn across the bright-white-blue sky. Bright icy rays permeating their peaks and gently warmed the back of my neck in the crisp cold. Warm enough that you can still enjoy being outside but cool enough to wear your woolly coat, hat,scarf and gloves. Walking through the reds, golds and yellowing greens of the park; admiring fallen conkers still partially in-utero, in their prickly casing. Surface like polished mahogany, perfect with marbled detail and lustre. The trees gifts to the children whom collect and play with them. Each step producing a crackle and crunch as the dead leaves of summer disintegrate underfoot, the last remains of a long summer, crumbling to dust. 

Courtesy

Autumn is filled with promise, i's rick colours, bounteous seeds, nuts and catkins cascading to the earth, sparking the imagination of the young. The smells of the earth as the leaves wither and die, decompose and become again part of the earth, feeding, fertilising the solid of their matriarchs roots. The smells of burning wood and gun powder that fill the air once Autumn has truly taken hold, grasps us in it's long spindly icy fingers. The tastes of sulphur that occupy the back of your tongue with the sharp intake of breath that follows the explosions of colour and light.

Of My

The cravings for warm, stodgy, comforting foods and the reluctance to venture out of doors in the dark, frosty evenings. Autumns ellipse is a deceptive promise of richness and warmth to come, when really what follows if moths of bleak cold blackness. Months of consumerism gone crazy, screaming spoilt children and luminescent decorations. Followed by a deep slump of darkest depression when the months of cold, dark isolation destitute having spent all your holiday pay-check on cheap plastic frivolity that will only be disregarded a couple of weeks after being unwrapped. The only spark in the distance, the patron saint of smugness, who sold his soul to Clinton's Cards a long time ago. A holiday so remarkable exclusive that everyone not in the throws of copulation feels like throwing them self out of the nearest window. 

Old

But that is still to come, and today is perfect. A brisk, amalgamation of all things bright, fresh, rich and in glorious shades of decay. Today is filled with the effervescence of what is to come. So for today I can forget that I know what comes next, pretend I am still new to this planet and enjoy the fluttering leaves, the gleaming chess-nuts, the glistening damp on the sharp green grass and revel in the foe-naivety of it all. For today is a perfect Autumnal day.

Dad

I love it here, it is paradise.

I love the ladies ponds, for me, they are a haven, a sanctuary from the rest of London and it's madness. The humming is like sweet music. The melody of nature. The ladies pond itself set amongst the other Highgate ponds is by far the most beautiful. It's deep oval expanse lines with aged trees, the edges interspersed with irises and floating lilly pads. The water is a deep shade of green and feels like icy velvet against your skin as your naked body glides through its expanses. You could be anywhere. 360* degrees and there are no visible signs you are in London, just towering trees and grassy meadows. The scattering of floating rings ofter become floating islands for fucks and p-hens to nest upon, so that in spring and early summer you get to swim alongside little ducklings. Utter bliss.

Then there are the two meadows, one on a gently sloping grassy verge frames with tall trees, overlooking the ladies swimming pong. The other on a slightly steeper slope, but with the most perfect pastoral view over the duck ponds, the fishing ponds and the men's pond, a landscape filled with green, the lush green of the trees, gently dancing in the brease The comforting bright green of the grassy planes surrounding the ponds and the deep dark green of the ponds themselves, enveloped by the bright blue-white of the summer sky, reflected in places in the still darkness of the water.

As I am writing this I glance up and a dragonfly is resting on the calf of a woman sun bathing ahead of me . What a treat to have the most elegant insects grace your person with it's landing. I wonder if that is the same dragon fly I watched dart and dance about whilst I was perched upon a float, resting after swimming some lengths in the icy depths. I watch it dart about the floating lilly pads, amongst the low hanging branches of the trees, and wind about the tall stems of the irises, diving down low enough to just ski the surface of the water then up up again towards the heavens and out of sight. I love it here it is paradise.

"When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple*"

This woman looks fabulous. Her existence epitomises everything that can be wonderful about old age, and not an ounce of melancholy and slow decline that lingers around some of the older generation was about her.

She was perched partially astraddle a chunky bicycle complete with pack storage box strapped to the back. Immersed in conversation with another older lady her attire set her apart from her companion entirely. She was a vision in varying shades of plum, purple, violet and mauve. Her outfit was definitely not designed gfor cycling agility and swiftness of movement however cycling she was. I marvelled at how elegant she was in her purple high heels, plum tights, full pleat A-line skirt in a deep shade of indigo, and juicy-plum blouse all shades completing each other perfectly like a slow matured vintage reserve botte of the finest, most delicate bottle of vino with flavours of ripe summer berries and a robust finish.

I was not the only person to notice her in her purple splendour. Many we craning around to gave at her awe struck. Admiring. She seemed totally unperturbed by the attention she was receiving. continuing her holly conversation with her friend; completely unremarkable by comparison. Not unpleasant to look at, just plain and ordinary. One wonders if she marvels at her resplendent, elegant friend the same way we do, or if she sees past her glamorous attire to a dignified old lady with the same interests and ideals as herself.

This woman entered my life, from a distance for a few moments, but the way she presented herself and held herself whist in such bold finery left a lasting impression on me and perhaps others on the bus. Anyone fearing getting old need only to look at her, in her purple glory and realise that life is what you make of it.

Warning

by

Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

"You inspire me"

"You inspire me" is one of the loveliest things to hear anyone say to you. It's almost more wonderful than hearing the person you love say that they love you. Alomost. I have had people say it to me a few times regarding relatively trivial things: Music, fashion. But if some one says it in the deepest sense of the meaning I think I'd feel like I had accomplished all that I could ever wish. I was once some one's muse. That was a rather incredible experience, equal parts moving, flattering and heart breaking. I rest far too much of my self belief and self-worth  on what other people think of me, so having some one find me inspiring, inspiring enough to evoke creativity made me feel beautiful, special, proud and loved. That final feeling was the problem, as the person who loved me enough to paint me did not love me enough to respect me, or stay with me. 


It is a tricky thing negotiating lovce an relationships when your sense of self is as fragile as an egg's shell.

He loved me enough to paint me but not enough to respect me.