Not really a day of rest

It’s been a while since I updated this blog. A “while”. More than two years, during which life has taken its usual path between loss and gain, between hard pavement and sweet green turf. And Bookity is still here. I have a new workshop now, in the spare bedroom of our new house. I built a desk at the window, and I look out at a leafy view of back gardens and trees rising up Brunswick Hill.

Today I visited a great little pop up shop on Hatherley Road, staffed by a really sweet group of people who took time to chat to me, and then gave me an email address and told me to keep in touch. Cath’s house used to be a shop, one of those ones in a row of terraces that has a large plate glass window still. Ideal, although sadly she’s moving soon. But maybe next year I could do something like this, with a few other like minded people. This is what I need to do more of, meeting people who fire up my enthusiasm for my business. It’s hard work, sometimes, to have a clear picture of the future.


Last night we went to a friend’s party. A great party, where we read poems to each other. It turns out that gratuitous amounts of Keats, Shelley and Byron make me happy.

Extract from Prometheus Unbound by Shelley

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
Of their moon-freezing crystals, the bright chains
Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
Heaven’s wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
His beak in poison not his own, tears up
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
When the rocks split and close again behind:
While from their loud abysses howling throng
The genii of the storm, urging the rage
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
And yet to me welcome is day and night,
Whether one breaks the hoar frost of the morn,
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
The leaden-coloured east; for then they lead
The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom
— As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim —
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood
From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin
Will hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven!