Break 3

I’ve just had the first follow-up hospital appointment.  I was X-rayed, the bandages were removed and I saw the surgeon’s registrar.  I will not be able to climb ladders again, or put things on high shelves but I will probably be able to do my own hair at some point, which will be a relief to the OH who has been landed with the task, with variable results.

Apparently it’s two weeks since the operation; I thought it was only one.  After one week the OH took this photograph

IMG_0370 (2)

this is the back of my right elbow.

Back to the medical firsts.  Some years ago I landed up in hospital with a fierce dental abscess.  I was on intravenous antibiotics for a week before they would extract the tooth.  Eventually they did and I had a gap.  Some years later the mirror image tooth also got an abscess but by then I had a great dentist, who proposed dental implants.  I kept going with serrapeptase for several months while the implantologist arranged to write me up and present me as a paper at Edinburgh University because I had a couple of firsts:  I was having an implant in an old, healed socket and a new extraction and implant on the other side at the same time, so it was a good comparison, and I was only using serrapeptase as an anti-inflammatory and pain control.  I spent lengthy half hours with my mouth open and full of hardware for the purposes of photography.  For this I got  a substantial reduction in the fees and the knowledge that I was helping other people in the future.  Of course, if it had all gone horribly wrong that would have been a useful hint to the future in a ‘here’s what not to do’ sort of way.  All went well, I love my implants and if someone says: so bite me, I jolly well can.

Back to two weeks ago, when the idiot Jane, full of morphine, assures the anaesthetist that she will not need a ring of injections while she is asleep because, unlike anyone else on the planet, operating in the midst of all the nerves going through the shoulder will not hurt.  Not one little bit, tra la.

So into theatre I walked, accompanied by the surgeon, met all the prep people in the ante room, worried briefly who would come to meet me if I died, was told: this is not the injection that will put you to sleep.

This is the injection that


Next thing I know I’m sitting up covered in blankets except for my shoulder.  I have the anaesthetist on my right side and all the pain of the world crushing me.  It felt like someone had leaned a very large building on me and I thought: Right, now I am going to die and it will be my escape.  Was I making that noise again?  Had my heart rate gone up a lot?  I don’t know.  The anaesthetist said: Stay very still I am going to try something.  Don’t move at all.

On my left side a screen appeared with an X-ray image of my right arm.  Simultaneously the theatre filled with people.  Surgeons in gowns and caps from other theatres, sisters, nurses in plastic aprons.  People.  Crowds of people, watching.  On the screen I could see the needles going in.  I could see the nerves and blood vessels and I could see the needles going within millimetres of the vital places.  The tips of the needles went right up to the vessels and fibres and stopped.  By the third one, so did the pain.

I wished to live again, the anaesthetist finished and the crowd melted away; back through a door with gloves in the air, out of another door, sitting back down.  All vanished and the world returned.

Do you think Pierre Curie ever said to his wife:  My goodness you are looking radiant tonight, dear.  Positively glowing.

I hope he did, I hope he meant it.  Medical firsts are not just things we learn in history.  They have been of such help to me in my life.  I like to think of all the wonderful medical advances that have been made when the news is bad.  When the evening television starts with tales of man’s inhumanity to man, I like to remember the people I have actually met who have been able to further their skill and thought it was worthwhile to do so to help ordinary people such as you and I.  Surely there can be no better thing to do with your life than to help people in their hour of need?

Next time, a look at the hardware.  In my arm.


No Min for me, I cannot lift weight of any kind for weeks and weeks and weeks and they had to cut the tendon to get at the bone.

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break 2

So there I was finally in hospital and with pain relief.   My next door neighbour appeared.  He happens to be a bone surgeon working in the hospital, how handy is that?  He does legs, however, not arms, but he advised me that the break was a very bad one, and he knows I make things all the time, as he has had some of them, so he said to wait as there was only one man in the hospital who was good enough to restore me to my usual dexterity.

So when someone popped up later in the day to prep me for surgery I refused point blank.  Which is how I let myself in for hanging around for most of a week with a very broken arm until the right man was available to stick me back together.  I got through a lot of morphine and a lot of cups of tea.

On Thursday the anaesthetist popped by to discuss pain relief after the operation.  Here’s a rule for life: do not discuss future possible pain when you are chock full of morphine.  You will underestimate it.  Very.  A lot.  Heaps.  I know I did.  The anaesthetist explained that there would be pain because all the nerves go through the shoulder but that it was possible under anaesthetic to surround the shoulder with numbing injections.  This, he said, has only ever been done whilst the patient is unconscious, it cannot be done once the patient is back round again in the land of the living,  Never been done.  Decide now if you would like that he said.  No opined the idiot morphine filled Jane I will not need that, I’ll be fine.

So in the afternoon I took a stroll with a very large nurse to the theatre, right through the hospital, I assume to get my blood flowing.  I told her how I was the third person in the world to see Legionella Pneumophila, which is the item responsible for Legionnaires Disease.  How that happened and how I seem fated to be a bystander in medical history I’ll tell you next time, including how I now understand that there can be so much pain you really can see death as a feasible alternative to going on, going on.


No count, no Min, the world has gone mad.

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Big break one

The surgeon said it was one of the worst he has seen; he is not a young man.  Here, in glorious monochrome, the full story so far and I would like Meryl Streep to play me because boy was there drama.

I was Sunday July 9th, 8.30 am.  I had washed the cats’ bowls and was heading back into the utility room when my leg hit the corner of the recycling box and I began falling.  I have had vivid nightmares of the moment each time I fall asleep.  I put out my right arm to save myself, my knee hit the floor, my arm went on travelling and my shoulder stopped where it was.  The OH still abed, came rushing at the noise, he thought the cats were fighting but the noise was coming out of me.  When I got up the long bone in my upper arm was pointing out but not breaking the skin.  In this condition, I went upstairs, got dressed, got a suitcase, added clothes, came back down and had one of the most stupid conversations ever with the ambulance people who were reluctant to send an ambulance in case someone had a heart attack that morning.  The  conversation included the words:  now just listen to me Jane and stop making that strange noise………..

In the end the OH put me in the car and took me.  At the hospital, he just stopped near A & E and I stumbled in. making the noise.  They knew what it meant, a wheelchair was produced, and a bed and a sling.  I spent the first half hour next to a lady who died but was revived, then I got a cubicle.  I had sips of water and, after two hours, pain relief.  Oh blessed morphine.  Given that I have been a grateful member of Al-Anon for six years, I have frequently stated that I wish all drugs including alcohol be whisked away from the planet and uninvented.  I wish to revise this view; I could not have got through the last two weeks without morphine.  All the nerves from your upper trunk, your clever right arm and all points south go through that shoulder and up your neck to your head so you can get the full benefit of feeling.  All of it.  At the most extreme I experienced the pain as great pressure, as if someone had leaned a heavy building on me.

I am posting this now, I need to stop, I am typing left handed, one finger.  More later.


NO count, no min.

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My big break

Short post.  Broken right humerus, shattered tiny pieced the  top, smashed shoulder.  Living between morphine doses,  May not get all movement back.  Terrible pain.  No Miniatura.

Catch U later.


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I appear to be becalmed in the doldrums.  I haven’t had a holiday for over ten years, which might have something to do with it.  It’s partly my own fault, apart from lack of cash.  I refuse to go on holiday if I have to sit alone in a hotel room for three hours an evening waiting for someone else to fill up at the bar and I lost the desire to sit in any sort of bar at all about thirty years ago.  My grandmother was right; when drink is in sense is out, and, having been brought up in a pub on the river Tyne, she knew.

Perhaps it’s something to do with it being nearly six months since my mother died.  Perhaps it’s because the solicitor who was dealing with her stuff left suddenly and the deputy, who was helping, is a bit lost.  Maybe I’ve played enough and need to repurpose.  Maybe I’m just tired of wading through boxes of stuff I can’t do anything with until we get to probate.

When the doldrums strike I usually get arty.  I’ve been sporadically attending drawing sessions run by a local art shop.  They provide a model who will sit still for a couple of hours and I draw the result and then file it in a scrapbook album so I can see the progress.  I began with life drawing which is a number of quick poses.  I thought it might be helpful with doll  modelling and I think it was, although the dolls still have to be dolls.  There was a lot of talk some years ago about realism.  An exhibition held in foreign abroad had featured a twelfth scale bawdy house with realistic unclad dolls with floppy bits, body hair, corns, knees and bingo wings, in short, the full horror of the human body.  It was a constant topic of conversation at the following Miniatura.  The consensus of opinion was that it was, well, you know, foreign and that it was all very well to see but nobody would want that in their own dolls’ house, would they?  At the time I was veering in the direction of realism myself, but I listened to all the talk and veered right back again.  My dolls quite definitely reproduce via moulds and will always lack the body parts to do anything else, the closest I get is a shape that looks right under clothing.

So I moved on to attending portraiture sessions where the models keep the same pose for two hours with a slight break to complain in and have really enjoyed the results.


My partner in crime is Kuretake, the Japanese company who produce wonderful brush pens.  The portrait on the right is done with their Zig clean colour water based ink brush pens.  Once I got confident I moved to the medium for the left portrait which is their alcohol brush pens.  As you can see this is a very definite colour, once it’s on the paper, it’s there.

I have also now started trying to get more of the person on the paper, which is quite a challenge.  If I started at the top I always had a leg dangling off the bottom of the paper and I certainly wouldn’t start at the feet; finishing at the nose is probably an F- at least.

It is still, without a doubt, very good for any artist to be arty in different mediums.  It still looks like my output however I do it.  Everything has a slight cartoon quality.  Maybe it’s the way I see: not very well at a distance, very well two inches from my nose.  Talking of which, I have an appointment to get my cataracts seen to.  That’s what I’m spending my inheritance on.  I could wait until they get much worse and I qualify under the constraints of the National Health and get them done for free but if I do that they’ll adjust my eyes to normal and I won’t be able to do the dolls.  Not that I can at present.  Everything is blurry, as I realised when I photographed the last lot to show you.  Cameras are so good now that they can show you up with no problem at all.  A few years ago I bought a miniature from a famous miniaturist that they had made recently.  I could see well enough then to see that it wasn’t very good.  When I talked to the artist later it became apparent that they didn’t know it wasn’t good because they couldn’t see it.  What was worse was that they didn’t know they couldn’t see it.

I think there comes a time in the life of all artists when experience and physical ability wave to each other as they rush off in different directions.  There is a strong possibility that I may be at that juncture right now.  So now is the time to act.  It will either make everything much better or it will fail horribly, in which case plan B is to do a lot more writing but in very big

typeface.  So if you read a blog in the future that looks like this  you’ll know it all went horribly wrong.

Stay tuned.


13 weeks to the Min.

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Fruit and nut case.

As there seems to be a surfeit of nasty news and I like to be contrary ( who doesn’t?)  (Well OK not you and clearly not me and I would never say so either.)….

One of the list of things that needed mending about me after four and a half years of neglect was a foot.  Yes indeed Holmes, I do declare there is something underhand afoot.  Halong with my aitches, dearart, I ’ad dropped my arch.  ’Ad my dear departed mother been around she’d have been endlessly able to tell me she told me so and she would have been absolutely right.  (See live long enough everything ’appens.) (Well she wasn’t around when I went for ’elp but it started previous, like, doctor, so technically she was.)

It started when I was a ninfant.  I was taken for flat feet once a week to stand in two tiny baths with electric plates in the base of them, they were filled with water and current was passed through.  Amazingly, as you can probably tell whether you are medically qualified or not this did not electrocute me to death at all.  In fact I don’t think it did anything except waste half an hour in a large hospital once a week.  I was also supposed to do foot exercises a lot.  All I can remember of them was that I had to pick up pencils with my feet.  It would be so neat to say that is a skill I still possess today and finish off the blog with my big toe; sadly I cannot.  I was a naughty child and would not do my foot exercises.  Throughout my childhood this was held up as an example of my singular waywardness, usually as we embarked upon some other medical frolic that let my mother dress in her best and flirt with a doctor or two.

Anyhow, did them I did not and a mere sixty two years later, as ominously and frequently predicted, the arch of my foot fell with a mighty thlwup, my ankle rolled over and my left knee basked in affectionate proximity to my right knee.

Sometime later, other events having eventuated, I rocked up at phsio at the hospital and was given an exercise so simple even I could do it.  I just had to do duck feet, stand on tiptoe and descend sloooooooooooooowly.

As the spring weather warmed up and we opened the windows I became aware that I was not the only one doing exercises.  In a house at right angles to mine and close at hand a child was practising various instruments, considerably more assiduously than I had practised foot exercises..  We had Fai…r..y  stops, stips, steps on an oboe for a few weeks.  The fairy was chased out of the forest by a squeaky recorder doing scales, do me so far, far, fur sqkweeek, do me so, me squk, do me so far screeeel, squok.  do me so, do me so, do me so far la tee squaaaaaah!

And then a flute and the Sugar Plum fairy.  In the early days Tchaikovsky must have been whirling in his grave sufficiently to be used as an egg beater.  As progress was made and the weather got warmer it got so good I found myself doing a Frank Muir singalong in the garden.  If you are the right age his Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut Chocolate advert was never bettered and can still be found online.  I didn’t have to look it up, for a lift and a laugh, I simply had to go out and do the weeding.

My foot exercises I did several times a day until the glorious day when worlds collided and  an overweight pensioner found herself performing duck toed relevees in her underwear to the Sugar on and Plum off, begin again Fairy drifting through the open window.  I like to think Frank Muir would have been proud of me and my mother would have enjoyed telling me so and serving me right.

I kept at it and so did apprentice Tchaikovsky and we are both very much better now thank you.

Next stop the Albert ’All in me shorts and Steady On Beethoven that was your Fifth, or not as the case may be.


Fifteen and a half probably, too hot to get the calendar out.

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The importance of being a hobbyist.

More years ago than I care to remember Terry Curran said to me at one of the earlier Miniaturas where I had turned up behind a table instead of walking around as a customer:  Well now you have turned your hobby into your job, what are you going to do for a hobby?

Good question but nothing to worry about as it turned out.  I think I am a born hobbyist.  My father certainly demonstrated collecting things; if you’ll forgive the double negative he couldn’t not collect.  Anywhere he went featured a return journey via an antique shop.  Like any child I have found demonstration more effective than remonstration, I truly believe dolls’ houses collect me and not the other way round, I hear their little wooden voices calling from antique shop windows, websites, show tables, second hand shops and anywhere else they may be found.  They don’t have to call loudly either.  I hear them.

My real and personal passion, however, is certainly born in me.  I make stuff.  My mother wanted to be creative and I don’t think she ever realised that her cookery, which was the activity at which she excelled, even, on occasion surpassing her ability to spot all that was wrong with anyone else and say so oft and long, was her creativity.  Instead she attended classes for a variety of differing ladylike activities.  There was quite a bit of flower arranging and a lot of social clubs for the wives of.  As she was her, these were all eventually turned into an opportunity to make some very good friends and some even better enemies.  The friends got invited to some very splendid dinners and the enemies were not invited as loudly as possible.  Oh, there is a television play and several books in that.

I know people who think, as my mother did, that creativity is something to aspire to.  It is so much easier than that.  You just do it. 

I cannot recall a day when I did not wake up thinking of the thing or several that I was going to make that day.  As a child I made things with paper and that terrible glue in the triangular glass bottle with the perishable rubber nozzle that you had to get a grown up to slit a hole in.  It was marginally stronger than the flour and water paste provided by my grandmother for scrapbooks, mainly in the smell.  By the age of five I had commandeered the transparent sticky tape which was expensive and came in a tin. After a couple of years my mother remarked frequently that they wished they had bought shares in the company that made it.  I must have got through miles of it.  Then I suddenly discovered plastic model kits.  Rather presciently the ones of historical figures in accurate costumes were favourite but hard to come by.  Toy shops tended to stock the big sellers which were all boy oriented; trains cars and aeroplanes.  The historical figures were not one-week pocket money items.  The most expensive one I ever managed to save for was the Visible Woman, whose organs and skeleton were all removable.  I still have her in perfect working order and found her very helpful in the early days of modelling dolls to get the proportions right.

As soon as I left home, gardening began.  In a flat I had a window box, which was by the front door, and the minute we had a house (and a greenhouse!) I found my green thumb and by the time we had a baby and no money, in the normal way, if I could grow it we could eat it and I did.

I don’t think there is an indoor craft or hobby I haven’t tried.  Once dollshousering struck I was in my element as the hobby contains every other craft and hobby but in miniature.  I have done glassblowing, metal smithing, embroidery, sewing, woodwork, furniture building, building buildings, art of every known variety, electrical wiring and lighting, modelling, sculpting and every kind of painting and everything else.  I can build a miniature house from scratch and everything in it.  And, not least, the absolute joy of researching social history, a hobby with excellent outings.

And of course endlessly, ceramics, china painting, engineering and dressmaking.

Currently also I go to portraiture once a week where my local art shop persuades people to sit still for two hours at a a time.  For some years I’ve been card making for which I bought  a die cutting machine a few months ago.  I also got into cake decorating when I needed to persuade my mother to eat, though I have since stopped as this hobby tends to be fattening.

And why?  Apart from the fact that I can’t help myself, why do I do it?  Why do I keep on doing it even when I have no time to do it?  What is it about a hobby that is so beneficial that I believe that everyone should have one?  Or two?  Or more?

The thing about a hobby is this:  If it goes wrong it doesn’t matter; if it goes right, it’s a triumph.

Whatever you pick to be your hobby should be sufficiently challenging and absorbing that while you are doing it there is no time to think about whatever would be worrying you if you were not busy doing your hobby.

Ideally there should be progression.  Either that next bit of kit which is just out of reach financially, or the next project which is just a little beyond your capability at present.

Hobby, put a stick on the o and turn the bs upside down and it will make you happy,


and blogging.  I do that.


15 weeks to the Min

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Dolls by popular request.

I am always happy to answer emails, in fact I’m utterly thrilled you bother to write.  Thank you if you do.  I got a lovely email asking how I could look at a doll I’d made and decide it was a haberdasher.  You may remember


the haberdasher is second from the left.

Well I wouldn’t if I did, though sometimes I have in the past.  These days I’m such a clever clogs I deliberately set out to make a haberdasher and also a short fat witch, a fairy lady and so on.  You may wonder why I would do such a thing, though not if you had been to Miniatura and seen my stand.  On the end there is always a hard backed notebook and a pen.  One page has a printed heading ‘please write which dolls you would like me to make in 24th scale and the page next to it has a heading the same for 48th scale.  Long ago I realised that the longest lasting miniature businesses  do what their customers want them to do.  It’s not like choosing which gas provider you’ll have, because no one is obliged to have a dolls’ house and anyone can choose whatever they would like to have in a dolls’ house.  I should jolly well know, as I am the person who wrote impassioned articles in a number of paper magazines for over twenty years defending the right of readers to have whatsoever they pleased in their dolls houses.

It all began nearly thirty years ago when someone wrote a letter to a magazine.  The miniaturist in question had put a teddy bear in a nursery that predated the invention of teddy bears and had been criticised for doing so by a very picky relative.  There followed a flurry of correspondence in which history savvy readers pointed out that there had been toy bears that predated Teddy Roosevelt refusing to shoot a small bear.  History purists defended the critical relative and gave  the miniaturist both barrels in the way that president Teddy had not and then there was another deluge of letters saying things such as: we have a TV in an 1890s house ner ner nee ner ner, and: I have a friend with a punk rock doll in a 1950s house – she should be shot at dawn; everything in my house is exactly dated to half past ten on the morning of June 4th, etcetera and so forth.  Eventually I got very annoyed and wrote a letter too saying that it was a personally owned dolls’ house and the purpose of it was to give the owner pleasure.  A stance I maintain up to this day.

Having made this rod for my back prior to turning professional, this naturally caused large numbers of people to appear at my table searching for Edwardian dolls with Fourteenth century hairstyles, Tudor blokes in pedal pushers and fairies with safety pins in their ears, because, as everyone pointed out, very reasonably, I thought, I had said they could.

Hence the book on the end of the table.  And hence also the modelling of the dolls from the inside out.  The haberdasher could be at any moment in time or space but I still think she will have the basic characteristics of a haberdasher.  I have known a fair few.  They are motherly types with beady eyes and a very keen sense of peering, looking and seeing.  It’s all the small labels on the ribbons perhaps.  Comfortable shoes are of importance, you have to be able to stand all day and climb up the steps to get the wool off the top shelf.  They are mainly cheerful; there’s a lot of soothing in sorting and tidying and rolling and rewinding.  Also, I would have to say they are fairly intrepid, I have known haberdashers who would venture into bombed buildings to rescue antique lace and email places on the planet without email if they were in search of a particular trimming.  Do you think I have encapsulated all that in the modelling?


I hope I have given her the face of a haberdasher too.


If you are looking at this with your art critic spectacles, please remember that this doll’s head is the size of a garden pea.

Requests often follow newly appearing houses, well loved television series, and the latest blockbuster movie.  I have had many requests for a short fat witch to live in a cottage  There is an abundance of magical characters at present, my favourites are those inhabiting Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, my ever-present bedside reading, though I think the witch requesters had been Pottering around possibly.  At any rate a 24th scale reasonably priced cottage kit made an appearance at Miniatura, so witches flew into the book in numbers.  I hope I have made her loveable and I think I should make a tall thin complementary witch when I have decided whether she needs a warty nose or not.


This witch is exactly two inches tall, which in reality, for twenty-fourth scale, would be four feet.  Those curly toed boots are glazed shiny black with brown worn china painted soles.  As you can see she could also be anybody’s undersized auntie.  Especially an under sized auntie with witchy tendencies.  I have had some of them, both courtesy and real in my time.  She has the bland, benign and innocently smiling countenance of the most lethal witches and aunties.  She could walk into any room, say something, start World War Three and walk out again with a happy smile.  Dangerous.

Then there is the fairy.  I think only wonderful Walt Disney thought fairies could be motherly, a bit plump and rather inept.  I have gone for the much older, more traditional kind of super glamorous, slim waisted, pointy faced, elfin eared fairy straight out of Homer and all authors south of him.  A siren, beguiling.  A pain in the neck to model because she cannot have cabriole legs like the witch, she must look as if she will only get out of bed for a thousand dollars a day or two if you expect her to smile.


When I am making the masters, as well as the overall body type and the engineering I have to consider questions of dressing.  The fairy must have nice knees which will probably be seen and she has a flat back so that when I sew the wings to her dress they will sit and stick out well and not droop off shoulder blades.  Do you think she has a fairy face?


Supercilious, self assured and quite condescending.  But still lovely, and still all on a piece of porcelain the size of a garden pea.

A strange thing has happened while I’ve been writing.  I have been drawn to the dark side, I think I’m going bats.  I feel a strong urge to make a vampire.  A mittle European vampire and a very stronk urge my dear.  I vill leaf you here vile I go upstairs and check up on my etchings.  Come ven I call.  Do not brink garlic.  Vear a diaphanous nightie and I vill see you on zer balcony.  Or possibly, vear a balcony bra ant later you can pop out for a bite.  Von or zee ozzer.  Excuse me, I must fly.



16 veeks to zee NEC, arrgh!

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If you are a creative person, the effect of not being able to make stuff for four and a half years and then suddenly being able to do so, is like a little hole in a dam.

I couldn’t do much at first anyway because of solicitors and so on and I still have a house full of furniture and stuff that I cannot do anything about.  The OH went berserk and bought a huge table saw and now we can barely get into the garage.  I have found myself guarding the space around the kiln with a snarl.

Nevertheless as the time and space between me and the last few years widens, the creativity pours out.  I bought a flat light table and used it to copy a photo and reverse it and make two pictures of the GDD, which I photographed and emailed to a craft shopping channel and they were aired so the GDD has been famous on telly for five minutes and she isn’t even two yet.


Reversing the photo, drawing and painting the result was interesting, is this what she sees in the mirror?   I am not the generation that takes selfies but I might do one of me just to reverse it and find out.

I have been making cards and playing with my die cutting machine for the last few days as the weather has been gloriously rainy and cold.  I am so glad of dreadful weather, otherwise I’d feel obliged to do the garden.  I never thought anything would put me off gardening but looking after two of them in different locations and being told off for whatever I did in the other one has killed my enthusiasm somewhat.  I’m sure it will return.

I’m plotting a novel in my head.  It’s fifteen years since the last and I now know what I did wrong.  I actually wrote a novel co-dependently.  The baddie was writ large and the hero hardly put in an appearance.  It was all  very beautifully done and hilarious in parts but the basic premise was wrong, just like my life.  You’re meant to live your life for yourself, not as a bit part in other people’s lives.  Why didn’t I know that?  Anyway, under correction, work in progress, all going on in my head.

Where it is fighting for space with the dolls.  Here they are, out of my head and into existence.


Left to right they are, a short fat witch with curly toed boots; a haberdasher, a giant, a fairy man, a fairy lady, the shrunken Darcy.  They are all 24th scale and all internally jointed.  The fairy man is really small and slight.


So is my hand, the doll measures two and a quarter inches or five point five centimetres tall which isn’t tall at all..  You could make him a room in one of those cook’s match boxes.  I think he might be popular because of the size but I have only managed four of him so far.

The little Darcy which is the smaller version of the original Darcy is here with him for comparison.  He is the sum of all the original parts with moulds taken from them except for the head which is new.


This original Darcy is going to wear breeches, which is why he has his stockings on already.  I do make socks for dolls but in small scales they cause havoc with shoe fittings and the dolls are always to be found shoeless in the box when you put socks on as well.  Maybe they just get hot feet.

That’s it for now, creativity calls.  These days I can scarcely get out of bed fast enough to get busy, though I am back to doing a work out every day and feeling the benefit of that too.

One of the unexpected benefits of giving your life to someone else for a while is that you are so grateful when you get it back again and so pleased with every hour spent doing something lovely.  I am living in the middle of a personal creative renaissance, and happy to be here.


16 weeks to Miniatura.

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Wastage rates.

I am busy rubbing down the newest six 24th scale dolls.  I am keeping busy, as so often in the last few years.  If the body of someone close to you is affected by disease, once you are sure you have done all you can to help the person, then unless you are going to sit around waiting for them to die or get better and your practical help is not required, then your best bet is to mind your own business and get on with your own concerns.  The OH came out of his liver scan white as a sheet, the situation is grave but still recoverable and with no apparent cancer, which is great.  Having had cancer I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, it’s terrifying.

So my job now is to get on with my job and, as always with brand new dolls, I am finding out what difficulties I have lumbered myself with.  Even after twenty five years of designing dolls I am still producing things that are tricky to rub down.  I am, however, doing it so far ahead of the show that I can afford the time to go slowly and to stop and rest when I am tired and, so far, this is having a dramatic effect on wastage rates.  I am very glad that I spent so many years interviewing artists working in miniature because it has given me an insight into wastage rates.  Unless a physical item is made by a machine, which can be programmed to repeat the same actions, exactly, hundreds or thousands of times, there will always be wastage.  The more complex and multi stage the  process required to create the item, the higher the wastage rate even if the craftsman is experienced.  Every experienced craftsman allows for wastage rates.  I recall Phil Grenyer, of Glasscraft telling me that: You just don’t want to be walking on too much broken glass.  I also own one of Terry Curran’s vases that had come out of the kiln so perfectly that he didn’t want to sell it.  These people are both master craftsmen who have made thousands of the items they sell and are internationally known and respected for their work.  And I would note, neither of them when they had finished their multi-part task had to segue into a different discipline and put clothes and a wig on it.

Nevertheless it is a pleasure to use skills you have honed over many years of practice.  I have designed a ten part fairy man who will be considerably less than three inches tall and has correspondingly slim limbs.  Upper arms as always are a difficulty.  They are thinner than a thin stick of charcoal and more fragile and they have to have a hole through the middle for two strands of elastic going down to the stringing hook in the hand and back up again.  If these items are left in the mould too long they will crumble when removed but can sometimes be reshaped with wet clay round a wire core.  I always kid myself when pouring that  I won’t be able to tell which ones I’ve reshaped but the fiction only lasts until I’m rubbing down, during which the thought that rises unbidden, with frequency, is : which fool poured this bit of rubbish?  I’ve lost three bodies so far, I should have poured them a millimetre thicker.  If I get one fairy man through all the processes, I’ll show you.

Shrunken Mr Darcy was difficult too.  The original came out so well


that I thought I would see what happened if I took moulds from the finished body parts and gave him a new head.  You can see how thin his upper arms are.  When I took the mould from them, the liquid clay is poured into a hole exactly the size of the arms in the picture.  Once it has dried out enough to be demoulded it has shrunk by about 12%.  Once dry enough, three days later, to be rubbed down it will be about 18% smaller than the original, though of course, in the rubbing down, the hole in the middle will still be large enough for two strands of elastic, so the porcelain ‘walls’ round the central hole are comparatively thinner. 

There is no doubt about it, learning is taking place.  It took me a while to find this picture, that I was so pleased with when I took it.  Now I can make the original sized Darcy much better than the one in the photo.  How I fare with Darcy mark two remains to be seen.

When I’ve finished the fairy man I’ll be starting on a short fat witch with curly toed boots.  I’ve had a few requests for witches recently.  It usually means that someone has designed a 24th scale dolls’ house that looks like a witches cottage to everyone.  I have also done a giant wizard for requests who I am only going to do a few of before I shrink him to a size that  is similar to the witch.

When I’ve finished these I have several items in mind that I want to try in this scale and then I must get on with 48th scale because stocks are running rather low. If you are a mail order collector I’ll be pouring for you soon.

It is a pleasure to be a craftsman, to have skills you yourself have acquired.   It is lovely to be able to be happy creating things that make other people happy too.  Good use of time spent awake, I think.


19 weeks to Miniatura (crikey, is that all?)



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