Peep!

Gradually I've managed to persuade little birds to come to the bird feeders in my tiny yard. A large flock of sparrows has the feeders on their radar, but I'm not always around to replenish the seeds. 

The sparrows have a strategy: every so often, they send out a scout to see if the feeders have been refilled.

Sometimes I hear the routine.

'PEEP!' 

The scout sparrow has clocked that the feeder's now full of seeds. A few minutes later, the first sparrow returns with a second, the verifier. 

'Cheep cheep!', confirms the verifier.

Very soon, the whole flock arrives, taking turns to fill their feathered bellies. Down below, two clumsy pigeons waddle, gobbling up the discarded seeds and trying to work out how the world of feeding works. They clump about, sometimes hoisting themselves wheezily up on to plant pots, grasping the soil with their clumsy claws and uprooting the poor plants willy-nilly. They stare needily into the kitchen window with gimlet eyes, willing me to come out and feed Just Them.

On a separate trajectory, a small set of blue tits find something delicious on the small tree next to the kitchen window. I'm at a loss as to what it is, but they fly diagonally back and forth from the birch tree at the back of the yard to the small tree, narrowly missing the sparrows who fly on a different diagonal.

Occasionally, a robin appears. 'I was always here', he notes. 'Yes, I know', I reply, 'but there's plenty for everyone'. I think he's after the worms that burst out of the compost bin.

During the summer drought, I was putting water out in a round galvanised tin tray, and the sparrows used to drink and take a bath, standing in a circle gripping the lip of the tray with their tiny claws. I went out to refill it one morning and trod in some fox poo: I'd obviously been providing a drinking supply for a thirsty fox too. Such a tiny garden, so much wildlife!

Up To Date Gig List And Ticket Links

Here is an up-to date gig list; sadly the promoter in Falmouth is ill, and we can't play there this time around. Starts with Dartington on Bonfire Night! Looking forward to hanging out with my friends The Flatmates again- they are gigging round the country at the moment, so do try to catch them if you can!

November 

5th New Lion Brewery Dartington, with The Flatmates

 https://www.wegottickets.com/event/557935/

6th Port Mahon Oxford, with The Flatmates http://www.wegottickets.com/af/17/event/557508

11th Leicester Soundhouse, with The Verinos and Velvet Crisis
https://www.wegottickets.com/event/559619

12th King’s Lock Middlewich with Chris Tavener, Jasmine Allen Estate (pay what you can)

16th Betsey Trotwood London, with James McCallum (The Chefs)

 https://www.wegottickets.com/event/556420

26th Prince Albert Brighton, with James McCallum (The Chefs), Dog of Man and (W)asbo Derek
https://www.wegottickets.com/event/559889

December

4th (afternoon) Knowle Constitutional Club Bristol, with Lovely Basement and Arrest! Charlie Tipper

15th Glad Café Glasgow, with Howie Reeve
http://www.wegottickets.com/sct/RNzvjG9j7f

In The Midst Of Awfulness A Flower Blooms: Rachel Love At The Lexington

So this is what it feels like to live in a fascist country: free speech equated with hate speech. My head has been buzzing with disappointment, fear, and anger. Time out in Whitby helped, but the Nazi memorabilia in too many of the antique shops didn't. What happened to ethical trading? Verily, the love of money is the root of all evil, as Geoffrey Chaucer pointed out in the Canterbury Tales.

Circling in a grey mood, I received a message from Kenji. Was I going to any of the Chickfactor gigs at the weekend? The whole festival had passed me by: I've been living in a world of organising gigs, stopping the weather from joining me on the sofa in front of the TV or getting into bed with me, and days of drawing. The band I most wanted to see was Rachel Love, and thankfully I was able to get a ticket.

After surviving masks-make-me-cough syndrome (I think it's the hypo-allergenic washing powder), I was able to chat to Kenji and Till a bit before the gig. How great to see them! Then I went upstairs to see the last part of Artsick's set. They are fronted by a duo of women who sing very tightly-arranged vocals, which gives them a distinctive sound of their own; their songs are short and punchy, and they pleased their many fans in the audience.

Before Rachel played, we had a very quick chat. She has her sons in the band, one playing bass and one playing guitar. We remembered that the last time I'd met her eldest son, he was a baby in the dressing room at the LSE where his dad, Captain Sensible was doing something for the City Road Drugs project benefit. So was Robbie Coltrane, and so was I. So much water has gone under the bridge, much of it very dark and turbulent, though some more tranquil and beautiful.

Speaking of beauty, Rachel has become more beautiful as she has got older. She has an elegance to her that is all the more poignant because it isn't artificial. Flanked by her sons plus two of their friends, they embarked on a set of delicately crafted songs, a mixture (sic) of Dollies songs, a couple of covers (Velvets and Margo Guryan) and a handful of songs from more recent recordings, which were simply wonderful. Her song writing has only got better. How can I love someone else's songs so much and not be jealous? Because I could not have written them myself, and I'm so glad they exist. 

This was joyous music to listen to, yet I stood and cried through almost the whole set. Why? Because I know Rachel as one of the sweetest women alive and a great mum and because fate has been too cruel to her. Yet here she is, playing her songs surrounded by the love of her sons and their friends, and embedded in a loving audience who are with her every second of her performance as she fights back against it all gently and persuasively. Yes, life is worth living despite it throwing poisonous spears to disrupt our contentment. Not only a great songwriter, Rachel is an inspiration, and I'm so glad to have seen her play. Props to Kenji and Dita, who encouraged her to play live at the Glasgow Popfest this year, leading her sons to understand that she has an audience wherever she chooses to travel.

Debsey joined her for a couple of songs at the end and the affection between the two of them was palpable. Apparently Hester was around at the sound check and I'm sorry to have missed her, and also Debsey's gig with Birdie the following night.

Oh those times: The Chefs were offered a residency at The Moonlight Club and we chose the Dolly Mixture to be our support act. we did a lot of gigs with them, and those friendships forged back in the day don't evaporate. They run through our memory bloodstreams, because they help to forge our personalities. This was a very moving evening, a cathartic gig that realigned my jumbled cells and made me feel strong again. Swimming against what seems like a tide of sewage, you need an island to rest on and take stock: yes, I remember who I am now! Thank you Kenji and Till, Rachel and Chickfactor too for a great evening.

Review by Cazz Blase

Big thanks to Cazz for this review of 'Drawing on my Dreams'. Cazz know my music really well, and i't great to have this review from her:

http://cazzblase.blogspot.com/2022/10/album-review-helen-mccookerybook.html

I'll write tomorrow about Rachel Love's gig at The Lexington on Friday night, which was tremendous. Still recovering from charging up and down the 99 steps at Whitby and the 5 hour drive back!

Glasgow Glad Café, Thursday December 15th

Tickets here: https://www.wegottickets.com/event/560486

Bggr

I spent so long sorting out my drawings into sequence that I misread the clock, and arrived at Barbican station at the exact time the Studio Electronique film was due to start. What a bggr. Wanted to see the film and also my Doc'n'Roll and other friends. I'll have to go to see another of their amazing offerings instead.

Now sitting at home with a pie watching TV. Not quite the same thing, really.

Whitby

What an interesting place... we travelled up on Saturday, getting spectacularly lost on the moors by accident, and slid into our accommodation late afternoon, giving us enough time to explore a bit before dinner.

On Sunday, it pelted down with rain. We had to give up and go back to get dry: the umbrella we bought blew inside out in nanoseconds. Monday wasn't bad at all: we watched as a group of men stood in the street, only one wearing a smart white shirt and a (rather dramatic) pink and red tie. The more casually dressed mates were taking the mickey out of the number of pens he had in his upper shirt pocket. It was a long-lasting ribbing which the smart chap seemed to take in his stride. I think we saw a seal, too. We drifted around the charity shops and the junk shops. It was tempting to buy things, but all too many of the antique shops had sections where there was N*zi memorabilia, or displays of g*llywogs. No! How can they do this? It all needs to be confiscated and burnt: there is nothing collectible about this stuff, it's revolting and retrogressive.

On the happier side, there's an amazing museum at the top of the hill and through a little park, full of all sorts of quirky treasures. The automata of the Whitby jet makers wasn't working, which I thought was rather funny considering the number of working communities in the UK who are currently on strike, or about to be. We sat at the children's table and drew with the crayons for a while (all the children were in the huge playground).

We were so busy. We went to an awful craft fair that had those sorts of things you make out of kits that are almost completely made already. We ate really great breakfasts and really great dinners. We ate ice cream and crisps. We were big babies. We stood where the tide splashes high, and we walked on both arms of the harbour. We went on a boat trip and we sat in cafés. We walked up the hill and down the hill and at rest time they watched awful Disney films, while I read a John Grisham book that was lying around from cover to cover, before continuing to read Sasha Swire's memoirs. There were thousands of dogs, often with owners who did not understand the concept of short leads when walking in crowds. We bobbled over cobbles, took photos of each other, squabbled and joked. The town was full of excited children scrapping with each other and being told off, elders negotiating impossible climbs very, very slowly, crap pre-hallowe'en decorations, and bonhomie. 

What a wonderful few days away from the fascistic machinations of the British government. Soon, fun will become illegal. It was good to get our fill before the inevitable happens.

And Mr Whippy To The Rescue

 

It's Raining in Whitby

Well, here we are in Whitby in a tiny cottage. It's raining, and we have already been soaked through: we're sitting watching trash on the Disney Channel having stuffed our faces on very dry cheese scones that crumbled all over the floor. Our shoes, clothes and outer garms are drying on the radiators and smelling. The kitchen tap drips and the car is a million miles away, but that's Whitby for you. The shops are all out of umbrellas, and the one we managed to find turned inside-out straight away in the wind, and trashed itself before you could say 'vampire'.

True to holiday form, I got about five hours sleep last night because everything from the whole of my life visited me to torture my thoughts. This always happens and is why people go on holiday. I lay in bed and heard the church clock striking all the way to half past three a.m.

One of our party isn't very well, and my body is suffering because the builder who came to fix boards in the loft last week didn't have an assistant, and roped me into helping him to load the boards up the dodgy folding ladder. He said I needed new insulation and wanted more money for doing that, so I ended up doing it myself. I went on strike the next day, and he had to cut the boards in half in the rainy back yard and get them into the loft on his own, but my body damage was done. My back, my arms, my hips and my tolerance just said 'no'. He huffed and puffed and sighed big builder-volume sighs, but I was immune to his attempts to torture me with his pathos. Never again. No more builders in my house, ever, not even with the gigantic discount his conscience forced him into!

Before we came away I took seven black bags of filthy fibreglass insulation to the council dump. It felt so good to get them out of the house. I also mended the Dyson vacuum cleaner for the nth time. Dyson and Tim Wetherspoon epitomise sour 21st century entrepreneurial capitalism: things that work until they don't, and then the inventors/entrepreneurs sit in a corner snarling, despite having cleaned out the public with their enterprise, and stashed the cash somewhere safe from prying tax demands.

What an indulgent moan. It's also a holiday from being nice and tolerating things, just today anyway.

Sheep

I have been drawing for a commission, a children's book about sustainability and clothing. This is one of the drawings, which I'm actually re-doing because electric shears are more appropriate for the sequence of illustrations.

I'm doing this in a little oasis of calm (a time oasis as well as a place oasis), because the loft is being boarded and the builder is using me as an assistant. I'm not happy about having that role at all.

Ever felt like you just want to scream? 

'Coffee and Hope', from 'Drawing on my Dreams'

https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/track/woodwide-web

Party

 

Protesting Dog

From Sunday Drawing Club on Wednesday, last week

Rocking Magpie Review

What a lovely thing to wake up to! Thank you to the Rocking Magpie for describing my songs so eloquently, and for reading the undercurrents too.

https://rockingmagpie.wordpress.com/2022/10/15/helen-mccookerybook-drawing-on-my-dreams/

Autumn Tour Poster, Corrected

 Because I confused Dartmouth and Dartington!