Oh Comely magazine issue 8 by oh comely magazine

issue eight winter 2011/12 ÂŁ4

oh comely

keep your curiosity sacred editors liz bennett, des tan

deputy editor rosanna durham fashion agatha a nitecka music dani lurie craft beth davis illustration laura callaghan film jason ward features frances ambler design assistant jo myler editorial charlotte humphery, amie mills words michael bennett, stephanie davies, lucy doolan, lisa jarmin, anna lawson, victoria watts pictures stefany alves, yann faucher, christoph ferstad, oskar gyllenswĂ¤rd, rob hodgson, li hui, steve kennedy, pino marchese, laura mayotte, desiree mcclellan, sarah michelle, alyssa nassner, becca stadtlander, david swailes, tabitha tan, nagano toyokazu, ross trevail, kiley victoria, matt wignall

advertising steph pomphrey, steph@ohcomely.co.uk business co-ordinator hannah tyson feedback and lost property, info@ohcomely.co.uk submissions, words@ohcomely.co.uk or pictures@ohcomely.co.uk oh comely, issue eight, winter 2011/12. Published by Adeline Media Ltd six times a year. Third Floor, 116 High Holborn, London, WC1V 6RD. 020 7831 8645. Printed in the UK by Buxton Press, www.buxtonpress.com. Cover portrait, Juliette Fazekas, IMG, by Agatha A Nitecka. The illustrated map on the back cover was sent to us by Holly Latham. www.ohcomely.co.uk Contents ÂŠ 2011 Adeline Media Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission from the publishers, although conscientious and beleaguered fair users can relax and have a cup of tea. The views expressed in oh comely are not necessarily those of the contributors, editors or publishers, or the authorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mothers. ISSN 2043-9857.

Li Hui took this photograph of her best friend in her home shortly before she moved away. She says, â&#x20AC;&#x153;For me, it was a room full of happy memories.â&#x20AC;?

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contents i t ’s n i c e t o s e e y o u h e r e

art

22 there’s a wolf in the woods illustrations as grimm as fairy tales 26 the joys of digging in the dirt the singer from my brightest diamond is a wandering star 30 the phantom milkshake party and other stories tales from touring with the smoke fairies 34 hot loaves make noises the secrets I learned while bagging rolls in a bakery

fashion

48 third wave detailing designing fabric prints with small surprises 50 maria in prints patterned shirts and skirts in the long grass 72 the heart, dissected can you hear the beat from a greetings card heart? 74 my biography is written on my shoulder photographs of tattoos

people

84 after seventeen years in a monastery how a restless former monk found his place in the world 86 perfect strangers writers confess their secret crushes 106 the life and times of professor apocalypse it’s hard saying goodbye to my hamster 108 forever in blue jeans the sad and fascinating history of indigo dye 112 natural dyeing with fennel and onion and a polenta tart recipe to cook up the leftovers

and

116 the designers behind pyrus make simple clothes for strong women so we made a cotton bag with them

36 if you drop the glove, don’t stop the actor paddy considine was a frustrated director at heart 38 good with tea and antarctic expeditions a history of the digestive biscuit that travelled a long way from home 42 eight copies of wuthering heights the changing covers of emily brontë’s classic novel 44 four-legged meditation one man and his dog, illustrated 60 in the meadow as the season turned, we took photographs of thoughtful clothes and imagined the body as sculpture 92 the charity shop mug parade a line-up of wonderful awful mugs 94 eight decades of kindness strangers old and young tell their stories 100 fish fingers for breakfast spending a day granting the wishes of a two-year-old 102 food for thought people in bristol tell us what their childhood nicknames used to be 118 what are your favourite socks? and other big questions for the band from crookes 120 warm me up, buttercup hot drinks for long winter evenings 124 can I come to your party? let’s see if pass the parcel and twister are as much fun as they used to be 128 are you a potato or a radish? this quiz will get to the root of the matter

between you and me speaking your mind can set you free Wearing your heart on your sleeve wasn’t always a good thing. The words were first used with disdain. Shakespeare’s archvillain, Iago, said, “I will [not] wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at.” We don’t agree with Iago, and this issue is full of people who declared what they feel. Tattoos can be a declaration, even if that’s only to yourself. Yann Faucher took portraits of people with tattoos, and they explained what they meant. There are Louise’s butterfly tattoos that aren’t symbols of anything, Pete who transcribed his grandfather’s tattoos onto himself, and Jeremy whose tattoos hide as much as they reveal. Four writers told us frankly about their secret crushes. They told stories of purpose and pointlessness, of crushes confessed and concealed. But it was the illustrator Julianna Swaney who said it most succinctly. “When I got older, I couldn’t see the point of keeping crushes secret any more.” There comes a time to ink your heart on your shoulder.

special deliveries notes through the letterbox

In issue seven, we featured some clay hearts by Zosienka & Rosie, and asked who you’d give yours to.

Hannah. I would give mine to my best friend, Ben Terzza. He is such a loving guy. I met him at university and I liked him from the moment I met him even with his geeky glasses and disgraceful holey socks. We’ve been best friends for three years now and I still fancy the pants off him. I like to buy him things and make him things to show my affection, but I always end up backtracking if he mentions it.

Esme. I’d give a heart to my mum. She used to absolutely love painting but because of her job and a lack of self belief she stopped and no longer thinks she has the creativity or talent. I hope that a token like this could give her back her inspiration and confidence.

Merlin. I’d give the heart to my friend Katherine across the water in Belfast, to thank her for the incomparable inspiration she gave me to begin writing, and to help her keep her chin up until I finally get to meet her.

Caroline. I would give my hand-painted heart to my mam as she is simply the best person in my life, from the delicious homemade cheese scones that would outstrip any of the bakers’ on the Great British Bake Off, to text messages that make me smile. My mam deserves a gold medal, but I’m hoping a hand-painted heart will do.

Peddy. I’d give a heart to my dear, inspirational friend Catherine, who helped me bring my beautiful daughter into the world.

what we listened to the songs that made the issue illustrations alyssa nassner

what we ate bread, butter and sprinkles go together nicely

some people who helped to make this issue but why are our contributors always looking away? victoria watts is a writer and insatiable traveller

rob hodgson illustrated a walk with his dog

Her interviews with the melodious duo, Smoke Fairies, and a former Buddhist monk are on pages 30 and 84.

You can find his piece, Four-legged Meditation, on page 44.

Tell us a little about yourself and your work. I work at the Red Cross as a writer. I can be found in Peckham cafes playing scrabble while eating cake and plotting my next adventure. Soon I’ll be leaving this land for South America where I hope to befriend a monkey. Did you ever have a secret crush? I have a girl crush on Joan from Mad Men, probably because I envy her curves. What’s the kindest thing a stranger has done for you? I couchsurf a lot so people are always delighting me with their kindness. Antoine stands out, who let me stay in his beautiful apartment in Barcelona for a week. I listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen there and discovered Jungle Speed, one of the best games ever invented. How do you take your tea? Minty. What’s the best way to spend a winter weekend? Every January, I take my boyfriend on a trip abroad for his birthday.

Tell us a little about your work. Someone once said my work was, “very pastoral, very English.” I’ve always liked that. Things that recur are: woods, milk, the apocalypse, nighttime and falling. I’m trying to get into portraits. If you got a tattoo, what would it be? I like the old sailor vibe or something primitive, where you get a tattoo to mark an event or an accomplishment. There’s something fascinating about them being a collection that gets more interesting with time. It’s the opposite of decorative tattoos that get worse with time. Did you ever have a secret crush? I romanticised a lot of people when I was younger: famous people, people I knew. I used to secretly have a crush on my girlfriend. Now we are living together. Describe your perfect breakfast. It would be a bagel with bacon, maple syrup, goat’s cheese, pine nuts and lettuce. And it’s cold outside and I’ve got the whole morning off. Maybe it’s snowing. And a cup of coffee.

becca stadtlander painted delicate botanical illustrations

yann faucher took quiet portraits of people with tattoos

Becca’s work accompanies a feature on natural dyes on page 112.

Yann’s portrait series is on page 74.

What do you love about illustration? The freedom! Making my own schedule and being in control of my livelihood is the best feeling in the world. Did you ever have a secret crush? It was a boy I saw walking to class on my first day of high school. The secret didn’t last too long. It’s years later and we recently got engaged! What is your perfect breakfast? Nutella and sliced almonds on wheat toast with a great cup of coffee. Who is your artistic hero and why? Edward Gorey. The originality of his work and life exemplify my idea of what it means to be an artist. Describe your perfect studio space. A very large old wooden desk, covered in marks and bits of coloured paint, surrounded by windows. The windowsills would be filled with happy cacti and my pens and brushes would sit among pattern-covered tins and bins filled with all my supplies.

Tell us a little about yourself and your work. I am a guy with abnormal sensitivity—obsessive, tensed and sometimes anxious. It’s a clear definition of a neurotic person, I guess. I actually have two jobs at the moment. I love them both and it makes a good balance for my life in London. When did you first start taking photos professionally and why? Being professional is rather a concept nowadays, isn’t it? Photography is what I need at the moment. Maybe one day I will decide to stop it for good to do something else, and honestly I would be happy all the same. Have you ever wanted to get a tattoo? I don’t have tattoos. I am not really sure if I ever wanted to get one, but I like it when people attach meaning to them. Tattoos have their own stories. What is the kindest thing a stranger has done for you? I have usually been scared strangers ever since I was a little boy. What makes you happy? A bed, by the seaside.

pretty lovely all things cosy and bright drop a line to free@ohcomely.co.uk by the end of january if you’d like the chance to win some elegant knick-knacks

As the days get chilly and the nights draw in, we can’t think of anything better than a cuppa to warm our cockles. Lucky for us, there’s Rosy Lee Tea, which is named after the Cockney rhyming slang for the beloved British cup of tea. Their blend is a delicate mix of Assam and Kenyan black tea. It comes in a rather fine tin, with a Pearly King sipping a brew on the back. We have tins of Rosy Lea Tea for four thirsty readers, so write us a rhyme and send it to free@ohcomely.co.uk for a chance to win. See www.rosyleetealondon.com for more. Much sweeter-smelling than your average pooch, Rufus the dachshund is filled with wheat and lavender. Just pop him in the microwave for a couple of minutes and he’ll stay warm for around two hours, keeping the cold at bay like a faithful hound. Also available in bulldog, airedale and chihuahua, Rufus is the work of Showpony, a studio inspired by honesty, humour and the joy of poking fun at the small details of everyday life. The hot dogs are available from www.showpony.co.uk, but for the chance of wining Rufus, simply email in to free@ohcomely.co.uk with your most heart-warming story about man’s best friend. It’s almost time to get out our pens and start making lists of resolutions, and we’re going to need something to put them in. The Grafika collection of notebooks from eco-friendly stationers Nineteen Seventy Three are perfect for safely keeping whatever your pen has to say. The paper is made from 100% post-consumer waste, with colourful geometric covers, so you can feel good about using them too. We have five smart little notebooks to give away, so write in and tell us your new year’s resolution. See www.nineteenseventythree.com for more pretty stationery.

I spy with my little eye something beginning with L! The adorably-named lullabaloo birds have flocks of character and will fix you with a knowing and beady stare. The pretty wooden creations are the work of Anna Wiscombe, who was inspired by a childhood in Dorset spent surrounded by birds. You can see Anna’s work on www.annawiscombe.com. A little birdy also told us that a range of large decorative wooden birds for outside spaces will be coming soon. She has kindly given us a large lullabaloo for one lucky reader, so write a note to free@ohcomely.co.uk for a flighty freebie. Made from textured mixed wool, this coat is sure to keep you warm when cold winds are a-blowin’. Element Eden have given us one of their dapper Hawksbury coats (in size medium) to give away to a lucky reader. A line of clothing for women by skate brand Element, Element Eden use environmentally kind materials and manufacturing processes to make simple, stylish fashion. Visit their website to find more information about their clothes, ethos and fantastic lady advocates: elementeden.com/eu. Knit one, purl one, want one. These beautiful brooches by Melbourne-based jeweller Rachel Tesselaar use vintage knitting needles encased in resin to produce their glorious constellations of colour. They are part of her Going Dotti range, and we certainly are. The brooches are available in the UK from Howkapow, a colourful online shop selling the work of new and independent designers. The brooches cost £35 from howkapow.com, where you can also while away happy time exploring their accessories, homewares and illustration.

tatty devine There’s no jewellery quite like the bold perspex silhouettes of Tatty Devine. Art school friends Rosie Wolfenden and Harriet Vine started the studio together in 1999 and still make the pieces by hand. If you’ve ever yearned to do the same, Rosie and Harriet have a book out, How to Make Jewellery. We have four copies to give away, so drop a line to free@ohcomely.co.uk for the chance to win one. The glasses, rosettes and plectrum bracelet (right) are pieces made from the book, and the fox and the brogue are from Tatty Devine’s collection. Rosie, tell us a story about your work together: a great memory, or a happy coincidence. Harriet and I seem to have been in parallel universes all our lives, whether making scrunchies and selling them on local markets aged twelve, or re-enacting Ab Fab at school talent contests (Harriet was Patsy and I was Eddie). When we started living together it would take us hours to leave the house as we would come out of our bedrooms in matching outfits and have to change again. This connection has been the basis of all our work together. We were inspired by each other, and looking as ridiculous as possible. What makes a piece of jewellery Tatty Devine? A sense of humour and a sprinkling of magic. Where’s the name from? We used to call Harriet ‘Miss De Vine’ for fun, and we liked the word ‘tatty’ as we both have an obsession for buying old tatty things that might have belonged to our grandparents. When we first told someone we were called Tatty Devine, they said, “Oh yes, I’ve heard of you,” and we knew the name was right. What are your car boot sale hunting techniques? Get there early. Always try and get the best price and don’t be afraid to rummage in boxes of old stuff, however dirty they are.

Presents the GSA Collection 2011 Contemporary textiles, ceramics, jewellery and gifts designed by staff, students & alumni. Every purchase supports the school.

11 Dalhousie Street, Glasgow, G3 6RQ 0141 353 4526 shop@gsa.ac.uk www.gsa.ac.uk/shop ÂŠ Photography Hamish Bigg, Sophie Dyer & Alan McAteer

lomography Starting with a small, plastic film camera, the Lomo Kompakt Automat, Lomography have made it their business to bring back the cameras that time and high fidelity forgot. They’re bent on propagating playful self-expression: shooting from the hip with a tough, cheap camera and enjoying the unpredictable results. We asked Linda Scott from Lomo in Soho to tell us about the surprises in the story of Lomography. Lomography have given us three of their Diana F+ cameras to give away, so send a photograph you took that surprised you to free@ohcomely.co.uk for the chance to win. What’s a Lomo photograph that has stayed with you? The Soho store manager, Liana, took a double exposure image on the day that her then boyfriend proposed to her. Not having a ring on the day, Liana made an image with a daisy on her wedding finger. These are the sort of happy accidents that happen. Which camera is your favourite? The Lomo LC-A+. It gives you the most amazing colour saturations and exquisite focussing. I love to shoot double exposures with this camera, such as starting with a texture and then shooting someone’s portrait. Sometimes a whole film will come back that looks as though it could be published in a children’s fairy tale book. At other times it’s a disaster, but you take the rough with the smooth with analogue photography. Tell us a story about the Lomography world. A few years ago I was looking for a venue to host a LomoWall exhibition. This is how we display photographs, by sticking actual-sized images together tightly side by side on a wall. Everywhere I called seemed to have been already booked by the London Design Festival, so I decided to ask if they could lend me somewhere to use. Six months later, we were hosting the largest ever LomoWall in Trafalgar Square to launch the festival.

oh comely copywriting The squiggle game is simple and fun. Start with the squiggle and draw something around it. It can be whatever you want. Have a go, then compare yours with a friend’s. The creative people behind oh comely like taking a simple thread and weaving something beautiful and imaginative from it. It’s what we do. We’re a small and passionate team with big ideas who love words and photographs as much as you do.

If you like oh comely’s work, our writers and photographers can help shape your publication too. We love the challenge of an exciting idea and we’re used to bringing far-off dreams to life. We can edit, design and polish your project so it’s beautiful and accessible. Get in touch if you’d like a new approach. You can find out more at ohcomely.co.uk/copywriting. Or drop us a line at copywriting@ohcomely.co.uk.

there’s a wolf in the woods julianna swaney’s illustrations are creepy as only fairy tales can be interview laura callaghan Portland-based artist Julianna Swaney conjures up fantastical imagery usually found only in fairy tales and dreams. Woodland creatures frolic alongside solemn figures and delicately-rendered fauna in Swaney’s quietly surreal work. Her fine brushwork and muted colour palette lend a folk-like quality to the imagery. We asked Julianna to share a little more about her background and process. Your work is strongly influenced by folk tales and fairy tales. Where did your fascination come from? My mother read to me all the time when I was little and those are some of my best and clearest memories. I was an only child and spent a lot of time playing alone, so I would make up lots of stories by myself. Fairy tales always brought up strange feelings in me, a mixture of fear and comfort. I think I understood the world in a different way when I was little. The strangeness of things like talking animals and endless forests totally made sense to me. I’m trying to capture that feeling I got back then in my drawings, even if the world looks very different to me now. Do you have any animals of your own? I think animals make life, and stories, more interesting and unpredictable. Currently, all the animals in my life are owned by other people. I’m sure I’ll have some of my own again some day but I want to make sure I have the time to give them enough attention. I love how your work transcends the format of traditional illustration and can be found on pins, pendants and paper dolls. I started making brooches a few years ago because I was feeling that everything I did was so insubAbove: Julianna’s self-portrait. Left: Wolf Minder.

stantial. I wanted to work all day at something and then be able to hold a finished object in my hand. Whenever I start to feel that way, I try to do something off the page for a while, then I’m usually so happy and refreshed when I return to drawing. Do you have any rituals or habits when approaching a project? What are the tools of your trade? For tools, I keep it very simple, just pencils, paper and watercolours. I’ve worked for years with very cheap watercolour paints and brushes. I am a pretty solitary person. I prefer to work alone and I usually get my best ideas and feel most inspired when I’m on my own and things are quiet. The only really consistent habit I have is to procrastinate when I have something important to do! I have to get everything else that might distract me out of the way. Once I do start, it’s hard to stop and ten hours can go by without me noticing. Where do you go when you’re feeling uninspired? Books by favourite illustrators, like Maurice Sendak, Beatrix Potter and Edward Gorey, and blogs like 50 Watts and Bibliodyssey. I spend a lot of time looking though images on Flickr from vintage children’s books, antique photos and paper ephemera. This issue some of our writers shared their secret crushes. Do you have any recollections of a secret crush? When I was younger, I was so paranoid about anyone finding out about my secret crushes that I would never even give a hint that I had one. Kids are so mean! And of course when I got older I couldn’t see the point of keeping crushes secret anymore. Left: Hidden Birds. Above: Snow Geese.

the joys of digging in the dirt the singer from my brightest diamond is planting an orchard words dani lurie, portrait matt wignall

Shara Worden has travelled a lot in her life, and it hasn’t come easily. “It’s hard because I’m a homebody, in a way. I’ve had to change in order to be happy. Because I travel so much, I feel like I am trying to find those moments of home along the way.” Shara Worden is the singer and multi-instrumentalist best known as My Brightest Diamond. Her music is a synthesis of classical and avantgarde, infused with elements of opera, cabaret, rock and pop music, and presided over by a soaring voice. Sitting across the table in a café, she speaks in careful sentences. There is something dreamy, yet precise, about her manner. After a month of touring in Europe, the Detroit-based musician is passing through London with her husband and 13-month-old son. It’s the people that make a place home for her. As a child, she moved frequently with her father’s work. “I’ve lived in ten different states,” she says, “eleven if you count Moscow.” Lately, she’s been thinking about moving to Berlin, because that’s where her drummer lives. “I suspect that because I’ve never had a specific place in the world that was my home, it was always my relationships and the creative people in my life that defined what was home for me.” She may have had a wandering life, but location still seems to have a profound effect on Worden. She moved two years ago into one of Detroit’s poorest neighborhoods, where she bought a decaying house there and began to restore it. Detroit knows decay better than most: the abandoned motor city has become the poster town of America’s industrial economic collapse. It’s tempting to romanticise a fallen city but, Worden observes, only from the outside. “There have been a million documentaries, especially European,” she says. “It’s easier for a European to see it as the sign of the failure of capitalism. Americans don’t look at it that way—or don’t want to.” The city has been hailed as a haven for artists, but there is a different reality for those who call it home. “It has a 47% illiteracy rate,” Shara explains, “so there’s a lot of poverty. There’s a lot of creativity and urban farming and gardening happening that is really exciting, but it’s still

an intense place to be.” But Detroit’s very dereliction also created the opportunity for Worden to have her own orchard and a garden. In the wake of the city’s collapse, the population fell from two million to 700,000, leaving abandoned buildings and vacant homes. As these empty structures are knocked down, wild spaces are starting to emerge, and a fresh movement of community-orientated gardens has pushed through. The garden has been a dream for Worden. She’s been growing peaches, apples and pears in the orchard, she says. “It’s my form of watching television. There’s actually something in the soil that makes you happy, a chemical thing. Humans evolved so we’d want to dig in the dirt.” The plot of ground has come at the right time. “I think that, because I have a baby, I really needed the earth. I really needed dirt and I needed to find a connection with being a woman, and that’s related to nurturing plants,” she explains, noting that the stimulation of cities doesn’t compare. “I do think there’s something about the untamed wildness in nature and the lack of activity that makes you find out that your imagination is an endless possibility. It’s hard to remember that when you’re in the city.” Less than a year after their move, the Wordens’ first son was born. Shara’s latest album, All Things Will Unwind, is an attempt to reconcile the joy of becoming a new mother with the extremes of poverty and injustice she has witnessed in Detroit. It’s a response to a world unraveling, but a testament to the beauty of it too. “It was as if I was trying to process these intense realities of the world as a whole, but also the incredible joy and love I have as a mother, and the delight that my son has in the everyday that is so incredibly pure.” Her son is with her husband a couple of tables over. She talks about growing up in a family of musicians. Worden’s father was a National Accordion Champion and her mother was a church organist, so I wonder if music is in her blood. “My son’s incredibly sensitive to music,” she says, “But that’s probably because he had a guitar resting on his head for nine months.”

Shara Wordenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s self-portrait is a drawing of the mask that she sometimes wears while performing as My Brightest Diamond. Worden created the mask around the time of her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death. She asked her friend, Lake Simons, a puppeteer, to make a puppet head of her as an old woman, to represent the wise woman that she hopes to be when she grows older.

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the phantom milkshake party and other stories smoke fairies are a band with tales to tell interview victoria watts, portraits christoph ferstad Jessica Davies and Katherine Blamire met in high school and have been close friends ever since. They perform together as Smoke Fairies, a spectral folk duo with guitars and delicate, warbling vocals. The pair’s breakthrough came after they cornered Jack White in a bar in Hoxton one night and gave him one of their CDs. He called them a year later and invited them to Nashville to record a single on his label, Third Man Records. During a break from touring, we met Jessica and Katherine in a pub in Peckham and laughed at their impersonations of Canadian customer service, fellow musicians, backwater police and, most of all, themselves. Has your friendship been important for your music? How long after you met did you decide to do music seriously? Jessica: It was when we started getting along when we were about thirteen. I guess a lot of children think they’re going to be musicians or actresses, but it never really left us. Sometimes I look at it and think, “If only my thirteen-year-old self could see this,” but I reckon my thirteenyear-old self might say, “Well, that’s what I expected.” We were just so certain.

Katherine: When we were in class together, we used to constantly be talking of things like having a tour bus. Jessica: Stereotypical band ideas. Katherine: And drawing things out in our exercise books instead of doing the work. I look back on us then and the things we wanted and it does feel satisfying to know that that person wouldn’t be disappointed. Jessica: It’s also been really hard. There were a few years when we first moved up to London, when nothing was happening. I remember once we had gone to a gig that someone had cancelled without telling us. We got the train home and someone threw an egg at me and then I got spat on from the balcony above. It started to rain and I thought, “Why am I doing this?” Katherine: We’ve had a lot of crap jobs. I’ve worked in factories and all kinds of places. Jessica: We lived in Canada for a while where Kath was a dog walker and I worked in a coffee shop. We got fired from a lot of other things first.

Jessica and Katherine’s self-portraits bear a resemblance to them that’s a little uncanny.

Katherine: It was a chaotic year. Everything we did seemed to go wrong. Jessica: They have much higher standards of customer service in Canada than they do in the UK. Kath worked in a shop and they wanted her to follow the customer around. Katherine: You’d have to go up to them and say, “Oh, I see you’re looking at that cushion,” and, “That’s made out of… Well, it’s got feathers in it.” People would be backing away, and I’d say, “You’re moving over to the chair. Well, that is a nice chair.” Jessica: It didn’t match our personalities at all. Do you have a sense of gratitude about how far you’ve come? Jessica: Last month we were driving up the Pacific Coast Highway and it was incredibly beautiful. You take a minute to think, “Wow, the music’s got me here. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the music.” Katherine: There are times when we’re at home, and one of us is beating a tambourine over our heads and the other holding a microphone and we think, “Is this what we do? This is ridiculous.” It’s so funny.

I read a story on your tour blog about a smelly strawberry-milkshake-stained van that you recently toured in. Jessica: On each tour we do in the UK, we get a different van and it’s actually got worse. On our first tour, not a lot of bands were out on the road so we could afford something swanky. Katherine: It made us think, “Wow, we’re doing really well. Look at this, it’s got air conditioning, the windows go up and down.” Jessica: Then as summer approached, we just got lumbered with the worst transit vans. On that occasion, the band who had it before didn’t have time to clean it out. They’d had the most crazy party with cake and strawberry milk. It was disgusting. Katherine: We were trying to guess which band it was. Who would have that much cake and strawberry milkshake? Jessica: One of the vans—the guy who rented it out said that Coolio had broken the back seat. Apparently, he kept taking ladies back there. Katherine: I don’t know if Coolio would do that. He doesn’t strike me as

a milkshake and cake kind of person.

I have a very romantic idea of touring, probably from watching Almost Famous.

Is there anybody you would love to tour with? Katherine: I love that film. We’ve watched it about ten times. Jessica: We did a tour with Laura Marling for a month. That was really cool. Kath played the banjo in her band. Katherine: Yes, that was so much fun. She asked, “Does anyone play the banjo?” and I can’t really but said, “Me, yes, me!” I didn’t care what it was, I just wanted to play with her. If she’d said, “Can anyone play a tune through a toilet roll?” I’d have said, “Me!” I really enjoyed that. How was the banjo? Katherine: Well, it has strings, just in a different order. It was great; we went through Kansas in one day. You travel for eight hours and then play a show. We’d never really experienced that level of touring before.

Jessica: And listened to the soundtrack in the van this summer. Katherine: The tour we just did was great, psychologically. We were out on our own in this car, just the two of us. We play with a band a lot but the core of our sound is just the duo and there’s an intensity to it. In Nebraska, we were in our hotel room and a huge storm came in and all this lightning started happening. Part of our hotel window blew away and all of the curtains were being sucked out and everything was going towards the window. We thought, “Wow, we’re really on our own.” That was the day we got pulled over by a policeman too. Jessica: We had a mini stand-off with him. He was trying to get us to stop driving and go home.

You went to SXSW festival too, didn’t you? Jessica: That was amazing. We played a lot of shows, but it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by so many people trying to do the same thing as you. We did have some great breakfasts there. We had a Tex-Mex one that was pancakes and cacti.

Katherine: I said (in a determinedly stern voice), “I’m going to have to make a phone call about this.” I don’t know who I was going to call, but he left us alone. Jessica: I don’t think he’d come across anyone like us before.

Katherine: That’s probably gone down in history as the best breakfast we’ve ever had. It scored points on all sorts of levels, like originality—I’d never have thought of combining Mexican with breakfast before.

Katherine: All the navigating and getting lost and just the satisfaction that we did it, just the two of us. It really brought back home to me that we have something special.

Jessica: The cactus was fried. It tastes like green beans that have been put in a jar with loads of vinegar. It’s tasty.

Jessica: We’re like a dysfunctional married couple who have been married for sixty years. I think our friendship is quite rare.

hot loaves make noises the things I learned while bagging bread rolls words liz ann bennett photo heiner lüpke

A few weeks ago, I quit my Saturday job in a bakery. I’d had it for two years after leaving university. I miss it there, but every Saturday morning I am still relieved that I don’t have to get up. My alarm would go at 4 am, and I’d leave the house by 4:30. I would walk through empty streets, meeting a few tipsy clubbers and very early joggers. I would pass the newspaper stand man setting up his stall, and the sickly smell of our rival cooking its inferior pastries. I would change into the purple shirt and multi-coloured apron, exchange moans about how early it was with the other early people and head downstairs again. I bagged bread rolls out the back for three hours, alongside a silent teenage boy. Then we would bag hot cross buns and bath buns. Then I would serve customers for about two hours. At 11:30, I left. I would go home and sleep for three hours. This is what I learned in two years of Saturday mornings. Bread makes noises. A rack of hot loaves makes little crackling sounds as it cools down, and it radiates heat like an electric fire. It’s delightful to stand next to. Boredom is boring, but good for you. My most important decisions and stressful weeks were brooded over with trays of rolls, a pile of plastic bags and a bag sealer. It’s useful to have something in your week that forces you to think slowly. However, useful thinking time turned into pure and simple boredom after two hours. Most people don’t care about spelling. It’s easy to forget this when you work at a magazine and everyone cares about spelling as much as bakeries care about undercooked croissants, which is a lot. This is good for the perspective, but no good if you’re trying to remember whether it’s ‘spelt bread’ or ‘spelte bread’. Hot cross buns are difficult to bag. They get stuck to the bag. They’re far too sticky. Creative industries don’t have a monopoly on pink hair. My favourite person to talk to was a woman who works in the sandwich room. She’s about fifty and has a vivid pink dye job. She describes herself as a trainee drummer, and always took up the latest issue of oh comely with a sharp eye. I miss talking to her. Sausage rolls are important. A nice sausage roll can be the highlight of someone’s day, so anyone who serves nice sausage rolls has every reason to be proud of it. A woman I used to babysit for came in a few weeks before I left. She asked when I’d left university, and was a little nonplussed when I told her it was two years ago. She left quickly with her sausage roll, and I felt a twinge of embarrassment that she’d written me off as a failed graduate working for the minimum wage. I wanted to tell her that I was working as a journalist and was about to quit the bakery. I wish I’d learned to be proud of a good sausage roll.

if you drop the glove, don’t stop paddy considine’s frustration with acting turned him into a director words jason ward, portrait ross trevail

Paddy Considine doesn’t have the social filters that most people possess. His conversation leaves scorched earth in its wake, with none of the neutered reserve that one usually finds in a high-profile actor giving an interview. When he talks, his body tenses up with energy and frustration. It’s an electrifying, vaguely frightening experience. You feel he might just punch you in the face. A part of you almost wants him to, if only so he can relax a little. It’s not that Paddy is incapable of being polite, it’s simply that he doesn’t have the time or patience to be anything other than his bracingly honest self. He’s desperate to be correctly understood. His speech repeats itself, trying to hone in on the best way to articulate his thoughts. Understandably this makes him a little wary. Paddy explains, “I have to be mindful when I’m interviewed. It comes over like a moan, like I’m this moaning bastard actor. But somebody’s got to care.”

Self-portrait by Paddy Considine.

You’re just forgotten.” The result is the feeling that he’s wasted his time. “You want it to be a perfect record, but it isn’t. I can’t live up to it.” On one particularly bad shoot, matters came to a head and Paddy had finally had enough. “I thought, ‘Something’s got to come from this: I’m so frustrated that I’m either going to destroy this room or I’m going to have to use this somehow.’” He chose the latter, channelling his rage into writing and directing his first short film. “It wasn’t enough to rely on other people’s scripts, or rely on other people full stop. There were a lot of times that I thought, ‘I could do this job better than you, mate.’ I had a story of my own to tell. It was something I was compelled to do. I had no choice.”

Right from his breakthrough role in A Room for Romeo Brass, Considine’s performances were intense, aggressive and soulful, marked by a brooding intelligence. Paddy disagrees about their quality. “Some people are very good at acting,” he says. “I’m not. I’m not good at it.” This isn’t an attempt to be modest. Considine has appeared in major films, but he chafes at the world of commercial filmmaking, explaining, “It’s such a generic, turgid environment to be in. It doesn’t lend itself to a brilliant creative process. It’s like having a straitjacket on. And that’s all I’m fighting against, it’s the straitjacket.”

The short won a BAFTA, and now Paddy has expanded the story into a heartbreaking first feature, Tyrannosaur. As a film, it is almost unbearably harrowing—it opens with its protagonist kicking a dog to death and goes downhill from there—but it’s also surprisingly gentle and sweet. A film of tremendous power, its greatest strength comes from the stunning performances it showcases. Frustrated by years of working with filmmakers he felt were more interested in costumes and art direction, Paddy focussed on the people who anchor the story. He was committed to protecting his actors from over-zealous production staff. “I’d say, ‘If you drop anything, you do not stop until I say cut. You’re in it. There are no mistakes. Unless something falls on your head, you do not stop.”

The problem is that while Paddy loves acting, he hates how restrictive the filmmaking process can be. He yearns to properly inhabit a role. “I call it ‘drop the glove’ acting. You know, Marlon Brando drops the glove in On The Waterfront, picks it up and starts stroking it. On some film sets, you drop the glove and someone goes, ‘Cut!’ If I’m on a set doing my lines and I forget to say a certain word, I’ve got someone coming up to me with a clipboard telling me off. That’s not making films. That’s not creative. It’s not being in the moment. It’s mechanics.”

It’s when talking about the experience of making the film that aggravation finally loses its hold on Paddy. He looks genuinely happy, and no matter how good an actor he is you almost never want him to do it again. The intensity and passion which makes his acting so remarkable also colours his frustrations, and it’s saddening to watch. In writing and directing, however, Considine has found what truly satisfies him. The change in focus makes him seem like a different person, one more at peace, and less in danger of an aneurysm.

Sadly the freedom Paddy seeks doesn’t come as often as he’d like. His working life has been a balancing act, he says. “I don’t have the choices that people think I have. The truth is that two out of three films I’ve made, I’ve done them to make a living or because I’ve no alternative. If you don’t act and say, ‘I’m going to wait for a really great role,’ and then you wait six months, people aren’t going, ‘Where’s Paddy Considine?’

Considering his love-hate relationship with it, will he continue to take acting work? “Yeah, and I’ll continue to moan,” he says, laughing. Paddy feels he’s earned a grumble. “Some people are capable of just acting, of going and doing their job and coming home and running a bath and it’s no big deal. At least I’ve done something about it. I’ve put my money where my mouth is and made a film.”

good with tea and antarctic expeditions a digested history of biscuits words rosanna durham, illustrations kiley victoria

You don’t expect to see a biscuit on display in a museum, among the sculptures and paintings. But at Reading Museum, I find myself staring at just that. It is large, round and a hundred years old. Impressed into the dusty topside of this centenarian cookie is the name “Huntley & Palmers.” They once made biscuits for the royal family, for soldiers going to war and for people at home in the kitchen. Fifty-two digestives are eaten a second in Britain. Yet, day in and day out, this lucky one gets to linger on in a city museum. If someone hungry—a museum archivist who’d missed their breakfast, for instance— picked this biscuit up, would it collapse into a cloud of green mould? Or would it lie stuck and weighted down, heavy with the fungal intricacies of something once edible, but now deeply rotten? The biscuit’s longevity doesn’t say much about its flavour, but it deserves to be remembered. For it is exceptionally well-travelled. Our biscuit was made in 1910, full of lard, sugar and rice, for the Antarctic explorer Robert Scott. A proud and precocious naval captain, his ambition was to be the first man to reach the South Pole. He made several journeys south. All were accompanied by lavish supplies of food packed on the Discovery and later the Terra Nova: the huge wooden ships that sailed him to the coldest edge of the earth. Before the invention of tin cans, biscuits had been a stalwart food supply on board these ships. Compact, tasteless and full of carbs, the ship’s biscuit took years to go bad and could be warmed up with soup or cracked into crumbs. But by Scott’s time, tinned food was aplenty, and biscuits had lost their reputation for being the snack most worth packing. He brought them along anyway. Scott arrived on Ross Island, just off the Antarctic mainland, in January 1911. This was where he chose to overwinter. He spent the coldest months of the year with his ship iced in to the inhospitable land. There was also something of home on Ross Island: a large wooden hut he had built in 1902. Originally intended as a shelter, it was much too cold to live in, and even their ship proved to be warmer. So instead of retuning to the hut, he built another one, this time insulating the building with seaweed sewn into quilts. His men divided the shelter into work and utility rooms, filling them each with beds, books and their many packets of food. They settled down for winter, making themselves at

home among the condiments of their displaced British kitchen. Here was Colman’s cornflour, tinned haddock, rhubarb, pickled onions, cocoa, tea and packets of Huntley & Palmers’ biscuits. These gutsy explorers never made it back to Britain. Halfway back to base from the South Pole, they died one by one, front-bitten and gangrenous. But visit Scott’s bothy today, and it looks like his team have just popped out for a walk. Preserved perfectly by the sub-zero polar temperature, this is the most surprising of places: a British kitchen cupboard, ten thousand miles away from home; a library of what we ate a hundred years ago; a mouldering monument to years spent exploring the Antarctic. Here, 1911 is only yesterday. Woollen socks are hanging out to dry and the London Illustrated News lies discarded in the corner. Back in Reading Museum, Scott’s polar biscuit festers away, a souvenir from the icy storeroom. I can’t help wondering why Scott packed hundreds of digestives and so many tins of chocolate. Perhaps in a quiet way he also meant them as souvenirs, not just energy supplements. After all, in the Antarctic, anything that is a comfort from the cold is worth eating. Cups of cocoa and biscuits are reminders of home, from where you’ve come from, and might never return. Staring at Scott’s biscuit, I learn something about why we eat biscuits. It’s not their nutritional value. The protein content of the squashed flies in the garibaldi is negligible. Sure, there’s the flavour: the subtle coconut of the nice biscuit; the sugary milkiness of a malted milk; the delicious middle of the custard cream. But from you to me, and lots of people in between, biscuits make us feel better. Watch your colleague at the computer reaching for the bourbons, eight hours into the working day and giving up on going home. Think of the lonely-hearted, taking solace in munching through a packet of shortcakes, the oldest snack they can remember. Remember how a plate of rich teas can fill awkward silences and glide over odd conversations. Days are timetabled by hankerings for milky mugs of tea and for biscuits. Biscuits are there as rewards, as fillers, as things to share, and to hunt down in their hidden tins. They fill the gaps between meals, and the odd hours of the day. Having biscuits around makes you feel more at home, especially when you’re in the middle of a fatal expedition to the Antarctic.

ship’s biscuit

rich tea

For centuries, biscuits were useful more than they were delicious. Longlasting, easy to pack and nutritious, they were taken on board ships or stowed away in the luggage of explorers. Most were made from hardtack, the simple biscuit batter that the Romans used as early as the fourth century AD.

Rich tea biscuits were introduced in the seventeenth century as a snack to pass the hungry hours between meals. But don’t let their 400-year-old heritage fool you into thinking they taste good. You can eat a whole packet, and still puzzle over the barely-there flavor. At least Prince William likes them. He ordered a biscuit cake for his wedding, and asked for the main ingredient to be rich teas. The royal connection got people got curious about the quaint rich tea. Factory tours followed, along with candid shots of rich tea processing lines, and interviews about the fine art of measuring biscuits so they fit in the packet. Now the hype has died down, the biscuits are back on the shelf and doing what they do best: being dunked into a mug of your favourite brew. Dipped into tea, this biscuit becomes a different creature: fleshy, half-liquid and plain tasty.

nice The nice biscuit has a secret ingredient: coconut. In case you were wondering, it’s not from Nice, the balmy hot town in the south of France, but from England, although the manufacturer probably named it after the town as a marketing tactic. Huntley & Palmers were making them in 1904, when over 400 biscuit varieties were available. Only thirty or so biscuits are on the British supermarket shelf today, so this biscuit has done pretty well to survive the years after the Second World War, when hundreds of biscuit varieties ceased production. The shameless advertisement embossed in sans-serif type paid off.

bourbon The bourbon chocolate biscuit was made in 1910 out of a South London factory. At the top of the bourbon there are ten dots, called docker holes in the biscuit industry. They are punched into the batter, and let the moisture in the centre of the biscuit evaporate, ensuring a crisper bake.

garibaldi The garibaldi is made from two layers of pastry with dried fruit squished between them. In school playgrounds, they are known as squished fly biscuits. When I was little, the biscuits seemed like a conspiracy on the part of the adult world to pawn off their dead flies on the under-tens. Alas, nothing is as strange about the history of the garibaldi. The Italian general Giuseppe Garibaldi was battling for Italian Unification in the 1840s, and created the biscuit from merging the food supplies available. Although he made a visit to England in 1854, his biscuit was first manufactured several years later in 1861.

rich tea finger

pink wafer

The rich tea finger is a homage to the pursuit of dipping biscuits in hot drinks. A smaller, thinner version of its round sibling, the finger benefits from having a higher bake so it stays together for several seconds longer as you dunk it.

If you don’t enjoy the tooth-rotting sweetness of the pink wafer, consider buying them anyway. They look good on a plate, double up as edible lego bricks, and are very good for playing jenga.

digestive The digestive has a roster of imitators and a rainbow of special toppings including milk chocolate, dark chocolate and caramel. So ubiquitous is the semi-sweet biscuit, one could easily forget that it was named after a bodily process. Its Victorian inventors called it a digestive, because of the sodium bicarbonate added to the batter, which was believed to settle the stomach. It was one of several biscuits that boasted a medicinal effect, including black charcoal biscuits that reduced flatulence and are today sold in pet shops. Nowadays it’s widely accepted that eating digestives after a meal will not help your digestion, just make you more full.

chocolate digestives Sweet biscuits are on the out, becoming less popular as people care more about trimming the fat and sugar content out of their diet. Or so market research tells us. Eat chocolate digestives while you can then, just in case.

jaffa cake Is the jaffa cake a biscuit or a cake? In 1991, the world got an answer. They’re cakes. Why this matters might be a better question. Chocolatecovered cakes are exempt from tax and chocolate-covered biscuits are not, so McVitie’s brought the question to court. They even baked a gigantic jaffa cake to convince the jury of its cake-like properties. See here: there’s jam in the middle, chocolate on top and sponge on the bottom. But outside of court, everyone else knows that jaffa cakes are biscuits by another name.

peanut butter cookies Ask for a biscuit Stateside, and you’ll get given a soft, round scone. The American English for biscuit is cookie. Peanut butter cookies were the cookie of my childhood. We used a recipe from the legendary Betty Crocker cookbook that included forgotten biscuits like petticoat tails, snickerdoodles and chocolate spritz. Buying a packet of digestives from the supermarket doesn’t beat staring through the oven and willing your concoction of butter, sugar and flour to hurry up and bake, please.

eight copies of wuthering heights a classic novel and its changing covers words rosanna durham

I studied Wuthering Heights at school, but I never actually read it. Not in the cover-to-cover sense. I feel quite cheap admitting this—sorry Emily Brontë—but I got by on chapter summaries. To add a degree of credulity to my final exam, I learned lots of quotes from the book. I’d tack them onto the cupboard door and bathroom mirror, reciting them whilst getting dressed and brushing my teeth. It took leaving school to start paying attention to the book. My old copy, complete with biro doodles, wound its way onto my bedside table, and from there it was only a matter of late-night curiosity to beginning the read. So here’s to Wuthering Heights and its changing covers.

Our collection of covers, left to right: 1. My old school edition complete with embarrassing observations scrawled in the back, like, “Cathy. Whip. Dominance.” Penguin, 1995. 2. An abridged children’s edition, probably from the 1950s. On the first page, there’s a summary of the book in six lines of neat handwriting. Purnell and Sons, undated. 3. A pocket edition with a cover drawn by the English illustrator Joe McLaren. White’s Books, 2010. 4. The graphic novel edition is the cheat-read book of choice. There’s lots of blood, some ‘thwacks!’ and even a ‘run, Heathcliff, run!’ Classical Comics, 2011.

5. Fifty percent of the profits from this book go to the Global Fund supporting AIDS elimination in Africa. Penguin Classics Red edition, 2010. 6. This cover is drawn by the Cuban artist Ruben Toledo, and sees Cathy in the guise of a 1920s femme fatale. Penguin Classics Deluxe edition, 2009. 7. “He that loves reading has everything within his reach.” So the card stuck inside this book says. It was awarded as a school prize in 1975 for winning an essay competition. Purnell Books, 1975. 8. In Germany, Wuthering Heights is published under the name Strumhöhe, which translates as ‘turbulence heights.’ On the cover is John William Waterhouse’s painting of Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind. Anaconda, 2009.

four-legged meditation scenes from walks with my dog

words and illustrations rob hodgson

third wave detailing antipodium’s clothes are patterned with orchids and kittens, but the prints aren’t quite what they seem interview, portrait agatha a nitecka You would do well to look closely at the enigmatic prints by Antipodium, the womenswear label started by Ashe Foster and Geoffrey J. Finch. From rural Australia to the heart of East London, both designers have come a long way. The label began as a happy accident in 2006, when they designed a one-off collection for Ashe’s Londonbased boutique of the same name. Antipodium’s clothes are now sold worldwide, but the devil is still in the detail.

Ashe: And Geoffrey’s eyes, they appear in prints.

You can find two prints from their autumn-winter collection, Goodbye Horses, included in Maria in Prints on page 50.

I would love it if I hadn’t noticed something, and someone else pointed it out to me. The ‘catittude’ print from your spring-summer 2012 collection is more difficult to read.

Geoffrey: People thought they were acorns. I like the idea of third and fourth wave detailing: when you’re standing there in your undies ironing and you notice a detail that you haven’t seen before, something in the print, or that the undercollar is a particular colour or texture. Little hidden elements.

I love the name—why Goodbye Horses? Geoffrey: It is from that Q Lazzarus song in the Silence of the Lambs. I really love the song and it’s very much about freedom and running away. The collection came from a photo that I took out of a car window in Sicily. It sounds really clichéd, but it was an amazing sunset. It had that feeling of big skies and escape, and it got me thinking about being a teenager and running away from Queensland. How did you start in fashion? I hear you were self-taught, which is very brave, I think. Geoffrey: My mother was a dressmaker so I grew up with that, but when I was about twelve I realised that boys in country Queensland aren’t supposed to do fashion. I thought I would be an architect, but I ended up going back to fashion. I had an interview for a fashion college in London, but it was too expensive, so I decided that I’d take the back door route. Successful people often have a back door story. Ashe: What is really important in fashion is experience on the shop floor and with buyers. It is lovely to think creative thoughts, but it is really important to see the nuts and bolts. Geoffrey: We have our area in Liberty now and I’ll go in and work on a Saturday and customers will tell you very quickly what they do and don’t like. I actually find it very inspirational in seeing what they want. But also it becomes a game. For our spring-summer 2011 collection, we did these prints with Craig Redman. We had a moth print that sold out everywhere immediately. It was bought by women of all ages. But it was really rude! You can’t see it immediately but there were orchids with boobs.

Geoffrey: If you look into that print, you’ll see that there is a white cat with mismatched eyes. What I love about it is that it becomes a weird camouflage. If you really look into it, you can’t tell if the kittens and puppies are fighting or making out. Do you work with illustrators on the prints? Geoffrey: Every season we work with a different artist. So for the autumn-winter 2011 collection, it was Chloe Constantinidi. I am a nightmare to work with on prints! Ashe: He is a perfectionist. He picks up on these tiny details that no one else would ever see, and it has to be perfect. With this season, you had older models in your presentation. I thought that was very smart, but not over-thought. Ashe: Yes, it wasn’t just about size twelve girls who are still beautiful and tall but a little bit bigger, it was completely different. Geoffrey: A friend of mine showed the presentation to her mum and as soon as she saw it, she said, “Ooh, I’d quite like that look myself.” That is a really nice thing. By the time you get to sixty you have some good experience behind you. She has always liked the collections, but it really resonated with her because it was someone of her own age wearing it and she realised she could wear that too. I think you give a lot of options—that’s what is interesting with your clothes. Geoffrey: I like to think they’re clothes that can get you in and out of all sorts of trouble.

maria in prints

by agatha a nitecka

model maria ericsson | m+p models

shirt and skirt: antipodium

shirt: h&m

blouse: zara

shirt and skirt: antipodium

blouse: topshop

dress: teatum jones

in the meadow

photography oskar gyllensw채rd styling sarah michelle model danielle foster | elite uk hair and make up elizabeth hsieh

dress: yasmin kianfar

dress: nicole murray

shirt and top: teatum jones

knitted dress: sara bro

top and trousers: ireneo ciammella

the heart, dissected listening for the beat of a greetings card heart words stephanie davies photo agatha a nitecka

When I was a little girl, I always had a vague notion that the human heart was something old-fashioned and twee, like a handkerchief or floral bouquet. It would sit clean and bloodless and flat behind the chest, in the shape of a Valentine’s Day card. It was like an origami crane in an antiquated birdcage, its beating only meaningful to the stethoscopes of prurient doctors. This concept neatly transmuted itself into the lessthan-three symbols in the instant messages of my adolescence. When I was in my second year of university, I saw a cow’s heart on television. The presenter held it to the camera, dripping something both congealed and liquid, and I could think of no other word but meat. It was so obviously a muscle—something functional rather than cosmetic. That was the year I decided to become a vegetarian. I would often put my palm to my abdomen and feel out the different organs in reverence. It seemed so strange that I should be composed of the same matter that others fed on for sustenance, butchering with forks and knives. Now when I lie with my head on my partner’s chest, palm to abdomen and listen, I realise there is beauty in our blood which is not and never will be greeting-card crimson. I hear the metre, the beat and the rhythm of my lover’s heart, and I know that there is humanity and emotion in bone and sinew, mind and membrane alike. I know now that we are not aesthetic automatons made of paper and lace. But neither are we merely well-organised arrangements of serviceable organs. So I’ll make cupcakes every February and leave the impression of my lips on a card. And I’ll love, because that transcends all diagrams from year eight biology.

my biography is written on my shoulder

portraits of people with tattoos

portraits yann faucher interviews rosanna durham

Jeremy I’ve got a dragon, two magpies, an octopus, a butterfly and a ship. My first tattoo was done about a week after my 18th birthday. It was a little sun that was supposed to look like a Keith Haring. It looked pretty bad. Eventually my boyfriend Jamie covered it up with the ship. The dragon was next. I was still very young and I got it to toughen up my image. I wanted something hard and unexpected. Jamie drew the butterfly and the octopus quite recently, and gave them to me as gifts. I think my tattoos hide as much as they reveal. I like mine to be nautical and a bit deviant, like something from a Jean Genet novel. I think in clichéd symbols, but don’t attach much meaning to them. A part of me regrets my tattoos almost every day, but it just seemed inevitable with me. It was never a question of whether to do it but where to start. And I like the idea that Jamie has doodled all over my arms.

Pete My tattoos are the same as my grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, in the same places. He got his when he was seventeen and trying to join the navy to serve in the Second World War. He was told it was pretty tough in there and he better get some tatts, so he walked into a tattoo parlour and chose three designs on the spot. After it was done, he ended up joining the army instead, to be a sniper in Papua New Guinea. He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t talk much about the war. He is just the nicest, most tolerant, patient and selfless man I have ever met. I got his tattoos as a reminder to be more like him. His tattoos were so worn and faded when I photographed them that I had to ask the tattoo artist to redraw one of them six times and had to draw one myself before they were right.

Mai Vi I have never designed my tattoos. I want the tattoo artist to express my feelings through his art, talent and style. The tiger was made a month before leaving Milan for England, and the standard says, “Dammi la forza,” which means, “Give me the will.” Stizzo, the tattoo artist, finished it in just three hours on a hot July afternoon. My first tattoo was on my belly, and I got it done in a small tattoo shop where I lived at the time in Italy. It was a birthday present to myself, and it’s a flower with my name. The tattoos are with me every day. They belong to me, and I belong to them. We go on together like companions. I even enjoy the pain of the needle on my skin and also that amazing smell you get when walking into a tattoo studio. I just love it!

Riccardo I designed my first tattoo myself. It’s the stylised diaphragm. It was my first year of studying photography at university. It is my hidden eye—a kind of connection between my body and the external world. The C.3.3. tattoo was Oscar Wilde’s cell number, and there are two sentences from a Charles Dickens opera. I love Japanese tattoo culture so I chose an old print and Lesley from Shangri-La Studio personalised it in amazing way. I have never seen such care for details and different texture. It still has to be finished and I’ll probably have more tattoos on my right arm to complete it. For me, tattoos have a living soul.

Mengxi I got my tattoo done about two years ago in London. When I was a kid, I lived in the countryside of northern China for three years. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember much from that time, but my mum told me a deer used to come around to our house very often and we would play with him. So the deer is a symbol of my early childhood and all the faded memories.

Mimmo I got my first tattoo in a little studio hidden inside a clothes shop around two years ago. The meaning is “fight alone.” It reminds me of the beginning of my London adventure, far away from my little and boring hometown in Italy. I wanted to change life and learn how to do it by myself. Let’s say that it wasn’t easy. I think you need to know how to live and be happy by yourself first, and only then with your friends. The image is like a comic or movie frame. There’s a hand-held sword in the foreground and three shadows in the background. They could be bitter enemies or good friends.

Louise I don’t have a lot of meaning or stories behind my tattoos and most of the references are really obvious or from music. My right arm was a gift from my boss Henry Hate after we met about six years ago. It was my first big piece and he did it as a gift. It really meant a lot to me and still does after all this time. The butterfly on my hand was my first ever tattoo. I got it in 1994 when I was a teenager. My mum paid for it and I had no idea what I was doing. I just wanted a tattoo and I didn’t really think about it. The tattoos on my left arm are a collection of references to the band Lucero from Tennessee and I gave the artist Guy Tinsley free rein to fill in the gaps. I sometimes worry that I have band tattoos, but they are pretty subtle. I also enjoy having ‘Nobody’s Darling’, which is also a song from Lucero, on my arm. It’s also a joke in reference to people getting their partners’ names tattooed on them. I also recently began making the joke that each butterfly stands for every dude I’ve banged. It’s a joke! I say it in that crass way because I get so sick of people asking what the butterflies mean. They mean nothing, they are just butterflies. There are Japanese characters down the sides of my knees that are both jokes. Ichi Hatano did them. He thought it was really funny that I wanted “stupid little white girl” on my right knee and “I have sex with dragons” on my left knee, so he did them for me. I find it really funny when people can read them. I like scotch, so I thought a Johnnie Walker bottle on my right shin would make a good tattoo. Some people think it means I really love scotch, but there is no deep meaning behind it. The only real message in it is on the note taped to the bottle. It says, “You’re better than the world you live in,” and it’s from a Crooked Fingers song. Put simply, I like having pretty pictures on me and I am lucky to have been tattooed by some lovely people whose work I like.

Tashi’s self-portrait in his new life as a calligraphy artist.

after seventeen years in a monastery tashi mannox finds his place in the world as a former monk words victoria watts, portrait steve kennedy Tashi Mannox was ten years old when he first met a Buddhist nun. She was a friend of his father who was visiting his parents’ home in Birmingham. “I remember peeping at her through the hatch from the kitchen.” he said. “I’d never seen a woman in big dark linen robes and with a totally shaved head. She seemed lovely.” There was a lot of Buddhism in Tashi’s English childhood, which was unusual for the 1970s. His parents, siblings, nephews and nieces all call themselves Buddhist to this day. There was no shock of incomprehension when Tashi become a monk at the age of 22 and, although he isn’t one any more, Buddhism has never left him. Tashi’s desire to become a monk began when he was eleven. He was on a family holiday at a Tibetan Buddhist centre in France, and he remembers being in the care of two old lamas who had escaped Tibet. He said, “They were so kind and warm. I thought they looked a bit like ET.” The encounter had a great effect. He began to wonder about the type of adult he wanted be. “It really struck me that my own parents, and other adults I knew were actually rather neurotic and unhappy.” he explained. “You’re very impressionable as a child, and that’s what inspired me to eventually become a monk myself.” Mannox was afraid of rejection, so he didn’t tell anyone about his longing. “I couldn’t bear them saying, ‘No, you’re not worthy.’ I had this idea that you had to be a special sort of person to be a monk.” His school days at a ‘horrible’ Birmingham comprehensive were accompanied by dreams of monks at night. It wasn’t until he left art school that the dream came true. The head lama at the Samye Ling Buddhist Centre in Scotland told him that he had foreseen that he would become a monk. As a young graduate, Tashi was overwhelmed and relieved. “I saw it as a fantastic opportunity: a lifestyle, and a career.” Tashi spent seventeen years in the monastic life. He passed the time studying the Buddha’s teachings, travelling the world, and in prayer and

meditation, until at last he became restless. He was struggling with the institutionalised lifestyle of the monastery. He found it hard that it was a life that didn’t leave much time for himself. “You’re serving people all the time and, probably very selfishly, I did think, ‘What about me?’ It can be difficult.” he said. He also began to feel the pull of the outside world. “I was curious to see how I’d get on in the real world, rather than on my fluffy meditation cushion.” Leaving was difficult, more difficult than his decision to join, but he decided to give up his robes. Undaunted by the open world, he headed straight for London. “If anything,” he said, “I was like a kid in a sweet shop. One of my teachers said, ‘Be careful you don’t go too wild,’ but of course I did. It was a bit of a blow-out, throwing myself into the London club scene with all the hedonism that goes with it.” These days were like a second youth. “I had to find out, but I never went far enough to completely lose myself. I always trusted that deep inside, I had the dharma.” The monastery had protected him from the joy and sorrow of falling in love, but now he began to understand it for the first time. He said, “I couldn’t understand what everyone was talking about, and why people get in such a mess about love. Now I fully understand how you can get heartbroken.” It’s one of the reasons he’s glad he left. Tashi believes, “I feel much more real: my heart isn’t safe anymore, it’s much more tender, open and vulnerable.” There was just one more problem: what to put on his CV. One of the jobs assigned to Tashi in the monastery provided the key. He used to copy ancient texts in Tibetan script. It was a painstaking process, but it impressed into him their letter forms, which form the basis of his calligraphy today. Mannox acknowledges that it’s art with a message. “I try to relate dharma in a way that isn’t obviously Buddhist. I’m very conscious not to water things down or compromise, but I try and push the message through imagery, which will hopefully wake something in somebody, and make them question things.” The result is art that is distinctively Tibetan but with a universal appeal. Calligraphy has provided Mannox with a path in the world.

perfect strangers I think I have a crush on you photos stefany alves

words anna lawson His name was Rory. He was the second thing I saw when I walked into the office, after the water cooler. I’ll swear he clocked me. Clocking him. “Yes, I’d really like the job,” I said. Is it wrong to choose a job because you fancy the bloke sitting on the left hand side as you’re facing the watercooler? I’d come from an office of women and gay men—great for clothing tips but nobody worth putting your make up on for. And my boyfriend had just dumped me. I needed a change of scenery. “What are the perks?” I asked the secretary, trying to ignore the obvious perk of sitting in an office with Rory. “The director buys everyone a can on Fridays and we all go to the pub. Sometimes we get chips.” “Great,” I said. I took the job. My crush intensified. I liked the way he flicked his hair. I liked his long fingers. I liked his shyness. His smile. His casual but smart trousers. His extension number. The reference code of his building project. The fact that he had no girlfriend. I liked pretty much everything about him. My crush knew no bounds. But although we spent every Friday night together outside the pub, deep in conversation, after the can and chips, I could not tell Rory about my crush. “Something going on between you two?” people asked. We laughed and raised our eyebrows. “Can’t a man and a woman just be friends?” said Rory. “He fancies you,” said my friends when I bored on about him. “Either he fancies you or he’s gay,” they said. “If he doesn’t and he’s not gay, then he’s just weird,” they said. “Can’t a man and a woman be friends?” I tried. “Nope,” they said. Rory suggested regular film nights. Every Wednesday we’d sit side-by-side in the dark watching whatever the latest art house movie was. The two of us. In the dark. Our hands almost touching. My arm would brush his as I reached for the popcorn. Two years passed. For two years we worked together, we went to the cinema together and we hung out on Fridays. “This crush is crushing me!” I moaned, “Why won’t he say something or ask me out or get a girlfriend?” “Or a boyfriend,” said my friends, “unless he’s just weird.” “Why keep it secret?” they said, “Why not tell him you have a crush?” “I have a crush on you,” I said as the doors started to close on the tube. I felt sick. Me on the platform. Him in the carriage. It was a deliberate set-up. I didn’t really want his answer. “I’ll call you!” he mouthed through the window. But, oddly, it turned out that I didn’t care whether Rory called me or not. I stopped feeling sick. I skipped home from the station. I felt free. Something was over. “I really like being your friend,” Rory said when he called me, “I don’t want us to be more than friends.” He didn’t fancy me. He wasn’t gay. He was just weird. But I was free of the secret crush that had consumed me for two years. And because I was free I met someone else. I asked him out on a date. He said yes. It didn’t work out. Then I met someone else and he told me he fancied me. And we went on a date. And it didn’t work out. And then I met my husband and he told me he fancied me and it did work out. And we lived happily ever after. Readers: declare your secret crush. Set yourself free.

words rosanna durham At school I fancied the head boy. Harbouring a crush on him was a team sport: half my class shared the infatuation. “I really fancy you,” I told him one day after lunch, all heart in mouth, hair in a ponytail and skin decorated not with make-up but with acne. “That’s so nice of you,” he said, and then after a pause added, “We don’t even know each other.” Despite his polite put-down, it felt good to be a spokesman for my heart. At university there were library crushes. I’d peer over the edge of my book at my Type A man—grumpy, older and bearded. He was a French postgraduate student who frequented the intellectually exotic Freud bookshelf, while I suffered over at Renaissance painting. Once or twice we touched hands, in the innocent and coincidental way that library users sometimes do. We bonded over these bookish moments, never committing them to something more memorable. The furthest we got talking was a shy ‘hello’ in the basement cloakroom. At the end of the year he returned home to France. Frustrated, I remembered the confessional romances of my school years. “When you have a secret crush, confess it!” I told my friends, still annoyed at not having spoken to the French bloke who read Freud. In a city garden one day, I passed another grumpy, older, bearded man. I was swept up in a sudden attraction, senses sharpened to hypersensitivity. We walked down the road a few metres apart, and we went into the same café together. At the till we stood side by side. I got lost looking at the swirls of his facial hair and never met his eyes. He paid for his coffee and walked away. It’s easy to regret secret crushes, and regrets are the visitors that never leave. They don’t shut up. They’re bad company, and they nag. This time I had a second chance. A couple of hours later, I saw the man again. I ran down the street after him, and touched his shoulder. When he turned around the

words that came to mind were rom-com predictable. “Do I know you?” I said. What I wanted to say was: “I already know you, you’re my perfect man.” Taking his headphones off, he looked strangely at peace with the question and said, “Hello, I’m Julian from the Mighty Boosh.” I’d heard of the Mighty Boosh, but I’d never watched an episode. It seemed only polite to explain that I’d made a mistake, and walk away. The worst of it was that he must have thought me a die-hard fan. I’ll find love one day, but it won’t be when I expect it.

words jason ward It can be a daunting prospect, getting to know someone. Cousins and birthmarks and old relationships and the songs they like and the movies they hate and the places they like to go to think. It’s exhausting. Then all of a sudden the relationship ends and it’s like you’ve learnt a language to a country you’re never going to visit again. What use do I have from knowing that one person’s favourite colour, or what their childhood fears were, or how they like their tea? All that said, my favourite thing about you is how little I know you. I have no idea how you like your tea, and it’s glorious. As long as I don’t think about it too closely, the idea of learning about you is exhilarating. You make the idea of travelling down that familiar road seem somehow new. There’s so much to discover, but it feels like an adventure rather than a chore. You’re all potential and promise: every new detail is exotic and striking, every piece of family history an unearthed relic, every anecdote some glamorous story. There are things about you that I do know. I was scared of you at first. You seemed so self-possessed. I’d find myself withering under your gaze, like you could see straight through me. To be honest, you seemed cold. It was as if you’d already decided that I had nothing of interest to offer. My fear became a self-fulfilling prophecy: everything I said would collapse out of my mouth and die.

I’m not sure how things changed, but somewhere along the way they did. It was like a sea-change. I discovered I could make you laugh. Your eyes crease up and you forget yourself for a second. It’s really rather lovely. I like that you’re pretty awkward. You’re probably more awkward than me, actually. I’ve realised that what I was scared of was actually bluster. It’s exciting—like knowing a secret. I feel I’ve seen something in you that most people would miss, something tender and thoughtful. Of course, I’m aware that getting to know you properly will turn you into a regular person, filled with all the contradictions and complexities that will bring understanding but take away enchantment. It’s not a bad thing. Really knowing a person either replaces the giddiness with something deeper, or replaces it with nothing at all. If it turns out to be the latter, well, I’m okay with it. It’s worth the risk. For now, I just enjoy you being in my life. I get excited when I see your name in my inbox, or when you enter a room. There’s a sense of possibility that courses through our every conversation like an electric current. Who’s to say what will happen next? Maybe we’ll get talking one random evening, the hours passing unrecognised as we finish a bottle of wine together and end up wandering the streets like teenagers, feeling ten feet tall. Anything seems possible. It’s not that I’m expecting anything to happen between us, but what’s quietly thrilling is knowing that it might. Another thing I know about you is that you’re reading this right now. Of that I’m pretty certain. I hope the idea of that gives you pause and makes you wonder if I’m writing about you. And then, gosh, just for a second, just for a moment or two, I hope that you find yourself hoping that this is about you. Because let me tell you, oh splendid, maddening person, it is. Hi.

words charlotte humphery I blame the job. It was a boring job with long hours and little mental stimulation. I have to blame something. Otherwise how do I excuse my raging crush on a man who looked like a badger and wasn’t particularly nice to me?

It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t love at all. A crush isn’t love—it doesn’t have anything to do with love. It wasn’t a bolt out of the blue, it was a mounting fixation fuelled by boredom and romantic novels. The interminable number-checking and computer-prodding kept my hands busy but my mind was free to wander. There was no music and few windows. The left hand side of my brain needed something to do and what it chose to do was create elaborate fantasies around Badger Man. I was constantly aware of him: I catalogued his shirt choices and hopefully squirrelled away nuggets of irrelevant information. He was single and a natural leader within the lunch group. He was dark and tall enough and the unremitting dullness created a strange rosy glow around him. He sparked some kind of competitive instinct. He was habitually unimpressed by me and I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to show him exactly how awesome I was by means of a scorching make-out session. The feminist within me weeps tears of frustration at the memory. I spent months planning how I was going to reveal my passion: devilishly seductive moves, ardent photocopying room kisses, casual invitations back to mine. Although these tactics were clearly infallible, I kept nervously putting them off. Eventually, it was my last day and we were to have leaving drinks. That would be my moment! I would buck up the courage to tell him. I would be brave and I would be rewarded. It was going to be very romantic. I was plied with drinks and in my nervous excitement, I accepted them all. The alcohol did not sit well on my empty stomach and I had to leave the party pitiably early. I was deeply embarrassed by the incident, but ultimately I’m thankful for it. After I escaped, the overwhelming power of the crush began to fade. It took the best part of two years to realise that he looked like a badger, two years of seeing him on the streets of a different city and worrying about my hair before realising that it was just another dark-haired man who vaguely resembled him. Nothing good could have come from sharing that crush. It turned out to be little more than a figment of my imagination. Sometimes crushes are secrets best kept.

the charity shop mug parade our favourite misfit mugs words rosanna durham

From left to right: Rejuvenation. The illustration shows a machine, with old people leaping in a funnel at the top and emerging as children. Angel. This mug is decorated with an angel drawn by Andy Warhol. It has the word peace written around the brim. Royal keepsake. A souvenir of Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee celebration in 1977. Safe tea deposit. A Monopoly mug, with ‘GO’ on the reverse. Blue Christmas. This came from a German Christmas market and was used for a hearty serving of mulled wine. Blue flowers. My grandparent’s glazed terracotta mug from Spain. It chips easily so it lives at the back of the cupboard. Is yours a Maxwell house? This mug was found abandoned at a library. Nose and lips. This was part of a pair. Its broken twin used to sit on top of it and showed the top half of the painting. Erotic baker. Fill this mug with hot water and all will be revealed. David Lynch. I watched 32 hours of Twin Peaks and all I got was this mug.

eight decades of kindness

strangers on the street tell their stories

photo tabitha tan

twenty-one, mark

twelve, sunil What is kindness? Helping people, and showing your inner self. Kindness is showing people you’re a good person. Do you see kindness at school? My ICT teacher, at the end of a term, lets us play whatever we want on the computer.

Can you tell me a story about kindness? I don’t think I’m a very kind person so that might not work for me. There has to be something in it for me, even if it is minimal. Does kindness bore you or do you not see the point? It isn’t not seeing the point. Maybe it is the boredom. Kindness for me is different. I see kindness if I am creating value. If I’m not creating some sort of value, then that kindness might not be real.

six, scarlett Was someone kind to you today? Yes, when I lost my coat and I asked one of my friends, Laura, to come to look for it with me. Do you know any stories about people who are kind? Snow White, because she helped the dwarves—she did all the dishes for them.

fifteen, anton

six, scarlett

fifteen, anton

twelve, sunil

Do you live in a kind world? We live in Denmark, so it is the happiest country in the world. We do so much for the people: if I break my foot, we don’t have to come up with a lot of money. Can you tell me a story about kindness? It is a bit of an odd story, because you have to be eighteen in Denmark to buy cigarettes. I smoke and one day I didn’t have any cigarettes. I got rejected for buying them, but then an Asian guy felt sorry for me and gave me a cigarette. People think about each other.

twenty-one, mark

thirty-nine, tina twenty-four, neil What is kindness? Things that people do without you asking them. Like you walk through the door, you hold it for the next guy, they hold it for the next guy. Has a stranger ever been kind to you? I really wanted a job once, working in a bar. I spoke to one of managers and chatted her up. She was really ugly, but it worked and she got me a job.

Has your attitude to kindness changed? It’s your experiences that change your attitude. When I became ill, I noticed people who I didn’t expect to be that kind. It does change your perception and it makes you want to be so much kinder. When I was very ill, it made all the difference in the world. So consequently it made me be not quite so horrible!

thirty-nine, jacek

twenty-eight, jae-yong I don’t like kindness. Well, it depends on the people. If I’m with friends, I like kindness. What is kindness? It’s a symbol of humanity. What is kindness like in Korea? I think it is better than England’s—that’s just my opinion. In Korea, there’s a tradition of respect. It is encoded in the language. English young people use the same grammar and vocabulary for people who are older and younger.

twenty-four, neil

twenty-eight, jae-yong

Have you experienced kindness from strangers? I used to hitch-hike. Some people respond, and give me this unconditional kindness, and we’re both probably going to enjoy each other’s company. What is the culture of kindness like in Poland? In Poland, if you break the ice, which is quite easy, then a Polish person would take you home and feed you, and feed you more and feed you even more. Another good example, in terms of differences of culture, is that I remember Communism in Poland when, for instance, you would never ask a policeman for directions. I would be scared that they would not be kind. On the contrary, when I moved to England six years ago, it was one of the first striking things that policemen are here to serve.

thirty-nine, tina thirty-nine, jacek

fifty-six, stephen What is kindness? Kindness is very difficult. It’s being aware of other people’s needs and expectations, and sharing your time. Is there a lot kindness in the world? No, but you find it. You find it every day. It comes out against the lack of kindness. It’s always unexpected. That’s what’s so great about it.

forty-six, jackie Has kindness changed? Living in London, things have changed a great deal in the past five years. I’ve noticed that people are very much out for themselves recently. If something occurs they will just walk away or turn a blind eye. These things get into your mind and make you respond in a slightly different way. Is there a different sense of kindness in Ireland? I haven’t lived there in all that time, so I don’t know, but I miss the sense of humour. At the end of the day, things are funny, but people won’t laugh and I don’t understand why that is! But I love living here, and I’ve found people to be very kind. Once, when I was driving, I pulled in to look at the route and I clipped the pavement and my tyre blew. I had my little baby with me and snow was falling and it was really chilly. A guy had pulled in in front of me probably for the same reason, a Rentokil guy. He got out of his van and said, “Do you need any help?” He changed my tyre for me. That was really kind. I would have had to get the bus home.

fifty-two, linda What is an example of kindness? Gifts, thoughtful gifts. My mother has just given my husband a gift. Rather than giving him a thing, she is giving him a holiday because he is so hardworking and stressed. Do you find a lot of kindness in the world? Yes, I work with quite small children. I work in a primary school and they often show quite a lot of kindness to each other. Is there an age when children start becoming unkind to each other? No, not when they start becoming unkind, but I think you can see them starting to become kind. When they come into school, they’re too young to really understand the feelings of people around them and then you see them gradually beginning to develop more understanding and empathy.

forty-six, jackie

fifty-two, linda

fifty-six, stephen

seventy-five, brian sixty-four, emma What does kindness mean to you? When somebody does something nice, particularly when it is unexpected, or they think you’re feeling down and they can notice that. Has anyone been kind to you recently? I’ve just had a lovely visit with my family in Australia and they were very kind.

Don’t believe a word anyone else says unless it’s your mother. Can you tell me a story about kindness? I don’t think it’s going to help you much. You’re too young to understand anything about life prior to what it was before when this generation was born. People don’t get taught anything these days: politeness, kindness, respect, concern, manners. All there is is disrespect, and kindness is a thing of the past.

seventy, eileen I had a bad experience in the summer, having been mugged in bare daylight, but that prompted enormous kindness from people who heard me shouting. They came out of their house and looked after me. You don’t realise until something really bad happens how good and thoughtful people are. Does kindness have more meaning at certain points? I had an amazing experience on the tube when I was travelling in the evening and there were these two young women carrying 144 doughnuts. They offered me a seat and I said, “Oh no, I’m fine, but I would like to know why are you carrying 144 doughnuts?” And they said, “Because it’s Eid and we’re going to give these to our friends.” As I went to get off the Underground, they gave me a dozen. That was really lovely and kind. They were very young and it was quite moving to me. I gave six to my friends on the way home.

sixty-four, emma

seventy, eileen

seventy-five, brian

seventy-eight, rose A lot of people are kind. There are more kind people than the other sort. What is kindness? Consideration for my own weaknesses, because I’m very old and people do give me lots of consideration because of it. Do you think kindness has changed over the period of your life? I look at it from the point of my old age and people are very kind to me now. I’m sure I was as kind as I possibly could be, especially to children and mothers with children. It never occurred to me to be unkind, though.

seventy-eight, rose

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fish fingers for breakfast spending a day obeying a two-year-old’s every word words lisa jarmin, photos nagano toyokazu

When I was small, I wanted to line up my mum’s perfume bottles and squirt them into the air, one by one. I wanted to eat a whole packet of jaffa cakes by myself and play in the paddling pool in November. I desperately longed to stay up late, listening to my parents talk about grown-up things. I wished my dad would make chocolate and banana milkshake every day, not just on Sundays. These days, I sit up late talking about bills, soft furnishings and our ongoing flying ant problem. I felt like something not quite so sensible. I wondered what my two-yearold son Rory would choose to do with his day if I gave him free rein. We would have a whole day of doing whatever he liked. I hoped for fairgrounds and zoos and candy floss, but I secretly worried that we might end up sitting naked in front of Thomas the Tank Engine. “Fish fingers and chips and beans for breakfast, please,” he said, pushing the weetabix box firmly to one side. “And we must eat it in the garden.” Oh, hello, John from next door. These are my pyjamas and, yes, I am feeding my child oven chips for his breakfast, thank you for asking. “We’ll get our clothes on now,” he said, “and then we will do digging in mud.” Ten minutes later he was back in the garden, in a superhero cape and a fireman’s helmet. I, on the other hand, was wearing wellies with a purple bridesmaid dress of his choosing. By the time he had managed to consume enough leaves to count as at least two of his five-a-day, we’d created a fair-sized ditch in the flower bed and I’d started to resemble a recently-exhumed Helena Bonham Carter. This seemed to satisfy him. “We’re going on a big walk now,” he said, and off we went. We go on walks quite a lot, but not like this one. I have never ambushed a sheep before, for a start, nor do I tend to do commando rolls through the bushes. We raced up the canal tow path, hitching a lift on a barge from a nice old lady, then splashed through muddy fields until we got gloriously lost and had to follow a tractor back to civilisation. “I’ve got a brilliant idea now,” he said. This was worrying—his last ‘brilliant idea’ involved trying to pop a piece of bubble wrap between his bum cheeks. “Let’s have ice cream!” Few things are better for the soul than ice cream for lunch, especially after an hour or two of getting plastered with mud. Another ice cream-covered little boy was rummaging in the toy box at the ice cream shop, and as Rory beguiled him into playing with the cars, I smiled awkwardly at his mother. She looked like she really didn’t want to converse with someone who appeared to have been dressed by a vindictive care assistant. My son intervened: “I’m playing now. You do chatting.” So we did, and even left with tentative plans to meet up soon. “Now we can go on a bus please?” he said as we hopped down the road holding hands. “Where are we going, Rory?” I asked. “Going to feed the ducks,” he replied, yawning slightly. “And what shall we do after that?” “We will go very high on a swing.” He snuggled up to me. “After that?” No answer. “I’m having a sleep now, Mummy. You choose.” But what should I choose? There was a pile of washing up waiting for me and the windows needed a clean. But struggling to be heard at the back of my mind was a more persistent thought. Back at home there was a paddling pool begging for one last outing before winter and a packet of jaffa cakes with my name on it. Maybe I’d save one for Rory.

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food for thought we asked folk on the streets of bristol about their childhood nickname photos david swailes, assistants abbey carr and zara treharne

Isabel. Nickname: Izzy. Best food for a first date: dark chocolate.

Harry. Nickname: Haribo. Best food for a first date: pad Thai.

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Sula. Nickname: Su. Best food for a first date: pasta.

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Matt. Nickname: Lister. Best food for a first date: Lebanese â&#x20AC;&#x201D;aubergine.

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Conner. Nickname: Con. Best food for a first date: spaghetti.

Gemma. Nickname: Jim. Best food for a first date: Thai curry.

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Regan. Nickname: Ree. Best food for a first date: rum and raisin ice cream.

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Alex. Nickname: Norhead. Best food for a first date: vanilla ice cream.

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the life and times of professor apocalypse my hamster and I are drifting apart words dani lurie, illustration laura callaghan

Professor Apocalypse is going to die soon. I give him a year at most. I fear that one day I will come home to find him lying motionless in his cage, sprawled across a pile of cotton wool with his tiny hand clutching at his chest. Maybe his heart will give out. Maybe he’ll choke on a particularly large monkey nut. I still haven’t ruled out the possibility of cancer, having discovered a couple of scaly brown moles on his furry hindquarters. Or maybe it will simply be old age that gets him in the end, and he will pass away peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of two. Professor Apocalypse is my pet hamster. He came into my life two years ago. The twitchy ball of fur, just a few weeks old, was brought over by a recreational hamster breeder who I’d found through Gumtree. He became a novelty, a kind of mascot for our dishevelled house of twenty-somethings. Visitors would press their noses up against the plastic walls of the cage, trying to catch a glimpse of the little guy. They’d tap gently on the sides in an effort to draw him out of his self-made palace of wood shavings and hamster pellets. People would ask after him constantly: “How’s the Professor?” I’d reply, amused, “Oh, he’s doing just fine.” The idea of the hamster, even his ridiculous name, existed long before he did. I had wanted a pet of my own ever since I came to London. I desperately missed the company of creatures. Growing up in the suburbs of Australia, there was always at least one happily overfed Labrador lolling about the house, not to mention the wild menagerie of lizards and insects lurking in the corners. However, space in the Big Smoke was always an issue, and so were roommates and tenant agreements, and I knew that I had to bide my time. After a few years of shoebox bedrooms, I finally moved into a space big enough to accommodate a small cage. What finally sealed the deal was a particularly unceremonious break-up, when I reasoned that I really just needed something to let me hold them. The average lifespan of the Syrian hamster is two to three years, and the Professor has seen most of that time already. I knew this would happen. When I first held him between my hands, I was fully aware that I was going to outlive him many times over, and I decided that I was going to love him anyway. I’m sure that he would have preferred spending his brief time on earth scampering about the Aleppinian Plateau, instead of on a stationary wheel in a room in Hackney, even if I did buy him the fanciest one I could find. But I tried my best to make his life a happy one. We’ve grown apart, though, the Professor and I. We don’t hang out like we used to. He doesn’t perk up when I come home, doesn’t climb onto my hand when I offer it. He keeps to himself more than ever, and with each passing week, he emerges from his hideaway nest less and less. Maybe he’s just become an old man running out the clock. Maybe I’m waiting it out, too. I guess it makes it easier. I do love that little guy but, in the end, we’re just ships passing in the night.

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forever in blue jeans jenny balfour-paul has devoted her life to tracing the history of indigo words liz ann bennett, photos pino marchese and laura mayotte Fabrics today come in vibrant colours: shocking pink, bright green, boldly-printed blue. We take their ubiquity for granted, and forget how hard it used to be to dye something permanently. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to rediscover the craft of natural dyeing, we thought. We talked to Jenny Balfour-Paul, a renowned researcher of traditional techniques of dyeing with indigo, the only natural blue dye, and a highly-practised dyer herself. It’s initially disconcerting to discover that the association between indigo and craft is not one she’s keen to encourage. Balfour-Paul has something more ambitious in mind, and the crafty association isn’t helping. “It is my big bugbear,” she says. “There are great projects where kids are taken around London and they dye from the weeds of the city, but what that doesn’t do is properly educate people about dye. You can’t use beetroot, for instance, as the pink colour just goes brown. There are, in fact, very few natural dyes.” Jenny’s goal is to persuade a part of the denim industry to return to using naturally-grown dye, rather than synthetically-produced indigo—exactly the same molecule, but with some nasty by-products. The craft projects aren’t the problem, she says, but confusing them with large-scale production is. “We’ll never get it back into industry if you start hearing all these myths about natural dyes again, like getting indigo from blackberries. We have to prove to industry that it can be

quality controlled, and that it’s feasible to grow. They are not going to go pick some leaves.” Balfour-Paul is passionate about both the art and science of dyeing. Before 1900, she explains, picking leaves was exactly what every dyemaker did. The curious thing about the leaves of indigo-bearing plants, of which there are a few different species, is that they are green. The indigo is totally invisible. Rather like a great joke of nature, none of the blue flowers or berries will yield a similar effect. They fade away to brown at best. It’s likely that indigo was first discovered by someone urinating on crushed leaves, or mixing them with the remains of a fire. Teasing the colour out is a tricky process. First, Balfour-Paul explains, you have to extract the indigo from the leaves to create a dark blue paste. Next, the paste needs to fermented. “Dyeing with indigo is a bit like making bread. To get the dye vat to work you have to feed it, literally, with sweets things like dates and cabbage leaves.” The vat needs to be alkaline, and traditional techniques prescribe urine or ash. As the vat ferments, blue scum appears on the surface, but the liquid should remain a dirty olive green colour. If it’s blue in the vat, it won’t dye. “You can see why it had all this mystique about it,” she says. “People didn’t do indigo dyeing at home. It was always done by specialists. It

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Pino Marchese took this photograph of indigo workers at an ancient, traditional dye factory in Gengee in southern India.

was all done by taste, and passed through the generations.” The spectacle that comes next seems almost miraculous. The dyer dips the cloth in. It comes out a yellow colour, but as the dye reacts with oxygen, it turns deep blue. “Even today every time I use it, I’m amazed.” Jenny says. “It turns blue in the air.” Balfour-Paul first found a fascination with indigo when she was a batik artist. Indigo has since given Jenny a life that she never imagined having. As a teenager, she was torn between writing and art. She was also a curious traveller. She lived in Jordan after university and returned with a love of batik dyeing. This led her to Susan Bosence, a well-known fabric printer with a penchant for natural indigo. Bosence became her mentor, and Balfour-Paul even inherited her dye vat after she died in 1996. Balfour-Paul’s artistic fascination with indigo became something more academic after she returned from a trip to Yemen with a shiny indigo dress. She described to Bosence how the town in Yemen where she’d been staying once had one hundred and fifty dye workshops, which had dwindled to two (both of which are now closed). “Susan said, ‘Jenny you must go record it, otherwise there can never be a revival in the future.’ And I said, ‘I can’t, I don’t know anything about anything.’” At her insistence, Balfour-Paul applied for a grant to record

dye culture in Yemen. When I ask how she recorded it, she replies, “Oh, messily, with pen and pencil. Someone once asked me what my methodology was and I said I didn’t have one! The main thing for me was to get the trust of the dyers, and you can’t have a clipboard.” The trip to Yemen soon expanded into a study of dye culture in the whole of the Middle East. “It was terrifying.” she admits. “I didn’t intend to do a PhD. I wasn’t thinking about it! I was a dyer and I was teaching and doing batik and exhibiting as well, and looking after the kids.” After her doctorate, which focussed on Middle Eastern indigo culture, the British Museum urged her to write a book that would cover the whole world. “So I ended up doing two books!” You can teach anything using indigo, she says: the slave trade, world history, chemistry. Balfour-Paul has recently been teaching the history of indigo as part of the Silk Road Project, founded by Yo-Yo Ma, the celebrated cellist. “You can say, ‘Look at your jeans, kids.’ Everybody knows about jeans.” Indigo’s exclusive status as the only blue dye gives it a great perspective from which to see world history. Indigo-bearing plants have been grown, traded or fought over in almost every country in the world. The bright blue woad used by the ancient Britons to paint their faces contained it, and it was a major plantation crop in the Caribbean dur-

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Jenny’s self-portrait shows the magical moment when indigodyed cloth comes out of the vat yellow and turns blue in the air.

ing the slave trade. West Africa had traditions of indigo dyeing since at least the eleventh century, and for the Aztecs it was the colour associated with priests and human sacrifices. The volatility of the dye vat meant that numerous superstitions grew up around it. Around the world, local cultures developed different traditions. In some countries, such as Indonesia, dye work had to be done by men or post-menopausal women, and a failed vat could be blamed on a fertile woman walking past. The roots of these beliefs lie in the vat’s mysterious and fecund depths. Jenny explains, “It’s like you’re feeding a foetus. There is something that is alive in the dye vat.” Other cultures had traditions of female dyers, and men were blamed for vat problems instead, as their urine was used as an ingredient. Balfour-Paul was amazed to find that superstitions often had a basis in chemistry: “What I found most humbling when I was doing my research was that these folk tales that people dismissed were very chemical, like putting indigo around a baby’s eyes. It turns out that indigo is antiseptic and is used for conjunctivitis.” In Nigeria, superstition held that chickens must be kept away from the vat—a sound idea as their droppings are highly acidic, and ruin the chemical balance. “We laugh at people,” Jenny says, “but their knowledge is amazing. This is why researchers are trying to capture the story of natural dyes before they die out. The whole story of medicine and colour—it’s all contained there.”

While Jenny’s connection with the dye is now mainly through her research, she still gets together with a friend once a year to dye silk and cotton scarves with her home-grown indigo plants. “We don these scarves and we are just addicted to it. They are so beautiful. We grow the plants and pick the leaves in the morning, and it’s magic.” She is also closely connected with a Victorian indigo plantation in Bengal that she has just finished a book about. “I’m very involved in that. There are some very wonderful people there. It’s sort of my home, really.” In 1980, the shipwreck of a 17th-century Spanish flagship was found in the Caribbean near the coast of the Dominican Republic. Divers went down in search of treasure, but found something that stained their hands and t-shirts blue. They had discovered the ship’s cargo of indigo. One of the samples they took was sent to Jenny Balfour-Paul—a single jam jar-full. She wanted to test out the dye, but it was over a month before she could bring herself to use it. “I knew it had been made from a slave plantation in Mexico, and I felt really peculiar using it. It gives me shivers to think about it now, because I thought of the people who had made the indigo.” There was also only one jar, and she didn’t want to spoil it. “I waited for a really calm day, when there was nobody around. It was an autumn day.” It turned out to be the best dye vat she had ever made. The alkalinity of the seawater had prepared it perfectly.

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A silk wall hanging dyed by Laura Mayotte. The â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;woodgrainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; effect is achieved by stitching the fabric before dipping.

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natural dyeing with fennel and onion and a delicious tart to make with the same ingredients interview beth davis recipes katelyn toth-fejel illustrations becca stadtlander

The Dinner to Dye For workshop is a delicious combination. It’s a natural dye workshop followed by a three-course meal. After learning to dye a scarf, everything is hung out to dry and dinner is served up featuring the same plants, vegetables and fruits that had been bubbling away in the copper dye pots. Think fennel quiche followed by lemon and rosehip pots and damson prosecco. The workshop is the baby of Katelyn Toth-Fejel from the Permacouture Institute, which champions the integration of nature and culture. Katelyn says, “I can sometimes feel slightly nature-starved living in London, but I’ve come to notice every cherry tree, fig tree and potential colour-giving plant I pass. Similarly, food is a really important way to reconnect with nature. You feel better for having eaten something leafy and green, and I think there’s something of that to be said for natural dyes too, like the smell that lingers on something dyed with lavender. There’s got to be some good in imbuing fabrics with the plants and their properties.”

Plants can’t give you strong, cheap, colour-fast dye shades, she says, but you gain something else instead: traces of the environment written in the colours. “Everything from the soil to the air in which they grow can have an effect,” she explains, “meaning you get these wonderful, subtle differences in their colours. I love the way that beautiful old Fair Isle knits almost look like the places they come from. Naturally-dyed fabrics seem to have an iridescence of their own that comes from all the different colour chemicals in the plant.” Dinner to Dye For is hosted at the wonderful Here Today Here Tomorrow, a collaborative shop and artists’ studio in East London that aims to reconnect people with the processes of making things. Have a look at Here Today Here Tomorrow’s collection of winter workshops on heretodayheretomorrowblog.wordpress.com. For more information about natural dyes, see the Handbook of Natural Plant Dyes by Sasha Duerr or visit www.permacouturepress.tumblr.com.

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dyeing with onion skins and fennel Onion and fennel are both commonly used in the kitchen and provide by-products that are excellent dyes. Onion skins are an ancient dye and were used by American Indians to achieve yellow and orange (from yellow skins) and green (from red skins). Fennel can be grown in the garden or gathered along canals and country lanes, where it often grows among wild flowers. The flower tops and the fronds will give a bright or greenish yellow. The following recipe works for either onion or fennel. With both, the best results will be gained from dyeing animal fibres, such as wool or silk. Alum helps to make the dye permanent and is available from online craft merchants such as www.fibrecraft.com. Look after your naturally-dyed fabrics by hand-washing in cool water with pH-neutral soap. Some plant dyes may change over time, but many will remain the same for years. Like cooking, working with natural dyes is something that develops with practice and patience. You will need: wool alum onion or fennel

One. First, prepare your textiles. Weigh the textiles when dry and then soak in warm water and pH-neutral soap for one hour, stirring occasionally. Rinse afterwards. Two. Measure out the alum. You will need 5-20% of the weight of dry textiles. Dissolve it in a small amount of hot water. Three. Place the alum and the textiles in a large pot with enough water to cover them. Heat and stir for one hour without letting them boil. The textiles are now ready for the dye pot. Four. To prepare the dye bath, you will need about the same weight of dye material as the weight of your textiles when dry. Finely chop the plants and place them in a stainless steel pot, with enough water to cover them. Heat the plants to boiling and simmer for one hour. Sieve out the solids and reserve the liquid in the pot. Five. To dye, add the textiles to the pot with the dye in. Heat to simmering, but not boiling, stirring regularly. After 30 minutes you can remove the textiles. Alternatively, leave them in the pot for longer or overnight to get more a saturated colour. Six. Rinse the textiles in cool water with a little soap and then dry.

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polenta and caramelised fennel tart This is inspired by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s excellent asparagus tart, but makes use of the aromatic qualities of fennel and onion. The balsamic vinegar brings the sugar of sun-ripened grapes to heighten the earthy sweetness of fennel that cooks to a mellow flavour. Red onions also add sweetness and the cheeses bring a creamy and salty character to a very hearty tart, perfect for a cold winter meal. This serves twelve. Don’t forget to save the onion skins. You will need: olive oil 500g ﬁne or instant polenta, cooked 120g finely-grated parmesan 125ml vegetable stock 2 large red onions, finely chopped 2 tsp grated garlic 400g fennel bulb, trimmed and cut into 2 cm wedges

20g butter 1 tsp sugar 50ml balsamic vinegar 6 eggs, beaten 480ml double cream 2 tsp dijon mustard salt and freshly-ground black pepper 150g gruyère, grated

One. Heat the oven to 190 ºC or gas mark 5. Take a 25cm cake tin with a removable base and grease it with olive oil. Two. Add the parmesan, vegetable stock and cooked polenta to a

saucepan. Mix together and stir over a moderate heat until the liquid has evaporated and polenta is quite firm. Set aside to cool. Three. Heat the chopped onions gently in 2 tbsp olive oil in a skillet until the onions are soft. Add the garlic and stir on a low heat until they turn golden. Four. Spoon the polenta into the cake tin and build up the sides to create a thick crust, patching the cracks with extra polenta. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until dry and crisp around the edges. Five. For the filling, heat the butter in a skillet and add the fennel wedges. Add sugar and cook on a fairly high heat, browning the wedges on each side. Six. Add the balsamic vinegar and a little salt, then cover and cook on a low heat until tender. This will take 20-40 minutes. Seven. Lay the wedges in the polenta crust. Eight. Whisk the eggs, cream and mustard and seasoning. Pour the mixture over the fennel. Sprinkle on the cheese and bake until golden brown and set, which will take at least 40 minutes.

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Pyrus take their name from the Latin word for pear, balanced on Lorraine‘s hand in their self-portrait.

the designers behind pyrus make simple clothes for strong women we made a lovely reversible cotton bag with them When our fashion editor, Agatha A Nitecka, came across a beautiful dress by the design studio Pyrus, she fell for their aesthetic straight away. After months of dreaming, oh comely has made a sturdy, reversible cotton bag with the studio. The bags have “keep your curiosity sacred” on one side, and an enigmatic illustration by Pyrus on the other. Agatha worked with Lorraine and Ash Johnson, the husband and wife team behind Pyrus, to bring the bag about, and she talked to them about the collaboration. I’d seen an image that featured your dress somewhere in January, when I was in Sarajevo. I liked how simple it was, and the details that showed you cared about the quality. I felt that you would be very suitable for us: we both stand for simplicity and quality. Ash: It’s also strong women, which is something we design for: slight androgyny, slight masculinity, but femininity at the same time. That’s how all the women in the office are, that’s how Lorraine is, and that’s the woman I design for. We have that old world feel to our clothes. There’s a nostalgic reinvention of vintage pieces, because that’s what Lorraine and I do. We love looking at vintage fairs—you find everything. There’s something about texture that we share. Because we use mainly film photographers, there’s something quite grainy and maybe vintage about oh comely. There’s something about your clothes that makes women feel comfortable and confident. Ash: We work quite hard to achieve that. We never use white, it’s always a shade like an old Edwardian shirt. We wash all our silks so they shrink, and then the fabric has this really old, bouncy element to it. It’s a livedin feel. When we started out, we never used to press our collections. We wanted everything to look crushed and natural, like a very good shirt to have in your wardrobe all the time.

I think your clothes are very easy to claim and make your favourite. You just feel like they’re there, your best friends in the wardrobe. It’s what we’re also trying to do with the magazine, and that’s why we decided to do this bag together. We have to credit you for coming up with the design—it’s a great idea to have a reversible bag. Lorraine: We wanted to do something where it was a true collaboration. When you sent “keep your curiosity sacred” to us that helped. Our illustrator would do these really intricate drawings, and we thought maybe we can come up with something together. Initially, we decided to come up with some really weird esoteric objects that are vintage, not feminine or masculine but can be used. Why did you start Pyrus? What did you think was missing? Lorraine: We weren’t happy. We weren’t happy with what we were designing, because we were doing it for someone else. So we decided to do our own brand. We had our own style. Ash’s style is quite feminine, because he had the embroidery in his background from India. Mine is very clean. I like working with jersey and draping. It’s more tomboyish. We managed to meld our design styles together. What is the process? Do you design together? Lorraine: We’ve learned each other’s strengths and weaknesses. That was the hardest part. We split the collection. Ash: I do the really expensive embroidered pieces and the really modernist coats and jackets, and Lorraine does the simpler pieces with small details. We have lived together and worked together almost 24 hours in the day, so we’ve reached this weird point in our lives where we don’t argue with each other, and we know what each other wants. You can get a bag for £12 plus postage at www.ohcomely.co.uk/pyrus.

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subscribe to oh comely and get a bag by pyrus for a tenner subscribe online at www.ohcomely.co.uk/pyrus We’re really excited about these bags, and so are our mums, who think they ’re getting one for free. A subscription to oh comely is £20 for a year, and you’ll get six issues. If you order a bag at the same time, it’s only £30

for the lot, including postage. You can subscribe online, or post us a cheque at the address on the back cover with your details. Make sure you include an email address so we can drop you a line confirming the order.

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what are your favourite socks? we asked the musicians from the crookes some pressing questions portraits agatha a nitecka Full of sweet, younger-brother charm, the Crookes make infectious pop tunes with a jangly 1950s slant. We met Alex Saunders, Daniel Hopewell, George Waite and Russell Bates one Thursday morning in a London hotel.

Russell

Daniel

Best pair of socks: Primark multipack with five pairs for ÂŁ3, in various shades of brown.

Best pair of socks: Red ones, like the ones Jimmy wears in Quadrophenia.

Favourite animal: We have mice in our house and I have grown fairly attached to them.

Favourite animal: The house mouse, but I call it James Gandolfini instead.

Make mine: Tea, with milk, no sugar please.

Make mine: A cup of steaming Joe. Black. None of the weak rubbish.

Favourite sleeping position: Alongside one of my fellow band members. We share hotel rooms a lot.

Favourite sleeping position: I like to tuck the duvet underneath my feet.

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Alex

George

Best pair of socks: Probably my knock-off Arsenal FC socks that read, ‘the London club.’

Best pair of socks: The ones I’m wearing now.

Favourite animal: Like Russell, Alessandro, our house mouse, has a place in my heart. Make mine: Tea with milk, one sugar. Favourite sleeping position: On my side, with my right cheek on the pillow, and left arm resting under the pillow in a hooking position.

Favourite animal: Dogs. Mine is named Indy, after Indiana Jones. Make mine: Hot water with whisky and honey. Favourite sleeping position: I once fell asleep in a karaoke booth in Edinburgh while we were waiting to sound check. That was as peaceful a sleep as I’ve had. We have not been back since unfortunately. Maybe I was caught on camera. Sleeping, that is.

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warm me up, buttercup

apple cranberry cider

hot drinks for cold nights recipes lucy doolan

Cranberry juice and cider complement each other sweetly in a hot fruit punch. This recipe is tailored to a sweet tooth, so leave out the sugar if you’d like something a little tarter. This serves six.

These leisurely concoctions are a far cry from grabbing a cup of something hot on the go. They’re drinks to sip on long grey afternoons when there’s nowhere you need to go. Better, stir one on the stove to warm yourself up after a long walk in the cold. Remember, extravagant hot drinks are perfect for parties, but they can also be a small reminder from yourself that it’s time to relax. They make your house smell fantastic too. Where cinnamon sticks are specified, you can substitute for ground cinnamon, although it won’t taste as good. However, if you have a local Asian grocer, they will probably have cinnamon sticks that are chunkier but a lot cheaper than the supermarkets’.

You will need: 1 litre apple cider 500ml cranberry juice 220g brown sugar 4 whole cloves 2 cinnamon sticks One. In a large saucepan, combine the cider, cranberry juice, brown sugar, cinnamon sticks and cloves. Two. Bring to a simmer over a medium heat. Three. Simmer the mixture, uncovered, for 15-20 minutes. Four. Strain the mixture through a fine sieve into a glass bowl, and you’re ready to serve.

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mulled wine Mulled wine is Christmas in a glass: a lovely, warming blend of cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg. If you’re expecting guests, you can leave it on a really low heat to ladle into a glass when they pop in. If you’re not, but would like your house to smell of mulled wine, you can do it anyway. This is enough spice for two bottles of wine, depending on how spiced you like it. You will need: 2 clementines peel of a lemon peel of a lime 250g caster sugar 6 whole cloves a cinnamon stick 3 fresh bay leaves a whole nutmeg a vanilla pod, halved lengthways 2 star anise 2 bottles of cheap chianti, or other italian red wine

One. Remove the peel from the clementines, lemon and lime in large chunks. A wide speed peeler is good for this if you have one. Two. Put the sugar in a large saucepan and add the pieces of peel. Squeeze in the juice from the clementines and put the saucepan on the stove over a medium heat. Three. Add the cloves, cinnamon stick, bay leaves and about ten gratings of nutmeg. Throw in your halved vanilla pod and just enough red wine to cover the sugar. Make sure you reserve some of the wine at this stage, as you’ll need to boil this mixture to make the syrup base. Four. Let it simmer until the sugar completely dissolves, and then bring to the boil. Keep the liquid on a rolling boil for about four to five minutes, or until you’ve got a beautiful, thick syrup. Five. When the syrup is ready, turn the heat down and add the star anise and the remaining wine. Six. Gently heat the wine and after around five minutes, when it’s warm and delicious, ladle it into glasses and serve.

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butterbeer

hot chocolate

This is cinnamon-infused ice cream floating in hot apple cider. Perfect to share among friends on a cold night around a fire, or the radiator. This makes enough for six.

Chocolate and hot water bottles are two of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s great comforts, and hot chocolate has the best bits of both. Lavish with cream and marshmallows for something rich, or a dusting of grated nutmeg. This makes four mugfuls.

You will need: 500ml vanilla ice cream, softened 55g unsalted butter, softened 70g brown sugar 2 tsp cinnamon 1 tsp grated nutmeg 1/4 tsp ground cloves 1 litre apple cider One. Cream the butter, sugar and spices together in a bowl. When thoroughly mixed, beat in the vanilla ice cream. Two. Place the mixture in the freezer and leave to set for around half an hour to an hour, or until it has re-frozen. Three. Gently warm the apple cider in a pan over a medium heat until it begins to bubble a little at the edges. Do not leave it there for too long or allow it to boil, or the alcohol will evaporate. Four. Whip out the ice cream mixture and scoop a lump into a glass. Pour the hot apple cider over and sip slowly.

You will need: a vanilla pod a cinnamon stick 1 litre milk 150g plain chocolate, chopped into small pieces sugar, to taste freshly grated nutmeg, for dusting One. Place the milk in a pan with the cinnamon stick. Cut open the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape the seeds into the pan, then add the pod. Two. Turn on the heat and stir until small bubbles start to appear at the edges of the pan, without letting the milk boil. Three. Remove the pan from the heat and add the broken chocolate pieces, stirring until the chocolate melts. Four. Whisk the hot chocolate vigorously until it starts to become frothy and add sugar to taste. Pour into glasses and put your feet up.

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issue nine is out in february we’re collecting some beloved ugly possessions

“You should never be afraid to love something just because it’s ugly.” These were the wise words of one of our grandmothers. In our next issue, people share beloved possessions that, even if you squint, are really rather hideous. There are failed school projects, misguided souvenirs and tacky heirlooms. The chair in a bottle is from Bronagh Fegan. She says, “I got this at a bric-a-brac shop for the princely sum of 50p. The chair inside is a thing of beauty and made with a lot of skill, yet undeniably pointless. “There is an inscription on the stopper: ‘to Father Reveyro, thank you for your friendship.’ It’s rather sad. If someone made it with such care as a gift, how did it end up as a reject in a junk shop?”

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can I come to your party? we find out which games are best now we’ve outgrown jelly and ice cream words dani lurie, photos desiree mcclellan Grey clouds are getting cosy with the sky and chilly winds are upturning umbrellas as they please. We could curse the weather for its seasonal failings, but it’s a lot more enjoyable to make our own fun when we’re trapped indoors on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Was there anything like party games when you were a child to leave you on the floor in heaps of helpless giggles? I wondered if party games would be as much fun now that we’re older, stiffer and like our dignity a little more than we used to. When staging these games, you’re going to want your party-goers to be excitable and full of giddy energy. The best way to do this is to ensure they have access to a steady supply of sugar and E numbers. Bring on the sweets, chocolates and concentrated fruit juice. Now that we’re grown-ups, we can have as much as we like.

pass the parcel

duck, duck, goose

Remember that game? Everybody sits in a circle and passes the parcel until the music stops. The lucky so-and-so who has it in their hands at the time opens a layer and keeps whatever goodies fall out.

Remember that game? One player walks around a circle, tapping each person on the head with the word ‘duck.’ When they say ‘goose’ instead, the tagged person leaps to their feet to catch their tap-happy adversary before they return to their spot in the circle.

You will need: A newspaper, sticky tape, a music device and an array of little toys and sweets to smuggle inside.

You will need: Plenty of floor and plenty of friends. Knowledge of waterfowl is optional.

This is a great game to start your party with because it is the perfect sugar delivery system: open a layer and sweets fall out. Making the parcel seems to be an art unto itself, a delicate negotiation of form and content (see how much can you fit into that thing before you run out of newspaper). For prizes, I’d raided my local £1 shop for bubbles, stickers and glitter pens. The pièce de résistance at the centre was a Yu-Gi-Oh! pencil case. The game was a hit and, just like when we were kids, everybody got a turn.

Don’t be fooled by the silly name, this game is a master class in strategy so fierce it would make Sun Tzu blush. The key is to lure your fellow players into a false sense of security and then strike when they least expect it. It also helps if you tag the slowest person, which would explain why I remained ‘it’ for most of the game. Getting to our feet was an unexpected challenge: we don’t sit cross-legged on the floor much these days.

10/10. The best thing to happen to the broadsheet since the paper hat.

8/10. It’s a quacker, if your joints can take it.

balloon stomp

pin the tail on the donkey

Remember that game? Everybody has a balloon tied to one foot and the aim is to pop the other players’ balloons before they can get yours.

Remember that game? A player is blindfolded, spun around and let loose to attach a disembodied tail to the rear end of a donkey.

You will need: Balloons, string and a good sense of balance.

You will need: A blindfold, a picture of a donkey, a paper tail and something to stick it on with.

Balloon Stomp is the Battle Royale of party games. It’s a no-holdsbarred torrent of flying legs and squeaking latex. Uneasy alliances are formed and broken as players gang up to get rid of their rivals’ balloons one by one. You soon realise that the key is to play the defensive as well as the offensive, and the more time your balloon spends in the air, the less likely it is to be stomped on. The result is a ridiculous-looking scene of people chasing each other in circles by hopping on one leg, occasionally bringing it back to earth to launch their attack. So good we had to play another round. 10/10. Top of the pops.

This is at least as much fun to watch as it is to play. Perhaps even more, because you get to look on, chanting ‘hotter’ or ‘colder’ with the warm glow of knowledge, while the player has to deal with temporary blindness, disorientation and the prospect of putting a hand on something icky. It’s harder than it looks, too. Even though I drew the donkey myself, when it came to my turn I completely missed the mark and pinned the tail to its torso like it was a barnyard mutant. 8/10. Like trying not to laugh with drink in your mouth, it’s better as a spectator sport.

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bobbing for apples

musical chairs

Remember that game? Players have to pick an apple out of a tub of water using nothing but their mouths.

Remember that game? Everybody marches around an ever-decreasing number of chairs until the music stops, and whoever can’t scramble onto one is out of the game.

You will need: a large water tub, apples and at least one towel. It’s harder than you’d think. Apples are round, shiny, buoyant things, and exceedingly slippery. Their stalks can easily be chomped down on so we de-stalked those bad boys after an initial confidence-boosting beginners round. I conceded defeat soon after: my strategy of gingerly nudging the fruit around the tub was only successful in getting water up my nose. Other players had better luck when they discovered the unfortunate trick to the game: you have to stick your entire head in. “Focus on one apple and chase it to the very bottom,” said one soaked tester as he mopped his face with a tea towel. 2/10. If you ask me to submerge my head in a bucket of water, I’m going to need a better incentive than fruit.

the doughnut game Remember that game? Players line up with their hands behind their backs and race to eat doughnuts off a string.

You will need: One chair per person and a music player. This is a game to bring the competitive side out in the most laid-back of people. We had more than a few incidents of two players landing on the same chair and trying to nudge the other off with their derrière. After all, there will always be one chair fewer than there are players and in the end, like Highlander, there can only be one. 8/10. Ferocious four-legged fun.

twister Remember that game? You play it on the mat with rows of coloured spots. A spinner decides which hand or foot you must place on each particular colour. Entanglement ensues. You will need: A twister matt, a spinner and a degree of flexibility.

The game feels like a life-size version of Hungry Hippos: there are mouths opening and shutting all around you. It’s downright frightening: turn your head the wrong way and you could lose a nose. Hygiene concerns are also troubling. The savaged doughnuts soon start to fall apart and hit the floor, from where the eating continues. You also have to deal with the regret-filled aftermath of having consumed an entire ring of fried dough in about ninety seconds.

This was the only game on the list that required a licensed set of equipment, although a DIY version could be made fairly easily with the aid of coloured paints. I borrowed a friend’s old family set, only to discover that the spinner was missing. We wondered how we were going to play without one before somebody got their iPhone out. Twister spinner? There’s an app for that. I have such fond memories of playing this game when I was younger, but apparently the word is ‘younger’. Not only are our bodies bigger now, they‘re also heavier, stiffer and a greater challenge to gravity. The rounds didn’t last long, and most of us hit the ground voluntarily. I’d advise stretching beforehand.

6/10. I’d rather have a plate any day.

5/10. Curves in all the wrong places.

You will need: String, ring doughnuts and an appetite.

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n the Have you ever been on the toilet whe to get phone rang, and you hopped out you it with your pants still down because knew there was no one else in? No, but my housemate did once when he thought I wasn’t in.

I don’t see what this has to do with quizzes. (Yes, but don’t tell anyone.) Jeremy Paxman.

You catch someone’s l eye on the train and fee ... You . sed embarras

Stare in turn at ever yone else on the train so the first person doesn’t think you were staring at them.

The Arch B of C.

Give them a meaning ful look and panto mime wiping so mething off your fa c e.

You can get along with just about everyone. People just like to be with you, and you always seem to be somewhere in the mix. They should watch out though—if they hurt you, you’ll make them cry.

Who’s more tolerable?

Someone who puns relentlessly.

being Do you like out ab s g in th told hich you yourself w ow ? already k n

No, I lik e long walks on the beach, kittens, and justice.

Who would you rather relate your tragic story to?

A hungry traveller stops at a monaster y and is taken to the kitchens. A brother is frying chips. Is he the friar?

Do I? No, he’s the chip monk.

Some see you as strange and exotic, if they understand you at all. The truth however, is that you are the most efficient of all your colleagues, and get more work done with less resources than anyone else. (Seriously, look it up).

Someone who ab sentmindedly pulls the stuffing out of the sofa.

What nickname did Barack Obama on ce go by? I know I could have just read the answer off the box nex t to this, but that wouldn’t be honest.

You are a by-word for dependability. Some people might say you’re boring, but the truth is that your versatility is legendary. No matter how people treat you, you keep on giving. If they mash you up or drive you to boiling point, you’ll still come out all right in the end.

Barry. Till he read Malcolm X and got some self-respect.

Among your contemporaries, you provide the colour and the zing. Some say you’re too sharp, and not gentle enough. But you know that if they can’t handle you, they’re just a bit pathetic.

illustration laura callaghan, words michael bennett

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