PRINCESS BUTTERFLY

I slide in front of my PC and feverishly start royal watching.I do this when I am stuck with my writing or simply too hot.This current  craze  started shortly after my prolonged scrutinies of Kate’s wedding dress.

Now I’ve now moved on to hats, Beatrice's in particular. I love that girl. Not afraid of looking bonkers; carries a space age sculpture on her head. Never mind Pippa’s rear view shimmying down the red carpet, that girl with  her startled rabbit in trhe headlights expression, the round kohl eyes and an entire space craft balanced precariously on her forhead. I Google  feverishly 'Beatrice's hats' and  gasp, there she is! Heres a visionary ; one who  knows how to create a woman's dream!

This time  she has a swarm, a pride, a school of multi-coloured butterflies on her head! I swoon with joy.

 Go girl go. 

 Leave  the  family chrysallis far behind  and  spread your multi-coloured wings. Do your butterfly thing for every woman in Marks and Spencer’s elasticated trews, in a crimpelene cardigan and especially for me,   longing  to  carry a mass of fluttering  rainbow creatures on my head ; when would I wear this  dream ,this paradise, this exquisite expression of my inner world?
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in February,walking the dogs on Hampstead Heath!

The Butterfly Princess 

Manolo Vardes' Head with Butterflies, Chatsworth 2010

Blah blah from the countryside

Today I wrote blah, yesterday I wrote blah, blah; tomorrow I will write blah blah blah and so on; recording the mundane details of a boring life. Texting and  twittering; recording minutiae on Facebook. I browse with disdain,the young ones  looking forward to the Apprentice,they love their families,the car breaks down,they list the occasional cool film,comment on a new download, funky nail varnish;  so banal and tedious.
This is a rant from an ageing hippy
I often reflect on what I leave out in my own blog or journal, more observations from up my arse.
The little dog bites the big dog's tail  because he's bored.
Who wants to know this crap, whether we discussed curtains for the new room,  the wild flower seeds will be sown today, in newly turned over soil, rich and dark, briefly devoid of menacing weeds.
This is an ageing hippy drifting...
Who wants to read the  rumblings and grumblings of a fading sixty year old, or the tweetings and bleatings of the thrusting generation with their misspellings, misquotings, sharp comments, quicky snappies of mad coloured hatties, temples in Thailand,blonde lovers in the snow, cartwheeling on a beach in Brazil.
Young and old,little puppy and old dog,fading eyes, fading hearing, strong beating heart. The puppy's floppy ears twitch at the footsteps of an ant far away.
They came out in their thousands to celebrate the  hot sunshine, swarming over thin floorboards .Maybe they arrived on the puppy's paws, the monster baby disrupting their hills and valleys.
The morning glory seeds have all taken and await like delicate soldiers in their pots until they're strong enough to spread their roots  and climb their canes, a new china blue flower will turn its saucer shaped face to greet the morning sun; a reason to rise early each one blooms only once. I wait to watch how the light shines through translucent petals.
This is an ageing hippy, perhaps writing a memoir, blah blah


 Carry /inks and watercolour