upside down in cloud

mapping

2012-02-01T06:16:00.001Z

Dart map, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Here's a map of Dartmoor in the 14th century, at the time of the Black Death. It's for Deborah Harvey's novel Dart, due to be published this year. It was fun to draw, once I'd worked out how to go about it- something vaguely in the style of a mediaeval map, and those brightly coloured postcard maps that you used to get in the 60s.

A useful tool for getting the perspective right was Google Earth, and a fun by-product of using Google Earth is goofing around on the flight simulator that's available in the tools options. Flying under the Saltash Bridge in an F16 is great fun, and one unattended by the risk of a knock at the door from the CAA. Very unmediaeval!

winter pass

2012-01-24T05:59:00.001Z

Busily painting birds just now. Nursing a sore throat, listening to the rain on the skylight which means that there's no point in going up onto the roof to look for an aurora - apparently there's some solar activity going on just now, which means that an aurora has been spotted as far south as Tyneside.

And I can't overhaul the brakes on the Moggy. Why do my cars' MOTs always need doing in the middle of winter? -I hate working on cars in the cold, and utterly loathe doing it in cold rain. One of these years I'll get a second MOT in the middle of summer, so the whole cycle gets moved on by six months.

The robins are all singing away in the pre-dawn, here. There are daisies and crocuses flowering on the Downs. Friends down in Devon have already seen primroses; I remember arriving in Poole in late February 2002, after sailing up from Tasmania, and seeing a splash of primroses on a muddy bank, as the train approached Warminster, and feeling the first stirrings of spring. That feeling has come for me already, this year. Looking forward into the new year, no longer back to the old year passed.

Over the land half freckled with snow half-thawed
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed,
And saw from elm-tops, delicate as a flower of grass,
What we below could not see, Winter pass

Edward Thomas

bendixed

2012-01-22T06:20:00.001Z

How to free up a jammed Bendix drive

Problems never come singly, do they? I was driving Katie across town the other day, for her Meeja course, and on the way home there was a faint sense of hiccuping from the engine. I pretended not to notice, because I had drawings to do. But that afternoon, repeating the journey, it developed into full-blown indigestion, and the engine kept cutting out, so that I was constantly juggling the choke and bump-restarting the engine as we coasted along. Katie was oblivious, as we'd stopped at Wai Yee Hong, the chinese supermarket, and she was munching her way through a box of Pokies while listening to her iPod, which was audible to me as that hissy sort of sound that was peculiarly annoying in the circs. So I stuck on Jean-Luc Ponty. Take that, popster!

Worry, worry. Was it the ingition system failing? I started with the simplest job- replacing the HT ignition coil with the spare one. No difference. I took the top off the carburettor float chamber. Loads of crap in there. So I took the carburettor off and stripped it down; the piston was grubby and prone to sticking. So I cleaned everything up and lightly lubricated it, and stuck it all back together, and it worked properly.

Then yesterday I was coming back from Mal's, where I'd been doing some chainsawing, and I'd just switched the engine off when I thought "I'll have a look under the bonnet, and check the mixture." So I engaged the starter. And, because the engine hadn't stopped turning, there was a horrible graunching noise.

I stopped the engine, and turned it over by the cranking handle. Graunching noise was still there.

I cursed.

Then I took the starter motor out, and checked the teeth on the flywheel.

Blessedly, they were both in fair condition; but the Bendix drive on the starter was jammed. The Bendix bit is that cylinder thing with the cog on it, on the spiral grooves on the shaft in the picture there.

After scratching head for a bit, I compressed the spring on the end of the shaft, using a couple of Mole grips. Then banged it a bit. And it sort of went SPRONG, and the Bendix relocated itself at the right end of the shaft.

And I breathed a sigh of relief. And cleaned the whole thing with surgical spirit, because Bendixes need to be clean and grease-free, otherwise it'll all end in tears again.

This is what a healthy starter motor looks like.

secret blackbird

2012-01-15T22:48:00.001Z

secret blackbird, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

This is for the new collaboration with Geraldine Taylor. I got the idea from a tile painting in Cardiff Castle, The Invisible Prince.

Indian Runners

2012-01-13T17:03:00.001Z

a line of ducks, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I've just picked up some giclee prints of this painting, from Niche in Stokes Croft. And now they're in my Etsy shop.

An envelope arrived in the post yesterday. Unusually, it came without any contents, though it was sleeved in a plastic bag from Royal Mail, the writing on which apologised for the fact that it had been interfered with. But, since there was no clue as to what should have been in the envelope, I can do nothing but guess what might have been in the envelope. A million pounds in Scottish £50 notes? A frog, squashed flat by a lorry? Who knows? Well, the sender, obviously. And the person who opened the envelope, presumably.

Do you recognise your writing, gentle reader?

death of a local bookshop

2012-01-10T07:46:00.000Z

I have several hats, though most of them are berets.

One of them is the hat of an itinerant book seller.

Which is a beret, since you asked.

I put it on on Saturday, and threw a pile of books and cards into the Moggy. Deb piled in with her promo packs for Communion, her rather fine poetry collection. And her poetry book hat, which on this occasion was an enviable knitted affair with a vague air of Middle Earth about it. And off we went, over the Avonmouth Bridge to Clevedon.

"I really want to take some pics in Seeley's", I said as we trundled past Easton in Gordano. "It's everything a local bookshop should be, which means it's not long for this world. Books, stationery, art materials, good local section, nice people. And Mr Seeley perched in his office up the stairs at the back."

"And the Fontana book stand", said Deb. "It's so Seventies! I really want that stand."

"The Galt one's my fave," I said; "Pure 60s. ....I'll try and pluck up courage to ask if I can take pictures today."

We were a fortnight late. Seeley's had closed for ever, on Christmas Eve. We stared despondently through the windows at the debris of the last fifty years or so, revealed by the ripping out of the shelves; the two bob coin on the counter, the Empire Produce mango chutney crate with the note advising that 'Phil is having this'.

the job's not started till the paperwork's done

2012-01-09T06:14:00.000Z

So I hit the ground running at New Year. This year, I thought, is going to be hugely productive on the picture front.

And then I got a letter that meant I had to do all my accounts. A task the mere prospect of which is enough to bring on a panic attack.

Still, I got there in the end. And even completed my tax return. So now the decks are cleared for action. Back to the pencils. Out with the Indian ink.

These are little chapter heading pictures for The Changeling Tree.

five ducks a-walking

2011-12-26T08:17:00.001Z

five ducks a-walking, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

...these ducks survived Christmas, to the best of my knowledge. They live down at Barbaryball, just east of Launceston, where I stayed in the spring. I'd wanted to have a go at painting them for ages. And the barn, with its composite of different stone and cob. Finally got round to it last week.

Christmas day is a good day for heading out, if you're spending it on your own. I heard a deep cronking in the morning, and dashed up onto the roof in time to watch a raven swoop past and bob along in an exuberant sort of way downwind and out of sight, a little touch of wildness over the city. They do enjoy windy days. So do I, though the Moggy was a bit lively on the Severn Bridge, suddenly yawing wildly as we passed to leeward of the towers...

By the time I had passed Usk, patches of sunshine were starting to appear on the Blorenge, and the day became one of squalls and sun. And of wind, roaring like a river in spate through the mountain trees.

Journey's end was Partrishow, in the Black Mountains.

knitting

2011-12-25T07:00:00.000Z

The longest night of the year merged into a muggy dawn, which I ignored as I was concentrating on the picture I was painting. Come 9 o'clock, I finally got up and opened the curtains, and found a big sky full of blue.

We just had to go out into it.

Not too long later we were rumbling across the Severn Bridge, admiring the milky sunlight on Avonmouth, glinting on the wind turbine blades. "Open the Cherry Coke, please", I asked Katie as I munched my way through the bag of special offer Christmas pretzels. We'd stocked up on fuel at the Shirehampton filling station.

She put down her strawberry flavoured Wonder Winder for long enough to pass the Cherry Coke. I gulped briefly and handed it back. "Thank you. Just think of all the adventures we've had that started off with us driving over the Severn Bridge and drinking Coke and eating crap," I said. "Remember canoeing round the coast in Pembrokeshire?"

"And me saying 'I'm tired' and lying down in the bottom of the canoe."

"And falling asleep instantly. Dead impressive, that. I was paddling for ages against that tide and getting nowhere. Those were the days, when we did stupid dangerous things together."

"And I was too young to know any better."

"Too young to know that you could say no..."

These days, expeditions are by negotiation. Today Katie's here by her concession, and we use our history as a tentative shared language, a touchstone.

"That's a rain cloud," she observed. "Sunny in Bristol, look - head to Wales and it starts raining."

"There's a patch of sun over there on Twynbarlwm," I said. "If you don't like the weather, something different will be along in a minute. Purse is in the bag; sort out the toll money, would you?"

I threw the £5.70 in loose change into the hopper on the toll booth. Coins chinged down into the rejected coins bowl. I pulled them out, threw them back in. The barrier lifted, as more coins spat out into the change bowl. "Come on come on come on," Katie said anxiously as I grabbed the change and passed it across. We accelerated sedately away from the toll booths as cars and lorries hurtled at us from both sides. Scary places, motorway tolls with everyone pretending it's a Le Mans start at the other side. "Whoo, one pound forty. That's good."

"It's an omen."

We passed the waypoints of our westbound journey- the stalinist fortress of the Celtic Manor, the eagerly-looked-out-for Castell Coch- and arrived at St Fagans, the open air museum on the western fringe of Cardiff.

I'd not seen the celtic huts before. We entered the smoky one and crouched near the fire. The woman looking after it was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic. "My flatmates complain I come in stinking of smoke," she said. "It's not so bad if you get down close to the floor; the smoke rises."

They'd had a solstice feast, a few days back. She described the preparations; a chicken, rarely eaten as valued more for the eggs, but killed for the ceremony; spelt flour for the bread, ground twice in the quern because it's so hard. "The stone gets ground into the flour, so their teeth wore away quite quickly."

We wander around buildings that have been familiar to me for over forty years, and see the dark interiors, smell the woodsmoke and polish, miss the tang of the animals in the Rhayader longhouse.

"I like the idea of sharing the house with the cattle; it must have smelt really nice", I say. "If you like the smell of cattle..."

"They'd be kept in over the winter," said the guide. "They'd keep the hay up there in the loft, and milk them. They'd give milk through the winter, then."

We warmed ourselves at the fire. "People say it must be nice just sitting in here all day," he added. "I say, you try sitting here next to an open window..."

I remembered the first winter I came here with my parents, in the 1960s. It was snowy, and we sat in a settle in a big fireplace and warmed ourselves and talked with the guide. It was a glorious memory, and one I hold on to. Now my past is mixed up with the history.

We went into a recent addition, a small schoolhouse. "It looks very much like my school at Llanfrechfa," I told Katie. She looked pained; I'd already commented on the familiarity of the Workmen's Institute and the ironworkers' cottages. I admired the school room's big coke stove, and recalled the milk bottles ranged round it to thaw out, to the woman sat at the teacher's desk. "Lots of people remember that," she said kindly, pausing from her knitting.

chip wrapper

2011-12-16T06:53:00.001Z

A quick mention for the online publication The Journalist, whose current issue has a feature called 'Mature Approach Needed To Transgender Issues'. You'll find it on pages 12 and 13. Inexplicably, the writer, Phil Chamberlain, claims that the PCC ruled in my favour when I complained about an article in the Daily Mail. I've written to the magazine, and added the PCC ruling in my case to my earlier blog post about it, as well as the Daily Mail's weasel letter.

Shout Out

2011-12-09T07:20:00.001Z

Liz Sylvian and I were on Shout Out, the LGBT show on BCFM, Bristol's community radio station. We talked about care provision for transgender children, My Transsexual Summer and the newly-forming TransBristol group. You can find a podcast here, the show headed Trans In The Media.

making a stand

2011-12-07T09:09:00.001Z

bike stand, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

After yesterday's blatant plugging of my Etsy shop, I feel relieved that at least I'm not as cynical as the folk who organise this 'flea market', who have locked a derelict bike to one of the bike stands on Bristol's Gloucester Road in order to provide a free billboard for their sale of tat. (note: I may well have tweaked the words a bit. Can't help them out, can we?)

busy

2011-12-06T14:28:00.001Z

busy, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

just at the moment, the gurt A0 drawing board that looms over my room like a big looming thing is overwhelmed with stationery, as I package up yet more cards. It seemed daft to keep getting them printed them in dribs and drabs, so I took a deep breath and ordered 500.... so, thanks to the economy of scale, I am selling them in my Etsy shop at £15 for 20 cards.

They are also available at £5 for 5. Or, heck, as few as you want!

Just sayin'.

de tropes

2011-12-02T06:34:00.001Z

dismantling the gender binary

The final episode of My Transsexual Summer was broadcast this week. How did I feel about it? It was certainly flawed. The annoying voiceovers continued, along with the focus on surgery; we are told that Karen, who was shown undergoing surgery in the first episode, is "now... the woman she always knew she was"; Lewis is seen counting the money from a benefit gig, because "the NHS refused to pay for (his) surgery, so now he's got to raise £5000 to go private". This conveniently erases the advice given Lewis that the decision by his local PCT could (indeed should) have been challenged and overturned. Advice that was given in front of the camera but edited out. Because it makes better television to have a heartwarming scene of plucky young things putting on a gig to raise funds. All very Cliff Richard, indeed.

And then there's the gender normative aspirations. A closing scene has the seven subjects posing for the camera with something to symbolise their hopes for the future. Karen, who has been working as a lorry driver and evidently finding it a challenging environment, poses as a secretary, holding a mildly submissive pose with a notebook and pencil. Donna holds an inflatable male doll, to symbolise her hopes for a relationship. Drew wears a beautician's tunic. I wince. As I do when Fox has a night out with the lads, in Brighton, and is seen shouting "Orright darlin'?" at women on the street.

Still, should we expect them to be other than this, 'better' than this? Three observations:

I watched this on 4OD (the 'on demand' internet stream), and had to sit through some adverts at intervals through the show. I saw Jean Claude Van Damme standing on a mountain, talking about beer and, apparently, his penis. Then the Boots Christmas ad, where the intrepid womenfolk dash around, Charlie's Angels stylee, to create Christmas for their sleeping families. I mean. Are we a vanilla nation, or what?
We can't all be gender warriors, and not all of us want to be, I guess. Certainly, in the early stages of transition, any instance of you fitting in and being seen to fit in with your target gender role can be hugely affirming. Even if it isn't a positive experience in the wider sense. Thus the trans women in the programme are happy to be trivialised and condescended to in the pub by the blokes playing pool. Because they're being treated like women. Some cisgender women like that sort of thing too, I understand.
Should we expect a better understanding of gender politics from those who cross from one side to the other, or indeed live outside the binary, than those who stay put? My instinct is to say yes. I have heard some trans women angrily say "I don't understand men, because I have always been female". This seems mildly disingenuous. It is possible to be female and live as a man. Just as it is possible to be male and live as a woman. It's the difference between core indentity and performance. And performance may only be performance, but it still takes you to places where you might expect to have an insight into how your fellow performers, er, perform.

Looking on the bright side, some insights manage to sneak past the vanilla curtain. Max queries the "assumption that when you can pass enough, you're no longer trans". And Sarah's insight, so early on in her own journey, that "the key to successful transition comes from within, is to be happy".

Reading tweets about the programmes on #transsummer, the response to them from outside the trans community seems overwhelmingly positive. So hurrah. For many people, trans folk are something almost mythical, not knowingly encountered in everyday life, and so liable to be casually 'othered' by unthinkingly going along with the lazy stereotypes that abound, such as the Little Britain 'trannies'. In this series, we have seen the seven participants being human; and encountering bewilderment, hostility and casual discrimination; like the woman who decides not to let her vacant room to Sarah because she doesn't want bricks thrown at the house; or the potential employers who turn Drew down because they are afraid of what their customers may think. I think that this sort of treatment, encountered on a daily basis by so many trans people, may have come as a surprise to some viewers.

And then there's the sense of empowerment that comes from a sense of community, of belonging somewhere. Drew was quite moving when she described her fearful and lonely life, when she thought "all I'd ever have is being stared at badly", and comes to the realisation that "these are my streets as well as anyone else's".

For my part, having watched this, I was inspired to get involved with the newly-forming support group TransBristol. Just sayin'. If you identify as trans*, and are in the Bristol area, do join in!

Billy Bragg

2011-11-29T06:34:00.001Z

....dropped into the Occupy Bristol camp. How could we not go along?

I met John Terry in the reference library, and when he'd finished his photocopying (another big poem in the pipeline) we went over to the camp and dismantled their workbench vice. As you do. I'd been tinkering with a dodgy wind generator on Saturday, and the vice was broken. Can't have that.

So we learned a lot about how a vice works, and enjoyed the music from round the corner. And were finished (well, it ended up less broken than it had been) in time to enjoy the last couple of numbers: "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward", with lyrics brought bang up to date

...and finishing with an unaccompanied singing of the Internationale. I joined in as best I could. "Dum de dum de dum....Freedom is merely privilege extended unless enjoyed by one and all. So come brothers and sisters, for the struggle carries on...." And clenched my fist with the best of them.

Very cheerful making. Thanks, Billy.

Pig the dog got her photo taken with another famous person. To think, only last week it was Prince Charles! (Prefer this one though....)

thy hand, great Anarch

2011-11-27T07:23:00.001Z

Ian Bone, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Hydra Books in Bristol's Old Market got off to a stirring start yesterday. We arrived for the opening just before three; the shop was packed with people squinting at the shelves of books and slim red pamphlets through the November afternoon gloom- the power was down while someone busily connected up the light cables- then all was bright and noisy with electric drills and the setting out of chairs, coffee and lemon drizzle cake, and we were up and running!

Ian Bone talked about some of the lesser-known people who were involved in the revolutions of 1919. It was stirring stuff, people largely forgotten by history who dedicated and often lost their lives for an ideal. Ian is a lively and charismatic speaker, and the audience seemed disposed to like him anyway. Me, certainly.

It'll be interesting to see how the shop develops. It has the makings of something good. Reminds me a bit of the lost lamented Greenleaf, or Compendium.

Afterwards, Mal introduced me to Ian. (Mal, as I'm sure I've remarked before, knows everyone in Brizzle). And I remembered when I'd first seen Ian. It was at Ashton Court Festival, the year of the Hartcliffe riots, and he was wandering around the festival site distributing Class War leaflets. But he'd ignored me because I was wearing a Barbour jacket *cough cough* ...and I felt a bit nettled because I always fancied myself as a bit of a revolutionary. Though not as much as the SWSO types who lived upstairs from me in Portsmouth and got drunk on Fridays nights and had long and noisy arguments which went along the lines of "I'm a better socialist than you are!"

I forgive you, though, Ian.

more from the drawing board

2011-11-26T06:58:00.001Z

fox in the snow card, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I've added some greetings cards to my Etsy shop. Just the thing for those occasions when you really need a fox-in-the-snow based item of stationery.

press intrusion: the Leveson Inquiry

2011-11-24T06:25:00.001Z

Trans Media Watch has been collecting examples of press intrusion and offensiveness, to present to the Leveson Inquiry. I contributed this piece from the Daily Mail, from December 2006.

article by Ian Drury, Daily Mail

As I said in the accompanying submission,

As requested: I declined the offer of a gagging order at my Employment Tribunal because I thought it was important to have the truth told.
Generally, reportage sensationalised the allegations made against me, and ignored or minimalised the actions perpetrated against me.
The Daily Mail phoned me, and asked me to reveal my former name. I told them that it was not relevant to the story, and that it was both wrong and bad practice to publish it. They found my former name somewhere, and again asked me to confirm it. I refused. They published it anyway.
There were other failings with the article, including an offensive headline.
I made a complaint to the PCC, on the grounds that I found the article biased, offensive and intrusive.
http://www.pcc.org.uk/news/index.html?article=NDQ4OQ%3D%3D
The PCC let the Mail off.
My abiding feeling about this episode is that the press involved in my story treated me as a figure of fun, presented for the titillation of their readers. I had spent two years pursuing a legal case, unaided, against a bullying company, and won; I felt that the press response, as exemplified by the Mail, was that that sort of thing didn’t (or shouldn’t) happen in their world, and that they resented what I had hoped would be seen as a victory for equality and fairness. I have learnt that the press are vile and not to be trusted. And that the PCC are worthless.

....the Daily Mail person also asked what title I used. "Ms", I replied. "The Daily Mail does not believe in using 'Ms'" he said. Hence the 'Miss', above. Go figure.

Here is the PCC's decision in my case.

Commission’s decision in the case of
Marland v Daily Mail

TheCommission noted the complainant had raised three concerns: first, that thearticle suggested she had been subjected only to ‘taunts’; second, that thedisclosure of her former name against her wishes intruded into her privacy; andthird, that the headline ‘would you Adam and Steve it’ was discriminatory.

The Commission noted the complainant had raised concerns that the sub-headlinesuggested she had only suffered ‘taunts’ and misleadingly omitted to includethe threats of violence and an assault to which she had been subjected. Takinginto account that the fact she had suffered taunts was not in dispute, theCommisslon considered that — in the context ofthe article as a whole which made clear that the complainant had won hertribunal after suffering ‘verbal and physical harassment’ — it was not necessary for the newspaper to haveincluded every detail of her ordeal. The selection of material for publicationis a matter of editorial discretion, provided of course that the Code is nototherwise breached. In this instance, the Commission was satisfied that theomission of detailed information regarding the complainant’s treatment did notrendethe article misleading in breach of Clause 1 (Accuracy) of the Code.

The Commission then turned to the complainant’s concerns that the article hadintruded into her privacy when it stated that it was ‘understood’ that herformer name was XXXX, and that a person by that name shared her birthday andwas listed as living in her flat until 2002. The Commissionacknowledged that the complainant was unhappy with this disclosure, butemphasised that it could only come to a decision under the terms of Clause 3(Privacy) of the Code. This clause makes clear that everyone is entitled torespect for his or her private life. The Commission indicated that it did notgenerally consider a name to be an intrinsically private detail. In thisinstance, the Commission was satisfied that speculating on the complainant’sformer name using evidence available in the public domain did not intrude intoher privacy in breach of Clause 3 (Privacy).

Finally, the Commission addressed the complainant’s concerns that the headlineof the article was discriminatory. It noted that Clause 12 (Discrimination) ofthe Code states that the press must avoid prejudicial or pejorative referenceto (amongst other things) an individual’s gender. In this instance, theCommission was satisfied that the headline was not a pejorative reference tothe complainant’s gender change. Indeed, the Commission noted that the basisfor using the phrase was its adaptation from a comment the complainant claimedhad been made to her by crew members. In those circumstances, the Commissiondid not consider the headline to establish a breach of Clause 12(Discrimination) of the Code.

That said, given that the reference had upset the complainant, the Commissionwelcomed the newspaper’s offer to write to her privately to apologise.

...and here is the letter of apology from the Daily Mail. As you see, it does not apologise for the article, but expresses regret that I found the article 'distressing'. Which I hadn't. Annoying, yes. Species of dumbfuckery, certainly. But not distressing.....

THE DAILY MAlL
7 March 2007
Dear Drusilla
I write to apologize sincerely for any distress caused, which I assure you wasin no way our intention, by our article and headline on Monday December 18,2006.
The headline was not intended to be pejorative. The article is very positive toyour case and fully reported the tribunal’s findings.
Nonetheless, it is most regrettable that you were distressed by the piece and Ihave brought your concerns to the attention of the members of staff involvedwho join me in saying we are sorry we added to your concerns at a very difficulttime for you.
Yours sincerely
Robin Esser
Executive Managing Editor

It seems that TMW are going to be pushed for time to prepare for the Inquiry, owing to what we might charitably call a failure in communication on the part of the Inquiry; here's a message from a TMW representative. You may wish to act upon the information.

Please write to your MP today. Now. The Leveson Inquiry is insisting that the deadline for submissions for the first stage of the process (the bit we are interested in about press ethics) will close next Wednesday. However - as the email from them below says - they 'accidentally' deleted the text that said this (draw your own conclusions about how/why that might have happened...we couldn't possibly comment). We had in fact looked for it several times - this explains why we didn't find it:

~~Dear Ms S*,~~

Thank you for your email. The deadline was published at the time of issue of the Key Questions in October, however it seems the text was lost with the migration to a new website (recently launched for the start of hearings). The Inquiry apologises for any inconvenience this has caused and the web team are amending the details online as we speak. Unfortunately we are working to specific deadlines and the 30 November date for Module 1 submissions remains.

~~Kind regards,~~
~~The Leveson Inquiry Team~~
We need you to write to your MP, now, please. Tell them that TMW wishes to make a written submission. Tell them who TMW are. Give them the web address www.transmediawatch.org Explain that we work with the media, the press, Ofcom and the PCC, that we have a relationship with the Government Equalities Offices, and Lynne Featherstone (Under Secretary of State, Equalities Office) know us well. Explain that trans people suffer very serious prejudice from the tabloid press, and that it causes isolation, depression, and worse - abuse from society, verbal, psychological, physical. Explain that trans people need a voice in this Inquiry and that it is completely unreasonable for Leveson to accidentally delete the deadline (it hasn't been there for weeks, whatever they claim) and then hold groups like ours to a date we didn't know about.

Please do this.

Update: TMW have been granted an extension until mid-December for submission of material. Thank you to everyone who made a noise about this!

Here, for a bit of light relief, is a bit of dumbfuckery from the Daily Sport.

Written by Who Ever; presumably the person who wrote it was too ashamed to put their real name. In the Daily Sport's world, I apparently enjoyed 'life wearing a dress in the engine room'. Quite. It was a Vivienne Westwood one, with a useful tool pocket on the hem. The guys was sooo jealous!

...here is some of the earlier coverage of the case. This is where third party allegations, made by the perpetrators of the harrassment, were presented by P&O's HR people as 'evidence'. They were found to be without substance.

article by Jeff Wells, Western Daily Press

And here is a press statement of the case which I made at its conclusion. Compare and contrast!

A transsexual woman, formerly employed by P&O Ferries, has been awarded £64,862 compensation by a Southampton employment tribunal after it found that she had been constructively dismissed.
Drusilla Marland, 48, of Bristol, worked as a repairperson on the Pride of Bilbao from October 2002 until October 2004. During this time, she suffered verbal and physical harassment from the engine room crew.
The tribunal heard how remarks were made to her such as "We're all men here," "If he's got balls, he's a gentleman," and "When God made man it was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve." She was constantly addressed incorrectly, and referred to as "He, she, it, whatever."
When a pornographic calendar was introduced to the engine control room, she was subjected to offensive comparisons with the pictures. Chief engineer Steffan Robb commented, "It's a sort of training manual for you." When she requested that the calendar be removed, she was told not to make an issue of it. Finally, in August 2003, she found written on the calendar "Dru," with an arrow pointing to a model's vulva. When the engine room crew was assembled for tea break, she took the calendar down, said that she found it unacceptably offensive, and ripped it up. Among others who shouted at her, Gary Howard, the RMT union representative, said "You are going to get done…. not if, but when". Although the incident was witnessed by both ratings and officers no action was taken against Howard. The pornographic calendar was replaced with a similar one, and Marland was sent to Coventry by several crew members.
In June 2004 Marland asked Steffan Robb to implement guidelines for appropriate behaviour with transsexual colleagues, pointing out that similar guidelines had been implemented on a ship in Dover when an officer had transitioned. Robb commented "But they are an officer," and refused the request.
In September 2004, Marland was tripped up by Ged Pollard, a motorman with a history of hostility to her. She reported theincident to her superior officer, but he took no action. Finally, after making a written report, and ten days after the assault, shewas seen by the senior chief engineer, Martin Sonnen. He told her that he wanted to drop the matter in case it became "messy", and accused her of "camping it up". Shortly after, she left the ship and collapsed with what her GP diagnosed as "work related stress".
An investigation subsequently undertaken by Sandra Ray, P&O HR officer, was judged by the Tribunal to be "flawed, perfunctory and superficial":
• She interviewed only those members of the crew implicated in the grievance, and none cited as witnesses
• Her finding that Marland's treatment "was not to the standard I would have expected" was deemed "so inadequate as to amount to an insult"
• She provided no explanation or grounds for her finding that the Chief Engineers and the Senior Chief Engineer were supportive of Marland. The tribunal judged that Robb's conduct in particular was "wholly reprehensible"
• Her claim that Marland's own behaviour was inappropriate was unsupported by any evidence
The Tribunal criticised P&O's senior management, particularly in the case of Peter Ambrose, P&O's HR Manager, for their failure to put inplace adequate management instructions and guidelines with regard to employees undergoing gender reassignment. Ambrose's decision to allow the Captain and Chief Engineers to deal with matters, without their having received any instruction or guidance, was judged by the Tribunal to be a serious managerial misjudgement.

The result of the printing of unfounded allegations, for the propagation of which P&O were admittedly as much to blame as the newspapers in question, was that people who didn't know anything about either me or the true facts of the case, said vile things about me on the internet. Which is not nice. Is it?

over the sea to Skyros

2011-11-21T06:56:00.001Z

Euterpe Parry-Hughes, Swansea shipowner, despairingly closes the slim volume of her dilettante husband Dylan's latest poetry, "from which", as posterity has drily noted, "the dust is seldom blown". She gazes across the Bay to the Mumbles, and considers shipping him out on one of her Chile-bound guano schooners, and having him dropped off on Juan Fernandez as they go. "Maybe he'll find his muse there," she thinks. "Or a goat. Wotevs."

One Alberto Granados is trying to find out more about this painting. Any clues, or further interpretations, more than welcome!

one in the eye for the starlings

2011-11-20T07:32:00.001Z

Four weeks short of the winter solstice, the days are shortening so fast it's hard to keep up with them.
"I'll pick you up at four," I told Mal, when we agreed to pop up to New Passage to watch the starling roost.

But by three o'clock the shadows were already long, and the sun slanting almost horizontal across the chimneys and rooftops.

So we went earlier.

Coming over the ridge at Kingsweston and seeing Avonmouth and the Severn estuary ahead of us, though, we'd obviously already missed the sunset. As we bounced past the old zinc works, Mal started to tell me about Queen Victoria's last words to Disraeli (she'd asked him to pass a message on the Albert). "Yellow card, Mal", I said - this is the safe word for a story-that-you've-heard-before; in this case, earlier that afternoon at the anti-Costa demo.

And it was twilight by the time we trundled to a halt by the Victorian letterbox at New Passage.

And a great cloud of starlings, circling that very spot.

And Prince Charles, taking his dog for a walk.

"You look just like Prince Charles!" said Mal. "Do you get told that a lot?"

"Fairly often," he said; "If you look in Take A Break next month, I'll be in there with the Queen and Camilla."

It's come to something when royals appear in the sort of magazines that have exclamation marks in their titles, let me tell you.

The starlings passed low overhead, their wingbeats thrumming the air, like a gale in beech leaves, or rushing through close-hauled rigging. Then a gentle splatting as starling poo spattered the road around us in their wake.

"I've got one in the eye," said Mal. "That's a year's good luck!"

Walking down to the sea wall, there was a great chattering of the birds that had already roosted in the conifers by the path. Then the rasp of a bird of prey - a sparrowhawk, perhaps- and the roosting birds exploded into the air, and flew as a cloud to the main flock; the wing noise became a roar as the two formations swung into each other and coalesced.

And then, after another circuit or two. the cloud of birds bounced up like a swell slopping on a breakwater, and became a whirlpool, sucking itself down into the trees.

And they were gone. Except for the great chattering in the trees. And the starling poo all over the car.

work in progress

2011-11-14T05:56:00.001Z

I'm working on a cover for Nicky Jones' new book, The Changeling Tree. Here's some progress shots:

The waterfall is loosely based on Sgwd yr Eira, upriver from Pontneddfechan.

Having got the picture finished and scanned, I took these starlings

...which I had prepared earlier for this purpose. I removed the background

...and layered them into the picture.

...which just leaves the words. Here's a couple of options, though as yet nothing's certain...

Their Transsexual Summer

2011-11-12T07:11:00.001Z

So there's a new reality TV series about Teh Tranz. My Transsexual Summer started last week, and such was the interest aroused in it that I went over and watched it on the Channel 4 website to see what the hoo-ha was all about.

Last time I watched something similar was when Nadia Almada was on Big Brother in 2004; so I tuned in, for the one and only time on that show; she came across rather well, but... "Crikey!" I thought; "Trash TV or what?".

Similar format here with MTS; seven trans people are put together in a big house and get on with it, whatever 'it' is. A process that seems to involve hours of putting make-up on, and screeching at each other over bottles of white wine in the kitchen. Getting past my initial discomfort at watching a group of people whose common denominator is that they want to appear on a reality TV show, though, it (and they) managed to be quite engaging, in a way that the Big Brother people generally failed to achieve, in the one episode I watched.

There had been high hopes for this series, not least because Paris Lees, a bit of a rising star on the trans scene, consulted on the programme, which was made after C4 signed up to the Memorandum Of Understanding with Trans Media Watch, back in March. The idea being that media people should know where to find information about trans stuff, and that trans people should be involved in the process of portraying them, rather than simply being something in the specimen jar.

Were those hopes realised? We did get to tick off a whole bunch of cliches in this episode; plucky Karen goes off for her op; voiceover tells us that it will "give her the vagina she had always wanted." Fox is said to worry about "how far he has to go to become a man." Lewis "is having a wardrobe crisis". Make-up. Make-up. Talking about make-up. Make-up.

The participants' use of the term 'tranny' has caused a bit of a ruckus online; maybe we'll go into that sometime else (I write about my opinion of the word in the soon-to-be-published META online magazine).

Participants in this sort of programme are always going to be hostages to fortune, in the shape of the programme maker who wields editorial control and the voiceover microphone. Max, who on present showing seems the most thoughtful of the participants, has already expressed his disappointment with the way the show ended up. On the one hand, we have the standard tranny-on-the-telly tropes, and can perhaps understand why, seeing this programme, Michael Pilgrim (in the Telegraph) should think that "being convincing, of course, is the aim of the transsexual". If, at least, we were being charitable and didn't have much regard for Mr Pilgrim's intelligence in the first place.

And on the other hand, and despite the tinkering, we get to see a diverse bunch of trans-identified people getting on with stuff. And see things from their point of view. And care.

poppy

2011-11-11T18:36:00.001Z

poppy, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I leaned out of the kitchen window at 11:00 this morning, and watched the breeze in the trees, the blue tits zipping between trees and a pigeon landing in the neighbour's garden. And thought my own thoughts.

This picture is intended as a reminder that not everyone we remember today is English, or a soldier.

acts of remembrance

2011-11-08T08:00:00.002Z

I was hitching along the A30 from Shaftesbury towards Salisbury. An MG stopped; the driver said that I was welcome to join him if I didn't mind the labrador on my lap.

I didn't. We sped off. The brass disc on the labrador's collar identified its owner as Lt. Col. Awdry. We passed the badges on the hillside at Fovant; I'd not seen them before. My host pointed them out.

"Had some of those CND chappies up there the other week," he said, "carving their badge. Took us all weekend to fill it in."

I kept quiet about my allegiances. I was pro-CND, and fairly pro the armed services- it was only a small accident of biology that had stood in the way of my hopes to be a fighter pilot, after all. At a time when the government was contemplating axing conventional forces in favour of more nukes, it didn't feel like a contradictory position.

I got to meet a fair few retired military types in those days of the late 70s and early 80s, when I hitched a lot. Nice chaps, often with harrowing stories of war, quietly told.

One November, I wore a white poppy and a red poppy side by side. The slightly rottweiler-ish landlord of my local in Portsmouth ordered me to take the white one off. "I'm not having that in here," he said. The other regulars rallied round, and he backed down.

(His predecessor at the pub, the 5th Hants Volunteer Arms, was Major Gladys Walker, formerly of the ATS. One day I went in in an army surplus greatcoat, with Major's crowns on the epaulettes. "Take those off!" Gladys barked (she was good at barking). "I had to earn mine." It was a fair point, and I did, gladly.)

I've seen a couple of examples of ostentatious badges of remembrance recently. This horror, on Ebay. And the biggest poppy you ever did see, on the front of a Land Rover Freelander that was parked (where else?) on double yellow lines.... they make me uneasy, reminding me of Sassoon's 'Blighters' who 'mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume".

....and a few examples of rather militant snark about people not wearing poppies. By people who put poppy twibbons on their Twitter avatar, that sort of thing. Here's a bit from Kipling's Stalky and Co, where a politician comes to the school and lectures on patriotism....

And so he worked towards his peroration—which, by the way, he usedlater with overwhelming success at a meeting of electors—while theysat, flushed and uneasy, in sour disgust. After many, many words, hereached for the cloth-wrapped stick and thrust one hand in his bosom.This—this was the concrete symbol of their land—worthy of all honorand reverence! Let no boy look on this flag who did not purpose toworthily add to its imperishable lustre. He shook it before them—alarge calico Union Jack, staring in all three colors, and waited for thethunder of applause that should crown his effort.
They looked in silence. They had certainly seen the thing before—downat the coastguard station, or through a telescope, half-mast high when abrig went ashore on Braunton Sands; above the roof of the Golf-club, andin Keyte's window, where a certain kind of striped sweetmeat bore it inpaper on each box. But the College never displayed it; it was no partof the scheme of their lives; the Head had never alluded to it; theirfathers had not declared it unto them. It was a matter shut up, sacredand apart. What, in the name of everything caddish, was he driving at,who waved that horror before their eyes? Happy thought! Perhaps he wasdrunk.

..and here's my own contribution.

The bigger and redder the poppy
On front of the car or lapel
The more you're allowed to be stroppy
At those who remembrance less well.

Photo of Fovant badges: Trish Steel [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

attack of the Costa Monga

2011-11-04T06:04:00.001Z

attack of the costa monga, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Bristol City Council is considering taking action against a branch of Costa Coffee, which is trading on Whiteladies Road despite having no permission for change of use from newsagent (the former business) to cafe. Meanwhile, the franchise holder, Stuart Montgomery, is developing another premises on Gloucester Road, again without planning permission. As Richard Leonard, who organised a petition against the Gloucester Road development, said; "Apart from the fact people don't want them in Gloucester Road, they are blatantly ignoring the wishes of local people and the council."

I was down at the Central Library yesterday, for the monthly Poetry Can lunchtime session. Called in at the Occupy Bristol site to drop off a bit of firewood; every little helps, after all. Later, talking about the Occupy Bristol site with someone I always thought of as a bit of an old Tory, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was supportive of the movement. Which is heartening.

Alana Farrell read some work-in-progress, a ballad about the Dale Farm evictions, using quotes from the protagonists. I learned that a neighbour to Dale Farm, who is apparently active in the anti-traveller campaign, is himself on an illegally-developed site, though one which has been granted retrospective planning permission. An option which does not appear to have been considered by Basildon Council in the case of Dale Farm.

the duck who loved me

2011-11-01T16:06:00.001Z

orchard goose, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I spent my early life in an orchard with geese and ducks, waiting for the moment when the BIG WHITE GANDER would sneak up behind my dad (who was pruning trees) and prod his bum. As kids, my brother and I found this overwhelmingly funny.

Some of Geraldine Taylor's piece for the next Bristol Review of Books, that this picture accompanies. Seemed like a good idea to show the finished version, as it was 'work in progress' on the earlier post.

More watercolour paper stretching and drying on the board, and me doing a bit of sorting-out in the meantime. I've got a bag of readymix mortar in the back of the car, ready to go up onto the roof and fix the bit that's leaking. I stopped off at B&Q to get the mortar, and, as usual, went in through the door marked TRADE PROFESSIONALS ONLY because I'm bolshy and don't like walking round the long way, and I don't think you need to be a fat bald bloke with builder's cleavage to be a builder. Even though it's statistically probable that you will be.

Perpetual Playground

2011-11-01T06:42:00.001Z

There was a launch party for Joe Solomon's novel 'Perpetual Playground' last week. John Terry and Alana Farrell have worked for ages to get the book out, as Joe had hoped that it would be (he died in 2009). Here's a review of the book, and links to where you can find it. If you want a paper edition, I can sort that out for you too!

PerpetualPlayground
JoeSolomon
£7.95
PouncecatPress
ISBN978-1-905633-11-1
Amazon Kindle edition (£0.86) & Smashwords free epub

Asa humorist with his own unique style, Joe Solomon was well known on theBristol scene for many years, even making Venue’s list of ‘The Hundred MostImportant People in Bristol’. But when he wasn’t putting on events like ‘LyricalMyrical’ or ‘The Totally Nude Piano Show’ Joe was organising ‘Poets against Racism’, writing to prisoners on Death Row, lobbyingMP’s, founding the Shellfish Network (which campaigned against boilingcreatures alive) and of course, writing this novel.

It’s a long cry from present day Bristol towartime Edinburgh where this book begins; but the reader, looking through the eyesof ten year old Martin Vanskin, the book’s central character, is immediatelyimmersed in the everyday normality, the greyness and repression of the time, andthe small economies made necessary by the war: ‘Not too much water,’ says Daddyat bathtime. ‘Five inches is supposed to be enough.’ ‘Should I use a ruler?’asks Martin seriously. There is a definite touch of Alan Bennett in this sortof exchange.

But although Joe has obviously drawn on his ownchildhood to describe the gritty reality of the 1940’s, the novel is inconstant movement as it begins to focus on Martin’s boyish worries about his sexual development and his despair ashe finds that he is not like the other boys. Here we have Joe’s trademarkapproach to a taboo subject from a totally different and unexpected direction.

Martin is an unlikely, but very likeable hero.His parents are excessively strict and he is bullied at school – a smallbespectacled boy who despises himself because even younger boys can shove him aroundand wrestle him to the ground. But these incidents give him a strangeexcitement.

As he grows up he pushes away his desire to losewrestling matches with younger boys and seeking a normal life he meets and evengoes out with girls. But the difference is still there, and he is driven toseek therapy in the hopes of finding a permanent cure.

Armed with improved insight and self-esteem hefinds an office job, and a promising relationship develops with a girlcolleague. She has a schoolboy brother who is a sensitive boy, not given toaggression, and Martin feels able to tell himself that he has attained ahealthy, normal way for an adult to relate to a child. But his feelings aboutthis child are more complex than he thinks, and he disastrously fails torecognise the danger-signs.

Joe tells Martin’s story with a deliberatesimplicity that draws the reader in and keeps the pages turning. For all itsseeming innocence, here is a book which challenges assumptions in a serious way.This is powerful stuff:

"Martin reminded himselfthat Penny didn't exactly leave him cold...Wasn't this sure to beincreased...once they had touched, caressed, kissed...And yet again, he feltunaccountably frightened."

John Terry/Alana Farrell

habit

2011-10-30T08:19:00.001Z

habit, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

At our tiny primary school in Wales, we traipsed across the road to the church hall once a week for our art lesson. Big sheets of paper on the trestle tables, big cans of powder watercolours for mixing into that browny-purply sludge colour that you always seem to end up with when you get too enthusiastic.

The teacher explained how to make skin colour; mostly white, with a dash of red and just a touch of yellow, but not too much.

And that is pretty much how I've been doing it ever since.

Yesterday I was looking at the slightly grubby block of white in my palette, and thought, "I wonder?"

...and did a bit of Googling, and found that loads of other people used different ways of getting skin colour in their watercolour paintings.

Burnt sienna seemed a popular place to start.

So I did.

Bingo.

Only took me forty years to start thinking outside that particular box.

Yet again, it shows how deeply ingrained habit can be. Quite chastening, in a quiet sort of way.

privacy

2011-10-29T05:51:00.001+01:00

Occupy Bristol, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I dropped in at Occupy Bristol the other morning, just to see how things were going. Some chap advised me that I should ask permission before taking photos of anyone; which, as a matter of form, I was going to anyway, but hey. Some people didn't want their pictures taken, so I didn't; some were OK, so I did.

There were isolated acts of doing-useful-things going on, and I chatted with the young chap who was sifting through the bins, sorting the contents for recycling. He was just extricating a broken beer bottle from the cardboard. "You could do with some gloves for that job," I said. He agreed, so I gave him a wodge of disposable latex gloves (a box of them lives in the back of the car, ready for use in the event of unforseen mechanical problems). And carried on my way.

I feel ambivalent about the issue of taking people's photos without permission; it's often better to do so, because then they aren't self-conscious, at least if they don't notice you doing it. And in the case of the Occupy site, it seems a good idea to get as many photos of the camp as possible, to maximise the impact. And could it be argued that, by making a political statement as they are, their images become public property? -certainly, when I was prosecuting my case against P&O Ferries at an Employment Tribunal, I was deemed public property; I was actually followed around Southampton by a photographer in a car, one afternoon, as I cycled around trying to find some lunch...

...still, I'm not like him. I hope.

Yesterday morning, at 8 o'clock, I got a phone call from a man asking if I was Linda Marland. I told him that I wasn't, and that I didn't know anyone of that name.

I tend to be careful about giving out any information on the phone, as there are so many nuisance calls and the occasional phisher....

...the doorbell rang at 6 last night. "You expecting anyone?" asked Katie.
"No. You?"
"No..."

It was Bloke In Suit.

"Hello; does Linda Marland live here?"
"No. You phoned this morning, didn't you?"

He was a reporter, trying to find a witness involved in the Vincent Tabak trial, which reached its conclusion yesterday morning. He seemed disbelieving of my denial that I knew the person he was trying to find. I can live with that.

there ain't no pink in the Union Jack

2011-10-27T07:53:00.001+01:00

the Seven Sisters, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

...actually, there ain't no pink in a rainbow, either, come to think of it.

Saw these gloves in B&Q the other day. Pink glove and blue glove are childhood sweethearts.

They grow up and of course they get married.

...happy ending!

...this was inspired by a link that CN Lester put up, of Pointlessly Gendered Products

occupied

2011-10-26T07:52:00.001+01:00

I called in on College Green, to see how the Occupy Bristol camp was doing. I was just passing through; I'm sympathetic to its aims, but am too engaged elsewhere to get involved. So I felt slightly voyeuristic, a bit of an outsider. Took a few pics; bloke drumming, people building a sort of ribbony teepee. Reminded me of the old free festivals... A bloke bounded over to me, grabbed my shoulders, and aimed a kiss at my mouth. I diverted it to my cheek. He put his arm around me, and we held a pose for a nearby photographer. Then I left.

It was all a bit unexpected. I felt a bit as though my personal space had been invaded without my permission; which, of course, it had. It didn't feel like a huge deal at the time, and I didn't feel particularly threatened, in daylight and with other people around. But even so. Reading other womens' experiences of occupations, and the marginalisation and objectification of women in them, it seems like part of a bigger picture. And I feel very bad, not so much that it happened, as that I didn't call the bloke out on his actions. Because if you don't call people out, then that behaviour is reinforced.

So if there's a picture out there with me and the bloke, smiling for the camera, just remember that the camera doesn't take the whole picture.

That's all.

ravening

2011-10-24T06:31:00.001+01:00

raven a video by Dru Marland on Flickr.

A bit of wildness passed through the neighbourhood yesterday morning. I was tapping away at the computer and making my way through a big bowl of coffee (Illy espresso, hot milk, squirty cream and a sprinkle of cocoa. It was Sunday morning). I heard a distinctive cronking. Hauling up the sash window, I leaned out just in time to see a raven dive through the back gardens, rolling as it went, then climbing and cronking in an exuberant wide curve over Westbury Park. I scrambled up the ladder to the roof, and watched as it was joined by a second raven, and they beat round in another circuit, putting a flight of finches into a fluster as they went.

Then they were gone, and there was just the pink-tinged cirrus of the late dawn, way high up, and closer overhead the businesslike grey clouds, fresh from Africa and scudding north as fast as the breeze would carry them.

festive

2011-10-23T06:35:00.001+01:00

"OK, that's, like, a bit weird," said Katie. Richard was describing our Moggy and its habit of bimbling around Bristol; and that is precisely what it was doing at that very moment, bouncing us over Cotham Brow, down to Whiteladies Road and the studio where Richard was being interviewed live on BBC Bristol. He was up in town for the Bristol Festival of Literature, and we got a passing mention as Richard talked about those of his books with a local flavour to them...

Minutes later he was on board and we were heading home.

"You gave good radio," I said.

"She was a good presenter," he said. "The taxi from the station got me there with two minutes to spare. You have to go through this huge news room full of people, then she's in a tiny little room at the other end..."

We had an early dinner. Oven chips, Pukka pies and mushy peas. Just the thing to keep you going through a busy evening. Twenty minutes later we were on the bus down to Broadmead, industriously folding up leaflets for the National Academy of Writing, hot off the printer, ready for the reading. Richard showed me how to do it, and I did it a different way because I thought my way was better. All that time making origami frogs in maths lessons at school wasn't wasted, let me tell you. We were a bit cramped, though. "These seats are bloody small," I observed. I've not been on a bus for years. Maybe buses are now being designed with an eye to the future, when everyone is going to be a midget.

At Foyle's, Richard talked about Lazarus Is Dead with Jari Moate. Then we dashed across town to Easton, where Richard and Pete Salmon held a NAW masterclass.

...and then it was time to go to the Apple, a cider pub that is also a boat. James Russell was already installed on a bench, having been at Stanfords Bookshop earlier, doing an event for his Naked Guide to Cider.

A late night, then.

a sloe poo

2011-10-20T06:17:00.005+01:00

I'm snug in my parka, the wind is on the lively side of fresh. We're out on the water meadows by the Severn, up in Gloucestershire, looking for sloes. The first bushes we see have been stripped. But we find some, by and by.

A big white bird. Was that an egret? Seemed to be a bit lively for an egret, but it isn't the sort of day for a lazy, indifferent sort of herony flap across the sky. Two decidedly herony herons unfold from behind the hedge and circle away. A crow rises over the same hedge and is flung skyward by the wind.

Two wheatears are bobbing in the grass by Littleton Warth. Then they up and fly off, showing the white arses that give them their name.

There's fox poo, carefully deposited on a rock for maximum effect. It's full of blackberry pips. I imagine the fox, carefully pulling the blackberries off the bramble with its teeth. Further along, there's badger poo, full of sloe stones. But I didn't take a picture of that, because a car had driven over it and it wasn't so picturesque. You know how it is, when you're photographing poo.

non-standard narratives

2011-10-19T04:54:00.010+01:00

this is what a transsexual* looks like

I found a folder of photos from the Welsh walk, the other day, that I thought I'd accidentally deleted. It was nice to find them again.
Coincidentally, that very same walk across Wales, that forms the framework for Becoming Drusilla, got criticised recently in the first unfavourable review that the book's so far received (on Amazon, anyway).

'Just give me the facts', 'get on with it' were what I was thinking more and more as I read on. Finally I gave up. The camping interludes killed it for me. Camping doesn't interest me, the trans-gender story did. Ultimately the latter is bogged down by the former and I didn't make it even halfway....

...said Zeddy12.

It got me thinking. A big part of why we did the book was to break away from the notion that the'transgender story' is something pink and fluffy, or possibly angst-ridden, and involving femininity coaching and trips to shopping malls and nightclubs. Camp, as it were, doesn't interest me... The Standard Tranny Narrative. You know. The same sort of reason I started this blog in the first place; to provide me with my own voice, and to talk about stuff that I do and that interests me. And if I am indeed transsexual, or transgender, then my drawing, cycling, cooking, parenting, poetrying, fixing the car or whatever, even the occasional forays into trans activism, generally living, are all part of my own particular 'transgender story'.

I invited Zeddy to write more, about what he had hoped for or expected from the book. It would, I thought, be a potentially interesting dialogue. After all, if someone doesn't like the book to the point that they don't even finish it, then the book has failed, in that instance at least. And it is a book with a message. Which didn't get across.

Oh well. Can't win 'em all.

Now then. Richard will be in Bristol tomorrow, Thursday 20th October, for a couple of events under the aegis of 'Unputdownable', the new Bristol Festival of Literature. You will find him at Foyles, talking about Lazarus Is Dead, and later at St Mark's Easton, discussing and critiquing.

*yes, transsexual is an adjective. I was being ironic. Ironic? Yes, I think that's the word.

rus in urbe

2011-10-16T06:10:00.003+01:00

rus in urbe, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Mal put the shout out. "They're cutting down this HUGE cedar," she said, "just up the hill. And they're happy for you to take the wood."

How could we turn down an opportunity like that? I was over that way anyhow, picking up Katie from the school where she's doing a BTEC course. I'd parked down the hill; she sidled up to the car and slipped quickly into the passenger seat. We headed over to Montpelier. "O god, I know them," she muttered, slipping out of sight below the window as we passed a group of schoolchildren. It is a terrible trial for a teenager, being driven around in a Moggy, let me tell you.

No such probs in boho Montpelier, though. We meandered around the narrow streets, chugged up a couple of precipitous hills, and saw Pig tied to a railing, branches everywhere, and Mal chatting animatedly to a chap in tree-cutting rig. The air was fragrant with cedarness and chainsawingdom.

It was quite a happening place. A huge Monterey cedar had become a bit dangerous, dropping a big limb onto the road, and it had been decided to fell it. "It must have been sucking up about 200 gallons of water a day", said Trevor the tree man. "It was drying up the ground under it."

The big side branches had already been lopped; we watched as Tristan the tree man, high above, worked the chainsaw through the topmost section of the tree, and it creaked over and fell, to be arrested by the restraining ropes. And I cursed at having not brought out the camera.

We chugged slowly home up the hill, the Moggy's suspension bottoming out under the load.

I like splitting logs. There's something pleasing about a well-swung axe, cleaving its way cleanly through a very large section of trunk.

apple

2011-10-15T07:13:00.001+01:00

apple a video by Dru Marland on Flickr.

here's the new apple peeler and corer. It arrived just a bit late for me to implement my great apple-drying plan. Next year, then.

life, drawing

2011-10-14T06:01:00.013+01:00

Driving to the life drawing class, Katie was nervous. "What if they make a fuss about me being there?"

"You're an artist," I said; "You've got as much right as anyone to be there. And if they're any use, they'll recognise that and it'll be fine. You know. Artists. They're good."

We parked near the great Victorian Gothic hall of the Bristol school that hosted the class, and looked for the way in. A young woman cycled by, a big bag of sketchbooks in the basket on her handlebars.

"We'll follow her," I said.

Wise move. Crossing the schoolyard, three more women joined us. All young, all carrying sketchbooks. I hoped Katie was feeling reassured.

"Are you Mo Samgrass?" I asked the friendly man at the door.

"No; there he is, over there."

Mo was chatting animatedly to a bearded man. There were a lot of bearded men there. Mo was fairly beardy, too, actually, come to think of it. We approached him.

"Hello! Dru and Katie Marland. We wrote..."

"Ah! Yes. Sorry I didn't write. I've been talking about it with my wife. She thought that there might be problems with your daughter being here. So we think it would be better if you didn't come. The models..."

"I did explain in my e-mail..."

"Yes, but..."

I'd written to Mr Samgrass last week, explaining our intentions.

I’m looking for somewhere for my daughter Katie to practice life drawing; she’s 14 and an enthusiastic artist, but we think that she could do with some life drawing experience. Do you have any spaces left on your courses?

He'd replied

If you wanted to send along your daughter to either class it'd be fine with me. Including this week there are 6 sessions left of this term so the cost would be £35. You should bear in mind that this is nude life drawing, given your daughters age however, although I'd be happy enough if you were.

So I wrote back

Thank you, Mo! What does she need to bring along? –also, as she is a bit lacking in confidence when it comes to new places, would it be poss for me to accompany her for at least the first evening? –I’d be happy to join in and to pay too, if it wasn’t in the way.

I hadn't received a reply, but I knew that Mo was a bit haphazard when it comes to e-mails. So I hadn't worried unduly.

Mo was now being edgy, and a little embarrassed. "Some people might object to having a child here. You're here tonight, though, so you can stay for this evening, if you like, and just pay £11."

He was flustered, and hurried. We decided to stay...

There were three circles of chairs. A helpful woman explained that one circle was for short poses of five minutes, one for fifteen minutes, and one for an hour. The fifteen minute circle seemed the most popular, and we rather fancied joining it. But there wasn't room. Several people were sitting at big circular tables, facing the middle; everyone else perched drawing boards or sketchbooks on their laps.

"Sitting at tables seems to be getting popular," said the woman ruefully.

"Yes; the caravans of the art world," I said. We exchanged wan smiles.

Katie and I went and looked for seats over in the hour-long circle. Some people already installed in their seats helpfully pushed them back to allow us room.

The session began. Every five minutes, Mo would call out "Five minutes!" so that the five minute models could change. And every fifteen minutes.... and so on.

I made several sketches. Sometimes it just doesn't come together, and my sketches looked embarrasingly bad. I sneaked a glance at my neighbour's picture, and didn't feel quite so bad about it. His was interesting, and full of texture, but proportions all over the place. Obviously, it is rude to look at other people's stuff, let alone judge it, but I was a little reassured.

Katie was doing very well.

Next to her was a bearded man who hunched over his work, and emitted marshy sniffs every few minutes. His work was tiny and very squiggly. (I mentioned this to Katie later; she said, "Yes; it was good, though; but scary....")

After an hour, everyone downed pencils and congregated at the drinks vending machine, or stood chatting. The models stood together, wrapped in blankets, exulting quietly in the freedom to move their joints.

Katie and I discussed our next move.

"Let's just go" she said.

That was fine by me.

Mo saw us leaving, and hurried across. He seemed very keen that we shouldn't think badly of him. "It's difficult running this group," he said. "We have to keep the curtains well closed to stop people staring in. Someone once brought their son in, and the model objected. My wife had to play cards with him all evening."

I'm very bad at responding fully and eloquently to things, sometimes. "I've been at the receiving end of discrimination for other reasons, and I know how Katie feels," I said. Katie also tried to express her outrage. Mr Samgrass was very sheepish; a sheepishness tinged with annoyance now. He returned the money I'd paid him, and expressed the hope that we might return when Katie was sixteen.

We emerged into the cool night, buzzing with anger and glad to be out.

"If he'd been objecting to us because I was transsexual, it would have sounded just the same", I said.

"I was thinking exactly the same thing," said Katie.

"I think we need fish and chips," I said.

"Burger and chips," she said.

"Done."

reality sucks

2011-10-13T09:11:00.004+01:00

reality sucks, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Thanks to Bristol Traffic, for alerting me to General Motors' ad campaign, trying to persuade students that having a big car is kewl, and cycling is for losers. They really don't get it, do they?

starlings

2011-10-11T07:05:00.005+01:00

It's easy to get bogged down by things, and I have been. Coming out at the other end of it now, fortunately. Here's a flock of starlings I did yesterday. They're going to go into a much bigger picture, thanks to the miracle that is photoshop. But meanwhile, I thought they'd look nice against a sky, so here they are.

This is the sky I borrowed...

...though of course I could have used another sky, like this one:

pickled

2011-09-30T20:03:00.004+01:00

eric pickles, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Sometimes, you have one of those 'did I really hear that' moments. One of them came along for me this morning, as I was listening to Radio 4 while cross-hatching some ocean on a drawing. The bit of ocean in question had to be big enough to sink a liner in, so it was taking a fair bit of time and concentration, let me tell you.

"Did I really hear that?" I asked myself. (You can see why you call them 'did I really hear that' moments, can't you?)

I Googled a bit. Yes. Eric Pickles, who is an Important Person in the Conservative Party, really said it:

"It’s a basic right for every English man and woman to be able to put the remnants of their chicken tikka masala in their bin without having to wait a fortnight for it to be collected"

Craaazy, as Speedy Gonzales might well have said.

Here in Bristol, we went over to fortnightly waste collection a few years ago, with a weekly recycling collection, which includes the contents of the compost bin, where, if you were throwing out a chicken tikka masala (the dinner of choice for Conservative MPs), is where it should be found . Which is more than adequate.

It's a bit worrying when a Tory thinks that human rights are about TV dinners. There are surely more important ones to worry about. Like, maybe, equality, work, the right to peaceful protest....

Here's the cross-hatched ocean in question.

chick lite

2011-09-28T06:32:00.001+01:00

ASDA subverts gender stereotyping, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Spotted at our local ASDA.... are these books really 'womens fiction'? And if not, to what category, extant or otherwise, would you assign them? 'Men's Fiction'?

a traffic coney island of the mind

2011-09-27T07:13:00.004+01:00

traffic cone, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

Along with the mists and the conkers come the first students of autumn to Bristol. Late at night they may be heard, scouring the after-pub streets in search of traffic cones to adorn their Clifton garrets. We dream that one day, a more just and equitable society will provide every student with their own traffic cone. But for now, here's a handy cut-out-n-keep one. Enjoy!

Perpetual Playground

2011-09-20T07:39:00.002+01:00

Perpetual Playground, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

The proof copy of Joe Solomon's book Perpetual Playground arrived yesterday. Well, John Terry, who edited it and has been prime mover in its publication, brought it round. So I got to see the cover I designed. Seems OK; a few minor glitches to sort out...

It's published by Pouncecat Press, and should be available from the Bristol Books and Publishers website in the fullness of time. It's already listed on Amazon. Meanwhile, you can read samples of it here, thanks to Smashwords.

Here's the blurb...

Flying, as ever, in the face of convention Joe Solomon focuses on Martin, a most unlikely (and likeable) hero who, even as a schoolboy, is conscious of a strange pleasure when he’s bested by younger boys.

Martin gets no help from his strict parents as he struggles with his feelings. He seeks therapy and is delighted when at last he finds a girl friend, Penny, who works in the same office.

Her brother, Malcolm, is a friendly and intelligent schoolboy. Martin tells himself that he’s attained a healthy, normal way for an adult to relate to a child.

But his feelings about this child are more complex than he thinks, and he disastrously fails to recognise the danger signs.

“If there was ever a contest to find the Nicest Bloke In Bristol, they'd have to disqualify Joe Solomon before anyone else would bother entering. Poet, stand-up comedian, ex-communist, animal rights and anti-racist activist, anti-death penalty campaigner...”

(Bristol and Bath’s Venue Magazine, 1998 Honours List)

catching the moon

2011-09-19T06:58:00.005+01:00

There I was on Saturday morning, up on the roof, staring westward and waiting for the Space Station; 0610 and four minutes to go. The just-past-full moon was overhead, haloed by the thin cloud whipping past. Southward, a great swell of grey cumulus rolled towards morning, surmounted by a great grey fin, like that of a pilot whale caught in the act of breaching. The brighter stars, and Venus, shone out of the clear patches.

But no Space Station. Wrong sort of cloud.

A bat, wind-tumbled and fluttering, like an autumn leaf but with a greater sense of purpose, fell across the sky.

As I went back down through the skylight, I caught the moon's reflection in the dewfall on the flat roof, and thought, but did not say, "Moon! Moon!"

Actually, I may have said it. Quietly, obviously.

I was thinking of the Ted Hughes poem.

Full Moon and Little Frieda

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

That description of the cows unfailingly and vividly brings back the sense of times in my past. Though I had to move to the big city and study Eng Lit to learn the ancient rural craft of catching the moon in a bucket.

the smell of Jeyes Fluid in the morning

2011-09-14T06:16:00.003+01:00

blackbirds in the holly, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I'm working on another book with Geraldine, and here's the first pic for it; the holly tree in her garden has a bit of a population explosion on the blackbirds front. The holly reminds me that I've seen the first Christmas things in the shops; rows of chocolate Santas in Sainsbury's, yesterday. Ick.

Closer to home, the roof started leaking in the heavy rain and wind we had yesterday. Very musique concrète, it was, the drops from the ceiling plinking into the buckets. I think I might make it a permanent installation.

I found a note on the stairs, from the landlady, thanking me for replacing the time-delay light switches..... We used to have three pneumatic time delay switches in the stairwell. They were useless, frequently jamming in the ON position, so that I was regularly stripping them down and cleaning them up so they'd work again. Anyway; I found some electronic time delay switches; press the button, and the time delay is done by circuitry rather than a spring pushing against a piston. Far less to go wrong. I installed them. Problem solved. Then landlady calls in electricians, and they take them out and replace them with old type mechanical switches. Which start to jam on after a week. "I am going to call A*****lectrics again", she says, after lamenting the failure of the lights again. I explain as best I can what the problem is. And order three more electronic switches (the professional electricians took the old new ones away). And yesterday I installed them. Always exciting working with live circuitry; the little wires sparking cheerily, and trying to weld themselves together.....

...so there's a note saying thank you, and a cheque for the cost of the switches. And a bottle of Liebfraumilch, LIDL's finest. Very kind, though Jeyes Fluid is better for cleaning the drains. But probably more expensive.

Still, the lights work.

sic transit

2011-09-12T05:52:00.009+01:00

Ten years on, my transition from male to female is pretty much something-I-once-did, and the main transitions on my mind these days are the ones from young to old (or (eek!) from middle-aged to old), and from occasional seafarer to illustrator. And whatever other transitions life throws at us all, of course.

There are people I know, and count as friends, who are at earlier stages of their own journeys, and with destinations uncertain. Which can be hard going, sometimes. I was just reading a blog by the wife of a MtF transitioner, which made uncomfortable reading because I recognised, in the description of the transitioning partner, some resonances with my own transition; my self-centredness, my selfishness, I suppose. I also recognised that sense of simmering resentment from the wife. I recall a friend whose partner worked hard to develop a musical career, while she supported them as best she could, paying the bills, cooking for the musos who were always around the place, trying to be positive and not feel marginalised. And after a few years, the partner said, "I've changed; I've been mixing with artistic and creative people..."

Some of us have growth spurts in our self-development. If we're lucky, anyway. If we're even luckier, our partners, if we have partners, will be developing in their own way and with a sufficient overlap of sympathies, affection, or possibly love, for the relationship to survive, or (better still) to flourish.

Some people stay together through insecurity or inertia, and put up with a large pile of personal unhappiness. Sometimes you don't recognise how unhappy you have been until it's all over, and one day you wake up and spend a while wondering what this strange feeling is that you've got, and then you recognise that you're happy. Been there.

And some people break up, and you look at them and think what a shame it was, because they seemed to be so good for each other.

No hard and fast rules. We're all on different paths, and write our own happy endings. Being trans is quite a big thing, but there are lots of other big things out there too. It's not uniquely wrong or evil to transition; it doesn't disqualify you from rights or responsibilities, any more than coming out as a musician. Say.

Good luck, everyone who's journeying or who's with someone who's journeying (which is a journey, too, of course, though possibly with someone else at the helm). I wish you well.

silent sky

2011-09-08T05:56:00.002+01:00

shhh, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

We'd been in the kitchen eating microwaved pasties for lunch, and I wandered back into the workshop with my mug of tea, ready to start up the lathe. The TV set up on the high shelf showed a New York skyline, high buildings haloed by morning sun. There were excited voices.

"Something going on," I remarked.

An airliner appeared out of nowhere, and in the few moments before it plunged into a skyscraper I recognised a Boeing 737. The television voices became even more excited.

"It looked like a small private jet", said a commentator.

"Oh no it wasn't," I thought.

I didn't know what it was, but I knew that something Very Big had suddenly happened, and that the world had changed.

Part of my reaction was a very selfish one; my life was so full of drama and angst that it seemed unfair that world affairs should intrude upon it and demand my attention too. My home life was falling apart; my partner was busily building herself a new life without me in it, but just for the while we were still occupying the same home, or at least two homes in parallel. I was worried about my relationship with my daughter; I wanted to spend more time with her, but felt trapped in the role of chief earner, and the bills and rent had to be paid. I was commuting to Dursley, a long haul up the motorway every day, to where I was working for a former colleague, a marine engineer, building specialist tricycles for people with special needs. He was not particularly sympathetic to the problems in my private life, making remarks such as "If she said 'shit' you'd jump on the shovel" and "You don't need surgery for something that's wrong in your head".

Because I was waiting for something to happen. I'd been to see my doctor that summer, describing my feelings about my gender identity. He'd been very understanding and helpful, and had set wheels in motion. But then the local PCT had responded, saying that they had no funding available for gender identity services, and recommending I go to see Prof Richard Green at Charing Cross, as a private patient. I was waiting for this appointment, which was another month in the future.

In the afternoon, we sat in the garden outside the workshop, taking a tea break. The sky was silent; Green One, the transatlantic air superhighway, passed directly overhead, and nothing was flying.

I thought about the future. The seemingly enormous gulf between where I was, and where I wanted to be. The forces of darkness, mobilising.

pictures or it didn't happen

2011-09-04T05:45:00.004+01:00

The more interesting life gets, the less you're likely to hear about it. It's a 'revolution will not be televised' kind of thing. Thus, for instance, these pictures of Catherine and me, canoeing along the Avon the other day, up towards Bradford on Avon. It was a good trip, along a stretch of river we'd not been along before. Kingfishers flitted about the place, the purple loosestrife flourished on the banks, the sun was just the right shade of warm, and the breezes were always following ones.

What the pics don't show are the bloody great plastic barrel with the dry gear in it, which I'd secured to the afterdeck of my kayak; I spent the first mile wobbling like a drunken tightrope walker, until we found somewhere to land, and from then on I towed it behind me, like a faithful mine.

But you can't see that in the pictures.

Another thing you can't see is the weir at Limpley Stoke.

The trouble with weirs is that, unless you're the sort of masochist who thinks that 'only dead fish go with the flow' and therefore only ever paddles upriver, then your first inkling of a weir ahead is the roaring noise. Then you will see a slight ripple, which is where the water is going over the weir. Approach with caution, and try to determine whether it's the sort of weir that you can shoot, or if there's anywhere to get out and inspect the thing.

We came alongside the central section of the weir, which was dry. I laboriously uncorked myself from the kayak, and found that Catherine's had taken advantage of the kerfuffle as she got out, and was drifting towards an ominously-roaring sluice.

It got caught in a tree. I got back into my kayak, and bore down upon it, Catherine holding the rope that was tied to the stern. I grabbed the runaway kayak, and she pulled me back to safety.

And then we scrambled down the wall of the weir, and carried on our way.

But there aren't any pictures of that either.

That weir is like poetry, as Wordsworth described it; 'emotion recollected in tranquillity'. Except back to front. I was quite calm at the time. Now, I think back to it and imagine getting caught in the sluice and drowning. Funny how things are just 'what-you-do' at the time, and give you the horrors afterwards.

It wasn't that bad really, though. Quite fun, in fact. It's like breaking down in the car. As i said to Katie the other day (just after the clutch linkage on the Moggy had broken, and I bodged it back together with a safety pin) "It's really good when you break down, if you manage to fix it and get home, because the happiness you feel at sorting out the problem outweighs the misery of the problem happening in the first place".

She didn't agree. Tchah.

watching the eclipse

2011-08-30T06:28:00.000+01:00

Watching the Eclipse

We sat and watched the bit of sky
We thought was where the moon would rise,
And talked of things, and listened to
The sheep bleat, and the cows go moo,
And blackbirds throwing songs from bushes
That echoed round the woods, their pauses
Taken by the songs of thrushes
-Wild, episodic notes. Dog roses,
Ragged in the after-rain,
Overhung the sunken lane.

And clouds slid by, so low that we,
From where we sat, could scarcely see
The radio mast there on Dundry,
Behind which was the moon, by now
Well risen, so my watch said, though
No hint of its eclipse we saw.
Only the horseshoe bats that flew
Around the ash tree where we sat.
And it was good.

And that was that.

(written for the eclipse in the middle of June, then removed because I entered it into a competition. Ha! Safe to come out at last.....)

hey, you, get offa my tree

2011-08-29T07:52:00.011+01:00

damsons, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

It's always a heck of a party when I lay the blanket on the ground, let me tell you. A quick shake of the damson tree and before you know it, the earwigs are dancing a sprightly Roger de Coverley around the damsons; the harvestmen tiptoe gingerly away; and a bush cricket manages to look ever-so-slightly peeved as it takes stock of its new tartan surroundings, thinks about it for a moment, then hops off to somewhere that doesn't clash so violently with its bright green overalls.

I was getting the last of the fruit from the local tree, yesterday morning; then for good measure, I picked a pile of apples too.

Home again, the damsons were washed and put in a pot in the oven to soften them up for making 'cheese', which is the local version of membrillo, I suppose you could say.

And then, as it was still bright and early on a sunny day, Deborah, who is no slouch when it comes to wild harvests, came over, and we went off to the Mulberry Tree Of Plenty, in the heart of Clifton. It's just about my favourite tree, because mulberries are so very nice and because it is very climber-friendly.

You have to be careful with mulberries, as they're so very juicy; and even if you are careful, you end up with hands that look like you've just slaughtered a pig. Last time I picked some, I was knocked off my bike on the way home, and when I saw the splodged mulberries on the road my first thought was that my brains had been splattered out. Not a good thought....

A couple of years back, I met Kayle Brandon up the tree; she's done a wild food guide to Bristol, that I feel a bit ambivalent about; the thing about nice trees is that it's good to know where to find them, and a bit of a bore if you get there and find that someone else has stripped the tree, especially if they're doing it commercially. Oh, and she organised the 'Feral Food' event at the Cube, that I helped out with....

This year, we met a tree troll. He was small and wizened, and advanced towards us, shrieking "What are you doing in my tree?"

Fortunately, I know how you deal with tree trolls. You start by fixing them with a steely gaze.

"We're picking mulberries," I replied, slowly and clearly.

"They're not ready yet," he said.

I showed him my basket of ripe mulberries.

He explained that he picks them and sells them to a local greengrocer. I told him about Kayle's wild food map. "Middle class people," he snarled, "making money out of it".

I reminded him that his interest was mercantile, but he seemed to think that his was the Right Sort Of Mercantile.

Eventually, he wandered off to catch his bus.

"What's your name?" I called as he departed.

He paused and thought about it. "That's a state secret," he said.

Tree trolls, eh?

Two young women came by, with buckets. They were collecting money for a charity. They stopped and asked for some. Deborah and I held out our empty but bloodied hands to show our lack of money.

"Have mulberry instead," I said, and selected a particularly nice one.

The charity collector looked askance at it. "What is it?"she asked, "a berry? Is it poisonous?"

"Best berry there is," I said, and put one in my mouth to show how to do it.

She held it up and touched it tentatively with a lip. Then backed away and continued along the path.

"She's not going to eat it, is she?" said Deborah.

"Bet she's thrown it away already."

Bless the British suspicion of Food Off Trees. As long as it persists, there's always going to be nice things to eat for nothing.

cat herding

2011-08-23T07:54:00.003+01:00

cat herding, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

...a joy for life.

This picture's intended for a forthcoming piece about the trans community. I knew what I wanted to draw pretty much straight away, and determinedly didn't Google 'cat herding' before drawing the picture. And was quite happy to find, on Googling it afterwards, that it isn't ground already hugely covered. You never can tell with these things...

On a technical note, I thought that, as it was a quick cartoon, I'd economise by using a sheet of cartridge paper; there's a great pile of it under the bed, that I inherited from Marta when she was tidying up her studio. Normally I'd have used Daler-Rowney's Langton Extra Smooth Watercolour Paper, which works out at about 80p a sheet. Stupid me. The cartridge paper didn't take the watercolour very well, and it took for ever to clean up the scan on Paintshop Pro, as it looked all muddy and grey, before flooding in the sky and the grass. Moral: always use the best materials you can get. *bangs head on wall a few times in hopes that lesson will sink in....*

fire in the sky

2011-08-22T10:04:00.004+01:00

hale bopp, originally uploaded by Dru Marland.

I was up on the roof at twenty to ten last night, ready to watch the International Space Station go by. It was a clear, still evening; a polar satellite quietly passed northward, far overhead, skimming the handle of the Plough as it went.

Two minutes short of the appointed time for the ISS to appear, a great fireball streaked across the sky above me, leaving a long trail and flickering and sparking as it went. I thought momentarily that it was a firework; but it was too white, and too silent. Utterly silent.

Then the ISS appeared, and ascended to a zenith right overhead, and so declined to the eastern horizon, dimming as it dived into the earth's shadow. Ordinarily, it would have been pretty impressive; tonight, though, it had been seriously outstaged. As I watched, my mobile rang. It was Brendagh, over in Long Ashton; "Did you see that?"

Later, I looked on Twitter. Other people around Bristol had also seen it; and someone in Reading, for whom it had been in the West.

Here's a picture of Hale-Bopp, which was really quite unlike a fireball in some ways, but was also a silent presence in the sky.

going round

2011-08-19T06:03:00.005+01:00

Here's a friend of Geraldine's. He's called Drew (no relation), and he's been living in Leigh Woods on the other side of the Gorge from Bristol, for the summer. This picture accompanies Geraldine's description of Drew's experiences, and is for the next issue of the Bristol Review of Books.

And here's another round picture; it's for Andrew Sartain, chef, keeper of Gloucester Old Spots and inveterate forager- constantly off hauling fish out of the sea, hunting down fungus and doing unspeakable things to game animals. You will probably find him at a Farmers Market near you, if you happen to live in the Bristol and Bath area. Try the sausages. They're good.