So 2011 has dawned. The year I turn 50. I sailed through 30. At 40 I was a single Mum to a 3 year old, so didn't notice or celebrate that one either. 50 isn't sitting quite so easily with me. I'm not ready, it has sneaked up on me unawares.
Then I look at these two ladies Annie Lennox, 56 and Kim Cattrell, 54 and think, yes, getting older is good. We can be sexy and sassy. We have freedom and self assurance, and the energy and enthusiasm to tackle life head on - alone!
Dusty Springfield has always been an icon of mine. Sometimes that was considered deeply unhip, sometimes like now, it's retro trendy. Whatever, the girl had the best white soul voice EVER. I watched her TV shows in the late 60s and wanted to be her, with the dresses, the bouffant blonde hair and the black, black eyeliner. She was the precursor to the Debbie Harry look (which I also worked - being 16 and with more access to the Miners makeup counter in Woolies than I had when I was 6!). Little did I know the deep unhappiness in her personal life, in an era where you couldn't be honest about your sexuality.
The day I found this original LP in a charity shop in the 80s when I was an art student was a happy day indeed. The graphics are wonderful, the songs sublime and even the Philips logo has nostalgic charm.
I have been wanting to find something for this IKEA Ribba frame for a while. I had been wanting to get my less embarrassing LPs out of their boxes and on display. A marriage made in heaven.
Now, Barry Manilow in the downstairs loo?
Work at London Underground has recently uncovered these advertising posters dating from 1956 - 1959. The posters were left hanging when an old lift was removed and replaced by an escalator. You can see them in more detail in Mike Ashworth's Flickr set. The one below, advertising The River Thames, is my favourite. Such beautiful colours and composition, even after 50 years forgotten underground. Photos © London Underground
This is the reason I spend many hours in my car commuting to work. To be able to live so near to such magical places is worth every moment of frustration behind the wheel.
Early yesterday evening, the boy and I sat alone in a hide overlooking the lakes at Shapwick Heath. He was watching the cormorants silhouetted against the dark trees, perched on their nests of bleached white twigs. I was watching him, aware of how special this peaceful time together was. He is twelve and my only child. I know we won't have too many more times like these before he is on the roller coaster to becoming a teenager. Scrapbooking has taught me to treasure each moment – oh, and try to take a sneaky photo or two!.
