Mirror Image

Around the pond grew the greenest trees she had ever seen. They were tall and strong and bright, casting a dappled shade onto the grass and daffodils around the pool. The ground was dry and soft, the sun was warm, the water was clear and sparkling, with shining dragonflies hovering above its surface. It was a beautiful spot, and Sophie has a great appreciation for beauty. Her room at home was full of little works of art, her clothes were the prettiest that she could afford. And when she had the time, she would walk for miles in the countryside, in all weathers, searching for perfect places like this one. Her fondness for all things beautiful was almost an obsession, and it was fuelled by her knowledge that she, herself, was far from lovely.

When she was two years old, just old enough to be able to remember the pain and the screams, the cottage in which she had lived with her parents had burned down. The cause of the fire was never discovered, but Sophie was left an orphan and with terrible scars. The skin on her face was puckered and twisted, pale in places and livid in others. Her right arm was left limp and useless after being trapped under a fallen beam and her hair grew in clumps and patched on her burned scalp. For years, her Godmother had allowed no mirrors in the house to protect Sophie from the sight of herself. But the village children taunted her, even adults avoided her, and she knew that they believed her not only to be hideously ugly, but also cursed.

So it was only natural that she should seek out peaceful, hidden, perfect places like this wooded pond, to hide from everybody and everything. She spread her cloak on the ground, in the shade of a tree for she sunburnt easily, and settled down to dream. Real life held little joy for Sophie, despite her Godmother’s best efforts to keep her healthy and happy, and she sought refuge in stories and dreams. Her favourite daydream which she returned to again and again was the one where a handsome man on a strong horse carried her away to a life of love and riches. She had many, many different versions or this story in her head and in her journal, but two things were always the same. The man was always handsome, and Sophie was always beautiful.

The day grew hotter, and even the most romantic imaginary prince could not distract her from her thirst. Sophie, as rule, avoided anything that could show her reflection, but she sat up and crawled right to the edge of the wonderfully clear pool. Sophie told herself not to close her eyes as was her usual habit, because she did not want to drink a frog by accident, and leaned over with a cupped hand to drink. And she was so astonished by what she saw that she almost fell, headfirst, into the water. Looking back at her from the surface were a pair of striking green eyes, just like her own. But they were surrounded by flawless milky white skin. The girl in the pond had silky auburn hair which fell to her shoulders in soft waves, and plump pink lips that were opened in shock, showing perfect white teeth. She was the most beautiful girl Sophie had ever seen. Sophie forgot her thirst, and putting her good hand on the ground to steady herself she leaned closer to the water. The girl in the pond did the same. Sophie blinked, so did the girl. Sophie rubbed her eyes. The girl in the water raised an elegant hand to her own eyes. Sophie was utterly mesmerised, how could she have suddenly become so perfect? What had happened to her scars – had a spell been cast on her while she slept in the shade?

But when she looked at her own hands, they were still the same as they had always been, with distorted skin and missing fingernails.

Sophie was late home for supper that evening, and could give her Godmother no good reason why. The following afternoon, as soon as she had finished her lessons and her chores, Sophie dashed along the wooded paths, almost tripping over tree roots and startling a family of deer in her haste. She arrived at her pool, breathing hard, and again looked into it. Her reflection was just as it had been the day before, except now the pale cheeks were flushed and the hair was attractively windswept. Sophie had almost convinced herself that she had imagined the vision yesterday, and yet here it was again. There was Sophie, reflected just as she might have been without the terrible fire which had ravaged her at such a young age. This, Sophie thought, was exactly how she was supposed to look. The burns and the withered arm were not her, not really. In reality she was a stunning beauty, and this proved it.

Over the next week Sophie was inattentive in her morning lessons, and her Godmother struggled to hold the girl’s attention as she explained the history or their country, or taught Sophie about their religion. Her chores were done in a rush and on the fourth day the pigs went unfed, such was Sophie’s desire to return to the pool and the beautiful face it showed her.

Her Godmother worried, but Sophie would not talk to her. The neighbours sympathised, and agreed that Sophie was simply at a difficult age. “Give her space and time” they recommended, “and she’ll come round in the end.” They told stories of their own daughters’ youthful escapades, and Sophie’s Godmother was reassured. On the seventh day, Sophie was perched on a rock by the pool, admiring her reflection as had become her habit. Darkness was beginning to fall when footsteps approached Sophie from behind, but she was so hypnotised by the reflection in the pool that she did not notice, just as she was oblivious to her own cold and hunger. She continued to gaze intently into the pool, when a man’s face appeared beside the girl’s. He was dark haired and dark eyed, with sharp cheekbones and a nose which had once been straight, but now bore the marks of having been broken at least once. Sophie was so lost in her reflection and her dreams that she no longer knew what was real and what was her own fairytale. For her, the faces in the pool and the stories she told herself had become her real life, while her Godmother and neighbours faded to dull grey figures at the back of her mind, barely worth her notice. This man’s face was one she had imagined so many times that now it seemed only natural that he should appear beside her. Sophie, and the Sophie in pool, smiled. Yet she did not take her eyes off the reflections in the water – these now seemed to be the true people, while those on the shore were mere shadows.

“I’ve seen you here often,” the man began. His voice was deep and strong. “You love this place.”

“I feel at home here. It’s peaceful. But I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’m skilled at not being noticed when I don’t want to be. But I’ve noticed you, you are so beautiful. I’ve come here day after day just to see you.”

He called her beautiful! A fortnight before Sophie would have been astounded, but now it seemed only what was due to her.

“You must be a Lady, or a Princess.”

“No, just a poor girl.”

“I could make you a queen.”

It was just as she had imagined. The handsome man, obviously a prince or a king of some great country, was going to marry her and make her queen of all the land.

“Come with me.” He took her hand and led the poor burned and scarred young girl away from the beautiful clearing, and into the darkness of the forest. Sophie was a tall man, string and muscular, with a long velvet cloak and a sword at his belt. She saw her saviour, just as she had always imagined him. But Sophie had begun to lose her sense of what was the true real world, and what was her own fantasy, the moment she had first seen her perfect reflection in the magical pool.

Sophie’s Godmother had been searching the woods for her since the sun had started to. She arrived at the clearing to see her beloved Goddaughter, whom she had always believed to be perfect in every way, being led into the woods by an old, hunched creature with horrible lumps and bumps all over his grey skin. She could just make out his long talon like fingernails where he gripped Sophie’s arm, and the curled horns emerging form his sparse hair, and the pair disappeared completely into the darkness. Part of her wanted to follow them, and bring Sophie back safe, but everyone knew that goblins lived in those woods, and once a goblin had you under his spell there was no returning to the light.

Things I Have Learned from 'Legally Blonde - The Musical'

·         Feminists are lesbians (the whole story tries to have a feminist message, but the only ‘out’ feminist is also the only ‘out’ lesbian. However even though Elle’s version of feminism is a bit skewed – she goes to law school simply to chase a man – I think the way she approaches life and the ‘do your best, be yourself, don’t let people judge you by your looks’ philosophy is actually pretty great. And the chasing a career/chasing a man dilemma is, I bet, one that a lot of us think about, even if we won’t admit it! Of course Elle combines the two, which seems pretty ideal!)

·         It is very hard to tell between gays and Europeans. (Seriously, I don’t know how they got away with this outrageous stereotyping, though it is pretty funny and obviously affectionate towards gays, it would be easy to take it the wrong way!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6LN_L85b2zQ

·         Men cannot resist the ‘bend and snap’. Probably true to be honest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6ppuzAlYOs&feature=related (pretty rubbish quality video, but you get the idea!)

·         However the bend and snap is best combined with brains, beauty, compassion, singing, dancing and a sense of humour. Not much to aim for then...

·         Dogs on stage are great. And I don’t even like dogs.

·         Men in corduroy jackets turn hot when you put them in a proper suit. Does this work on them all?

·         ‘Girls have to stick together’ (even when one of them’s a bitch. And we’ll all be friends in the end. Not sure about this one)

·         Elle wins the case, is top of the class, and gets the guy. As cynical as we may be, everyone loves a happy ending!

·         There’s something about a man in a UPS uniform...

 It's silly and pink, and really very funny, and has moments that I expect everyone to relate to (I mean who hasn't mistaken a European for a gay? No, I mean, doing something a bit daft because you fancy a man, or getting frustrated because everyone judges you on first impressions, or just shouting 'OH MY GOD, ohmigod you guys!!!' to your friends whenever anything the tiniest bit exciting happens. That sort of stuff). Some of the ideas (feminist = lesbian????) are a bit dubious, but its heart's in the right place and is a really fun evening out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and practise my bend and snap. 

Off to London... (part 2)

On my second day in the big city I ventured to Hoxton on the Overground, to go and visit the Geffrye Museum. Described as a museum of homes and gardens, the Geffrye is based around a series of period rooms, ordered chronologically to show how people’s living spaces changed over time. In recent years, these indoor rooms have been complemented with corresponding garden rooms, coving much the same time period.

Things I learned about the Geffrye Museum.

1.      No picnics allowed. The period gardens are seen as very much part of the museum, to be treated and experienced in the same way. Unlike in other (larger) museum gardens, this is not a place to run and play, but to stroll and look, just as you would inside.

The eighteenth century garden

2.      BUT the front lawn is used, and is intended to be, as a social space. Here people (not just museum visitors) gather to sunbathe, chat, eat, play.

3.      It is this green space, rather than the eighteenth century almshouses that the museum is housed in, that saved the site from being demolished. In the early twentieth century the residents were moved out of the almshouses and the area was destined for being built on to provide housing, but the Metropolitan Gardens Association argued that the green space was very important for the local area and community, and it was saved.

4.      The indoor rooms are created from probate inventories, looking at existing rooms, and trying to re-create a generic room from the period. The collecting policy is based around this research. They are not re-created real rooms, but a general idea. The principle is the same in the gardens, they are not reconstructions of a garden that existed, not measured out like London gardens, but the available space is used to interpret the styles of the times.

The herb garden, with Hoxton station in the background. The museum garden provide a little haven in such a busy urban area.

5.      The mixed veg soup in the cafe is full of mushrooms. I do not like mushrooms, I cannot even make myself eat them when I’m trying to be a grown up. The waiter gave me a very strange look when I explained this to him when he came to take away my bowl, empty apart from a pile of carefully avoided mushrooms!

Off to London... (part one)

Last week I went on a very exciting (and quite scary) trip to London, to do some research for my dissertation. If everything goes to plan, my paper will be on restored, and recreated historic gardens attached to museums or heritage sites, and the relationship between the inside and outside space. I want to look at the interpretation (information panels, audio guides, books and leaflets) in period gardens compared to in period rooms, how they gardens have been created, and how the visitors experience them.

So, to get me started on this I went to investigate two possible case studies, Hampton Court Palace and the Geffrye Museum. Terry Gough, head of gardens and estates for the Historic Royal Palace (Hampton Court, Kensington, Kew and the Tower of London) had very kindly agreed to talk to me, so Hampton Court was my first stop.

I spent the morning wandering around in a bit of a daze, trying very hard to think intellectual thoughts about the garden and work out what I was going to ask Mr Gough after lunch, but mostly all I could think was ‘these flowers are pretty’ and ‘OMG Henry VIII actually walked in this actual garden, OMG’. Not very intellectual. I did have a good look round though, and took lots of photos.

The Great Fountain

The baroque side of the palace, build under Willam and Mary in the late 17th century

The Pond Garden (used to be a Pond, now it's a Garden)

After forcing down a sandwich, and feeling a bit (very) sick and nervous about trying to sound clever whilst talking to a very important head gardener of lots of very important gardens, I went to the reception and pretended to be a grown up, whilst feeling like an imposter. ‘Hello, I’ve got an appointment with Terry Gough at half past two’ *big fake smile*. The lady on the desk was convinced though, and Terry came to meet me and showed me to his office. He was really friendly and nice, made me a cup of tea, and talked to me for nearly two and a half hours, answering most of the questions in my notebook before I’d even asked them, and lots more besides that I hadn’t even thought of. Here’s just a little sample of some of the interesting things I learned...

1.       What these words I keep throwing around – restored, reconstructed, recreated – actually mean in practise. Restored = using the only the original fabric of what was there before, just tidying up and polishing it to restore it to its original glory. Reconstructed = making from new materials an exact copy (or as close as is possibly possible) of what is known to have been there before. Recreated = making from new materials and new design, but in the style of what is known or can be surmised to have been there before. So that cleared that one up.

2.       The Privy Garden at Hampton Court is a reconstructed garden, based on amazingly clear archaeological evidence of the early eighteenth century garden. When William III wanted a new design for the garden he could see out of his bedroom (and drawing room, and state room, and dining room, and music room, and library, and closet) windows the whole area was lowered and lengthened, thus destroying any evidence of what was there before. The ground was taken down to the level of the gravel (the Thames is literally at the bottom of the garden) so the areas to be filed with soil to make flowerbeds had to be dug out of the gravel. When archaeologists in the 1990s removed the layers of soil, they found a perfect imprint of the layout of the 1702 garden in the gravel.

The reconstructed King's Privy Garden, much as it was in 1702.

3.       It’s not just me that was frustrated by all the ‘don’t walk on the grass’ signs, and even padlocks on some of the gates. Some areas, especially the pond gardens, are very much

treated as works of art, with a ‘look and don’t touch’ attitude.

Visitors have commented on this, and have been listened to, and as a result the next big project for the Hampton Court gardeners is a ‘magic garden’, an area where children and families can play and learn and let off steam. Not an adventure playground, definitely a garden, but one more accessible, interactive and sensory that the more formal historic areas. Hampton Court, if you are listening, I would VERY much like to come and work for you on this!

Happy World Book Day!

I love books, I love lists. And when better than World Book Day for a list about why I love books? Half of these 9 reasons are massive clichés, but they’re true, so I don’t care. I’m not trying to be deep or intellectual, and I feel a little bit sick as I’m trying to write this on the train so it’s just as well – these are just my own little reasons why, a lot of the time, the best part of the day is settling down after all the jobs are done, just me and my book.

1.       They’re just like real life, but more interesting. Through reading I can experience distant places, the past and the future, love and life and death and things I have simply not come across, and quite possibly never will in my real life. Through reading and reading about all different sorts of people, their lives, how they think and feel and react to the (sometimes amazing, devastating, or downright bizarre) situations they find themselves in, I think I’m better equipped to deal with real life itself. I learn from novels, about all sorts of things and about human nature itself, and they prepare me for reality.

2.       They’re not real life. I can have an adventure, fall in love, fight a war. But I’m safe and warm and cosy in my bed with a cup of tea at the same time!

3.       There’s a story for every mood. Feeling tired and bored, like nothing interesting ever happens? So is Cassandra in I Capture the Castle. Looking for an epic romance? Jane Eyre or Gone with the Wind is what you need. Wonder why your family is so difficult, interfering or downright bonkers?  Try having Mrs Bennett (Pride and Prejudice) or Mrs Jones (Bridget Jones’s Diary) for a mother! Or pick up Anna Karenina – not exactly a cheery read, but will reassure you that all the most interesting families are dysfunctional!

4.       Books are like promises. Each one sits there on the shelf, waiting for you to open its covers and allow it to whisk you away, sweep you off of your feet.

5.       Books can teach you anything you want to know. World Book Day often focuses on fiction, but it’s in the vast realms of non-fiction where knowledge and learning lie, where you can forge your own never-ending path exploring the world and the people within it.

6.       Sharing. Whether it’s with friends over a glass or wine, with Nana on the phone, the children I work with at school or my colleagues in the staffroom, I love to talk about the books I’ve read, hear what other people thought of them, and gather recommendations for books that I would often never have picked out for myself.

7.       Novels simply allow me to be incredibly nosy. Stories are all about peering into other people’s lives, and getting to know the characters as well – and often better – than anyone in real life.

8.       They never have a bad day, or don’t want to chat. A book won’t turn up late, or run out of batteries. Wherever, whenever (as long as you remembered to put it in your bag) a book can be there to keep you company, while away time waiting for the train, entertain you on an otherwise dull evening in. Whatever you need, be it the comfort of a familiar childhood favourite, half an hour’s escape from the daily grind to a land of magic, dragons and handsome heroes, or simply instructions on how to put up another shelf, you’ll find it in a book.

(Almost) Famous

V Short update, but I'm too excited not to post...

http://www.artfist.org/2012/02/if-you-go-to-down-to-woods-today.html

My little story! On a real website! And they said they liked it!

The Manor Reborn

Having watched the BBC’s ‘Manor Reborn’ with great interest (and a lot of talking to the telly and saying ‘oooh, I wouldn’t do it like that!’) I was dead excited to actually visit Avebury Manor during half term.  Avebury’s a funny place, there seems to be nothing there except about 6 houses, a pub, a church, and an awful lot of National Trust property. There’s all the land with the standing stones – pretty amazing and well worth a visit in themselves – a museum in a barn and a smaller museum in a stable, the manor itself, and of course a cafe and a shop. We got our tickets, and then loitered in the shop until it was time to go in. They were running a system of timed entry, to prevent congestion within the manor!

A friendly volunteer gave us a little talk at the gates, basically outlining the premise of the BBC project and explaining that rather than using original, old furnishings the house has been filled with copied (or faked?) furniture based on the styles of the period. He told us to sit on the chairs and lie on the beds, but to treat the house as though it belonged to a dear friend, which was a nice sentiment. And appropriate, too, because for many the National Trust does feel like a trusted friend, maybe a little predictable but always there. This property, though, aimed to shed that traditional image of ‘don’t touch’ signs and cream teas.

It worked. My Nan said she’d never been in a museum where people laughed so much, and talked to not only their companions but other visitors and the Trust volunteers.  We pretended to drink from pewter goblets in the Tudor hall, ground coffee in the kitchen and joked about who should do the huge pile of washing up that was stacked on the worktops, flicked through The Times and watched a young volunteer and an elderly visitor play billiards in the Edwardian Billiard Room. Me and Mum took off our boots and lay down on the four poster bed, drew the curtains and imagined sleeping there. It was a bit lumpy, but cosy with the curtains drawn and the mattress smelt pleasantly of straw. Nana laughed at us, but we started a trend and the next visitors to the room followed suit as grandma got onto the four poster and her little grandson made himself comfy on the servant’s truckle bed.

The kitchen sideboard, full of authentic looking clutter!

Reed matting in the Tudor hall, made last summer using centuries old methods.

Having a little sit down in front of the hand painted Chinese wallpaper, imagining myself as an eighteenth century lady of taste!

The Tudor bed, a bit rumpled after me and mum had tested to see how comfy it was!

It was great fun, and the workmanship that had gone into the objects was much admired – particularly the painted Chinese wallpaper, and the rush matting in the Tudor room. But although the downstairs rooms felt real and lived in – or at least like a well-furnished film set – upstairs was less impressive. There was little furniture apart from the beds, and the rooms were hardly dressed with props and historical clutter at all. There was a feeling that at some point time or money (or both) had run out, and these rooms upstairs had suffered. It was also difficult – and would I imagine be even harder for a foreign visitor, a child, or even just someone without a pretty good knowledge of British history – to understand the era of each room, and why those times had been chosen. There was no interpretation except some laminated sheets, which were very informative and useful – Nana said they had just the right amount of information, and pictures which showed you what it was talking about – but looked a bit cheap and were easily ignored or just not even noticed at all. For the Manor to really work, I think they need a high quality interpretation panel in each room describing the people that would have lived in it, and the period in which it was set. And to either light the fires or turn the heating up – it was a cold day and was not much warmer inside.

Taking a break 1930s style, moments before the outbreak of World War Two.

Despite it’s flaws, Avebury Manor was a fun morning out, and more importantly it was different to the usual National Trust experience. I don’t know how much ‘history’ we learned, but the smelling the straw in the four poster bed was something you couldn’t get in books, or read on a wall panel. The most memorable and emotional moment was at the end of our visit when, as we were having a sit down in the 1930s living room, the wireless which had been innocuously playing in the corner went quiet, and then suddenly, deadly serious. Me, my mother and my grandmother sat in silence as we listened to Neville Chamberlain announce that Britain was at war with Germany, and a shiver went down my spine. For me and Mum, it was amazing and horrifying to feel a tiny fraction of how it must have felt on that day in 1939, to try and place ourselves in history and imagine how it would have been. For Nana, she was hearing again what she actually heard on the radio as a young girl, reliving the day when so much changed.

 The BBC's wesbsite for The Manor Reborn televison programmes:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b017m16v

The National Trust web page for Avebury:

http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/Avebury/