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Now I have a really sore left thumb. Well, you know what THEY say (you know who THEY are, don't you), one must suffer for one's art. I got the front of the stem relieved to about where I want it and flattened.

Again, nothing fancy, just cut, strop, cut, strop. The back of the stem I decided to carve into a ridge. I don't know what it is about ridged stems, but I can't seem to stay away from them.

In any case it allows me to play a little and still stay within the budget (about which, more later). I began shaping the outside of the bowl, and my feeling about the wood has been borne out. This is going to be a seriously good-looking piece.

Even though it is not yet apparent in the photos, there is a good, strong figure working through the bowl. I had to be careful to make sure I was smoothing out an actual facet instead of trying to erase a grain line.

Ah, to have more such problems!

A stray thought about commissions occurred to me today as I was working on the spoon. If you buy a lovespoon from a website or store, mine or anyone else's, you get a beautiful piece of art at a price that is what it is without room for negotiation. A lovespoon doesn't have to be fancy or intricate, especially if it holds meaning specifically for you. When you commission a lovespoon you are not locked into a high price. You can decide on a budget, and between you and the carver work out a design that meets that budget. Lovespoons aren't just for the well-heeled collector, everyone can have one. And what's better, everyone can have one that has a special meaning just for you.

Today was another day of donkey work -- removing wood. Nothing fancy, no special techniques needed. Just strop, knife, hog off wood, repeat. I now have a sore left thumb. Probably 98% of the cuts I made today were what I call lever cuts (some call it a scissors cut): put your left thumb (non-dominant hand) on the back of the blade just above the handle, then move your right hand using your left thumb as a fulcrum. That produces a very powerful, very controlable shearing cut. It also produces a sore left thumb. The more I cut on this piece of wood, the prettier I think it's going to be when it's oiled. The medallion at the top has a lot of good figure running through it, and the bowl, with that dark stripe running slant-wise through it, should be pretty spectacular. Tomorrow more wood removal as I relieve the surface of the spoon's stem. After that, the bowl. The major decision I have to make regards how the stem will blend into the back of the bowl. That's going to take some thought.

Review by Ann Dierikz:

Having seen Mametz with a bus load of fellow friends, I feel completely compelled to write and tell you all about the most amazing piece of production, for I fear 'Theatre' does not do it justice, I have ever witnessed.

Theatre implies sitting in rows and watching a play. Mametz is not that. From arriving in a field and seeing fleetingly a young lad run by in WW1 uniform, you are engrossed and engaged. The walk through the trenches, the casual uniformed men laying on benches writing letters home, Skyping … it was surreal ..yet real….. The onslaught of your senses followed swiftly with a bombardment of prose, play, imagery and smells…. smells of dust and well… I was, for 2 and a quarter hours transported to a trench, near Mametz Wood with a group of young men who waited to venture to certain death.

D evelopments...  (posted 3rd June 2014)

My author page at Thorstruck  (posted 4th June 2014)

 

Interview, review, Division on Amazon...  (Posted 17th June 2014)

About 3am this morning, Thorstruck Press put The Division of the Damned up on Amazon. Freshly edited with its new cover and blurb, it signalled I was back in business, and really managed to start my day with a bang. The next piece of news was that my first interview as a Thorstruck author was up and running. Beauty in Ruins did a top job and you can find it here if you're interested: Beauty in ruins. And then, to top it all off, I found a five star review for it that read like I'd written War and Peace. I wasn't truthfully sure what to expect when reading this book, all I knew for definite was that it included vampires, and that's what piqued my interest.
The Division of the damned gave me a surprising journey. It's jam-pack with paranoia, the mysterious and weird, and very well researched from a theological/war point of view. What I didn't expect was to become team SS while reading it. The characters are so real, their sense of humour in the most dire of conditions was refreshing and fabulous to read, and the plot was intricate and utterly convincing. Once you've read it you feel like you've read a secret document of something that happened during the war that was covered up.
The ending gave me a few emotional lumps, and altogether I found this well written and riveting. The action is insane, the constant running from enemy lines, the subterfuge and hidden agendas by the freaks in power, the human struggle portrayed so sincerely from both a civilian and military perspective, and the 'da vinci code' undertones in this made it one awesome smorgasbord. Whatever you like in a novel, this one's got it. Romance, struggle, fear, the paranormal, action, fight scenes, horror, the struggle of personal ethics and faith, war camps, the British, the Germans, the Russians, the Ukrainians, the Romanians, the civilians, the squad caught in the middle of it all, and overall a fight for humanity's spiritual survival (over the actual background of war) made this an all out ten star review, but Amazon only give me 5.
Compelling, riveting, and very stressful. You'll fall for Maria, you'll fall for a scarred german soldier, you'll love Smith, you'll be intrigued by Michael, you'll loathe Lilith and Rasch, and you will LOVE the grumpy old men. FABULOUS read, I loved EVERY PAGE! ( http://www.amazon.co.uk/review/R1COLVQYUTXYZ5/ ) Now if that isn't a good start to my working relationship with Thorstruck, nothing is. As you were. Reggie.

It was a fine day and time to tackle Peter's shirts and socks.

I  gave the collar and cuffs a good rub before rinsing them and as they were drip dry I did not need to wring them.

There was a long line in the garden and Ladyfach had told me to use it anytime as her daughter saw to her clothes. As I pegged the last shirt, I saw Ladyfach coming slowly down the path, saying there was a  pole I could use to hoist the line up.

She looked at the dripping shirts and I thought it might appear odd to her that I had not wrung them so explained the reason.  She said when her son had lived at home she had always ironed his shirts, drip dry or not, to make sure they were aired.

Later that day, when the washing was  dry, I put the shirts on the back of the dining chairs to air, because we had no airing cupboard, intending to take them upstairs at bedtime. The socks were on another chair.

When  I told Peter about the conversation with Ladyfach, he asked me if I'd iron his, too. Then he took the socks, held them to the fire and pressed them against the mirror.

'What on earth are you doing that for?' I asked.

'Making sure they are properly aired', was the reply. 

I was beginning to learn that you need the patience of a plaster saint when you marry. Not forgetting that the role is interchangeable, though.

I didn't explain that as we were married during term-time, we went straight to our apartment, instead of going on honeymoon. On the following Monday, Peter  would start his fourth teaching week at the local junior school.

We were up early on Sunday morning to go to church by eight o'clock. The church was in the centre of the town, a short walk away.

Ladyfach, (the landlady's mother, who lived in the other half of the house), moved about almost silently and I was surprised, when we left the house, to see her black clad figure walking down the road in the opposite direction, towards the Catholic church and morning Mass.

One of the things I noticed about the double fronted stone cottage where we now lived that it lacked any throb of energy. There were no brass jugs on shelves or potted plants in the hall, not even a vase of garden flowers. The walls were bare and the furniture in the house was  like part of a stage set, not a home. We would be out of there as soon as possible, I decided.

I strengthened my resolve with the thought of our next meal. We'd been too late to buy a couple of chops from the butcher the day before. He'd already scrubbed the shelves and put the plastic parsley in the window by the time we got there. Still, we had a steak and kidney pie, potatoes and carrots, all to be cooked on the museum-piece old stove.

Opposite the church was a shop that advertised shark fins' soup, gnocci, tuna steaks and capers. I'd be up there the first thing the next day.

Whilst our food was cooking I picked up Good Housekeeping magazine and flicked through the recipes, stopping at one for Jugged Hare.

Being a country girl, I was used to rabbit stew, with leeks, carrots, parsley, a glass of white wine mixed in, mushrooms, mustard, pepper, some cream. 

However, Jugged Hare was a delicacy I had not come across before and. I scanned the recipe: Drain the blood from the animal and put one side, to use for gravy. Any clots will need to be sieved and discarded. Vinegar may be mixed into the blood to prevent further coagulation  I'd read enough.

It was approaching noon now and our food was ready. As I went to the kitchen (down a passage way) I thought I might have a whiff of Ladyfach's meal, but it was only our pie I smelt. Next Sunday, we would have roast, with rice pudding and there would be an apple tart in the oven as well, for our tea. I was determined to bring some vitality into this lifeless place and see that we were well fed, too.