Thursday 28 April 2022

Fiction: The Night Visitor

An excerpt from something untitled that I started a long time ago and never finished.


'From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-leggedy beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us!' - Traditional Scottish prayer


Wynford Little sat up in the middle of a wet November night, entwined in his bed sheets and drenched in sweat. He rubbed a hand over his face and fumbled on his bedside table for his glasses. The digital clock showed three a.m. in garish green numerals.

Wyn put on his glasses and untangled himself from the sheets. His head was pounding, his brain still in a muddle, as he crossed the chilly floorboards in his bare feet. Without switching on the light, he retrieved a battered box of Marlboros - the emergency box - and a Pound Shop lighter from his underwear drawer. Blotting sweat from his forehead with his pyjama sleeve, he pushed open the window. Wind howled in, sharp and feral, and the curtains billowed. Rain spat and splattered against the glass .

Clouds swirled across the sky, and in the garden the oak tree lashed back and forth, casting strange, twisted shadows across the walls of the room. Wyn leaned his elbows against the windowsill, cupped a protective hand around the lighter flame, and took that first deep drag. It had been years since he'd last smoked a cigarette. Right then, with the echoes of that nightmare scuttling back and forth across his subconscious like a mad wife in an attic room, he didn't care.

He exhaled smoke like dragon breath. His narrow face was very calm, almost placid, beneath a three-day growth of beard stubble, but his dark eyes, under startlingly long lashes and heavy brows, were bright and watchful. He was a tall, thin, angular man hurtling towards middle age, with a puff of wild dark hair, silver-threaded, that stood out around his head like a dandelion clock. 

The tip of his cigarette glowed orange. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead in his palm. He was still tired, somehow, bone tired, but sleep had never felt like such a distant memory. 

He drew on the cigarette again and let another curl of smoke trail from his lips. The front of his pyjama shirt was getting damp with rain. The windowsill was dripping. He still stayed, staring and thinking, in front of the open window for another few long moments before he pushed himself upright, stubbed the cigarette out almost viciously on the sill, and yanked the window closed. He could still hear, faintly, the wind moaning through the branches of the old oak. He remembered a fragment of dreaming, thought of sharp, sharp teeth and long, thin fingers, and reached out to switch on the desk lamp so quickly that he nearly knocked it over. A warm golden glow flooded the room.

It was a beautiful room at the top of a tall, grand house. Or, more accurately, a tall house which had once been grand. It was very old. Its bricks were a deep, autumnal orangey-red, and it had details picked out in white stone around the windows and under the eaves. Its chimneys were high and spindly, its windows long and narrow. The windows themselves were old, too, and when the wind came screaming down from the mountains in the north they sometimes jumped and rattled in their frames.

Most of the rooms in the house were little used. The bin in the kitchen overflowed with takeaway boxes. The living room, although spacious and welcoming, sat under a layer of dust that glistened with a soft pearl lustre when the sun shone in. Wyn used the bathroom, his bedroom, and his study, which had a large oak desk that was polished until glossy and upon which sat his notepads and typewriter (he still used a typewriter; not out of any pretentious disdain for modern technology, but because it was old and comfortable and familiar, and the clacking of the keys felt right under his fingertips. His laptop sat sullenly in the top drawer of the desk), and a forest of bookshelves taking up two entire walls.

Wyn sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. He had lived comfortably in this house for more than twenty years, but in that moment, with the nightmare still hanging over him like a shadow, he hated the house, and the town, deeply and fiercely, with every bone and every sinew in his body.

From somewhere down the hallway, there came a dull whump.

Wyn immediately recognised the sound. It was a book, falling to the floor. Probably in the study. The books on the shelves were stacked two or three deep, with more piled on top, and it was not unusual for one of the haphazard piles to slump this way or that, and let something fall. But in the bleak silence that settled over the house at three a.m., it was a startling sound, and ominous. The hairs on the back of Wyn's neck prickled. He got to his feet with some reluctance. The old tree rattled its branches again outside the window, and he glared at it through the glass. He was fully intending to go to the study and retrieve whichever book had fallen, but he found himself strangely hesitant. There was a heaviness in the air; that sort of electric tingle that precedes a thunderstorm. It had settled over the house, and Wyn's nerves, already frayed from the terror of his dream, were thrumming like guitar strings.

And then, from the study, there came another soft whump.

Wyn's bladder briefly threatened to do something alarming. For a moment he was ten years old again, and the obvious solution to the problem he was facing was to get back into bed and pull the covers over his head until he resembled a burrito rather than a boy. Unfortunately, Wyn was forty-six years old, and had the horrible suspicion - faint, but growing - that he was not alone in the house any longer, and that if he were to put a blanket over his head, he might find that it would become his shroud.

He stayed frozen in the centre of the room for a few moments, his toes just touching the pool of ragged, wind-whipped moonlight upon the floor. The third whump, no less gentle than the first but somehow much more horrifying, decided him. He picked up a crystal whisky decanter from the dresser. It was empty, only a faint amber residue left at the bottom, but it was heavy, and the weight of it in his hands reassured him as he opened the bedroom door and slipped into the hallway. He left the door ajar, allowing a trickle of warm light to bring life to the gloomy corridor beyond.

All was quiet. Wyn's heartbeat seemed loud, obtrusive. He edged towards the study, holding the decanter high like a club. It sparkled in the dim light, sending gold ripples skating over the landing walls. The floorboards, worn soft with age, were cold. The air smelt of dust and pine forests and electricity.

The study door was closed. Wyn regarded the brass doorknob for several long moments, his pulse throbbing in his ears. He did not consider himself to be in bad shape, but faced with the possibility of an intruder in his home, he suddenly felt very old, eighty if he was a day, and made out of twigs.

The quiet stretched out. Rain drummed down on the roof.

And then, so faintly that he wasn't convinced that it was not the overactive imagination of a writer still in the grip of tenebrous dreams, he heard another sound, from the other side of the study door. A soft rustling, a susurrus of paper on paper, as though someone were standing beside his bookshelf and rifling through the pages of his books.

Wyn took a step back from the door, chewing his lower lip. A floorboard creaked gently and he froze mid-step. The weight of the decanter was dragging on him now, and he lowered it. His arms wanted to tremble. For a split second, he made as if to raise one hand, to knock on the door of his own study, but quickly he caught himself, curled his fingers around the doorknob and flung the door open.

The first thing he noticed was that the window was open. The curtains were drenched, billowing in the early-morning breeze. Outside he could see that the sky was slowly lightening to moody indigo, but this was the north, and it was winter, and it would not be sunrise for some time yet. The mountains clung to the horizon, hunched black shapes like crouching dragons, and brooded.

The study seemed empty. But it was cold, very cold, and Wyn could feel that static in the air once again, stronger here, as though he was standing at its nucleus. Goosebumps rose and prickled on his arms as he inched forward into the room and flicked on the light.

It came on slowly, turning the grim darkness to dismal beige. A sound, a movement, just over his head, made Wyn jump and swing the decanter wildly, sending shards of light skipping around the room and over the bookshelves, but it was only a moth, albeit a large one, lazily circumnavigating the room before homing in, manically, on the light bulb.

Wyn advanced into the study. The rug, patterned like a magic carpet, or so he had fancied when he bought it, grew damp under his feet as he approached the window. He set the decanter down upon the sill, and dragged the window closed, not without effort. The curtains fell back against the walls with a wet slap. Wyn rested his back against the window and sighed, pushing a few strands of damp hair - whether sweat or rainwater, he didn't know - off his forehead.

The moth detached itself from where it had been bouncing erratically from the light bulb and descended in a dreamy spiral towards the bookshelf. Wyn watched it but paid it no particular mind. It settled on the edge of a shelf; stretched its wings. It was a huge thing, the size of his palm at least, mottled brown and grey, its body coated in thick white fur.

One minute it was there, and the next, it was gone.

Wyn started, pushing himself bolt upright. His forearm caught the lip of the decanter and knocked it to the floor. He bent to pick it up, and froze there, half-kneeling, almost afraid to blink, as the books upon the bookshelf began to move.

A ripple spread through them, and then a murmur, as though they had just awoken from a long sleep and were leisurely stretching their pages as the moth had stretched its wings. Wyn's jaw went slack as their spines flexed and moved. Several paperbacks tumbled from the higher shelves as the books jostled, shifting, rearranging, until his disbelieving eyes registered the shape of a man, at least as tall as he if not taller, being formed out of spines and covers and pages, and then there was a man standing there, in the bookshelf, and Wyn half-wondered how he had ever thought he could see books there at all.

His fingers closed tightly around the neck of the decanter, throttling it, but he did not get to his feet. Instead he watched, and waited, and listened to the roaring in his ears.

The man in the bookshelf looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. At first there was a sound like the spine of a book breaking, and then his knuckles popped and cracked, louder than gunfire in the hush, and anything at all booklike about him was gone. 

Thursday 21 April 2022

Did I Photograph A Ghost Ship?

In September 2015 I was in a cafe on the beach at Ventnor on the Isle of Wight. I was enjoying a large bowl of seafood and half-listening to Demi Lovato being cool for the summer on the music channel in the background. It was a horrible day; there was a cold wind carrying a stinging rain, and it was nice to be inside The Beach Shack warming up after a long walk along the coast from Bembridge, where I was staying on a boat.

The cafe boasted large windows looking out onto the sea, and I remember being mildly surprised by how misty it was outside, given the wind. Then I spotted three tall masts emerging from the fog. How cool, I thought, it looks like an old-timey pirate ship. I'd never seen one like that actually in use before, and I wondered if there was a special event going on. I offhandedly snapped a picture, went back to my mussels (or was it crab?), and thought no more about it. I didn't notice when the ship sailed away, but by the time I'd finished my lunch it was gone.

I probably would have thought no more about this, except a few weeks ago, Dai and I were talking about historical ships (we have a large model of the HMS Victory - the kit to build it was my first Mother's Day present), and I mentioned this nice ship I'd seen on a foggy day off the coast of the Isle of Wight.

I kept talking for a while until I realised that Dai had gone quiet and was just staring at me. "Do you still have the photo?" he asked urgently.

"Well, probably," I said, and spent a fruitless half hour searching, but couldn't find it. 

Dai then told me about the HMS Eurydice, which sank in a storm off the coast of the Isle of Wight in 1878, and 364 lives were lost to the sea. Since then, many visitors to the island have reported seeing the Eurydice on this part of the coast, and their sightings have been blamed on "light reflecting on mist". (From Haunted History of HMS Eurydice - BBC Hampshire.)

Obviously I was extremely excited by the possibility that I had seen and photographed a ghost ship, but as I couldn't find the photo my dreams of a mention in the Fortean Times would have to remain dreams.

Except that last week, trawling through old photos on Facebook to try to decide whether I should cut my hair short again after the wedding (help?!), I finally found the photo.

At first I was a bit deflated. It doesn't look very ghostly. Then I did an image search for HMS Eurydice and... well, see for yourselves! I'm not entirely convinced... but it's not a bad likeness, is it?! What do you think?




An Ecosia image search for HMS Eurydice



(Dai suggests this may be something to do with a Sailing Trust rather than a paranormal encounter. Disappointingly, he's probably right.)

Thursday 14 April 2022

Rewilding in 2022: A Progress Report

So, we're now around a third of the way through the year. This feels like a good time for me to lay my cards on the table and talk about how things are going. Buckle up, this is going to be a long post.

The reason I started this blog in the first place was to stay accountable during my year-long shopping ban. As I'm sure you know by now, despite multiple attempts this was not a challenge I have yet been able to complete - however, one incremental lesson at a time I was able to get a better grip on my finances and reorient myself in the world, rebuilding a life that didn't revolve entirely around shopping.

In the process I somehow ended up writing a book, discovering the practice and philosophy of Druidry, making efforts to live a more sustainable life, and reconnecting both with myself and the natural world. So it wasn't exactly a wasted effort.

This year, I decided not to try to force myself through another twelve months of trying not to shop at all. I'd tried three years in a row, and it just wasn't working, despite the positive changes I had made. Each time I seemed to stick with it long enough to begin to see a difference, and then something would come along that was just so special I had to have it. And after that first purchase, it becomes much harder to stop yourself from the next, and the next.

And the thing was, as I've said many times, now that I wasn't panic-buying and binge-shopping all over the place (that stereotypical image of Woman In Mall With Fifteen Shopping Bags And A Skinny Latte really did used to be me), I was choosing better. Not perfectly, not every time, there were still things that didn't look right when I got them home, nail varnishes I never wore and gave to friends, the occasional regret - but overall, I did manage to develop a smallish but functional wardrobe of things I love. So, not completing a shopping ban turned out not to be the worst thing in the world.


Rewilding

This year I decided instead to put my focus more on what I wanted my overall life to look like, guided by the single word: rewilding. 

One of my last purchases of 2021 was an almanac, the Way Back Almanac by Melinda Salisbury. I purchased it without seeing a sample or any inside pages, based purely on the blurb. And on New Year's Eve, I sat up in bed and read the January chapter while fireworks blossomed across the sky outside. 

 "You'll notice all the things we're supposed to acquire and become all fit a narrow and artificial, wealthy, white and western bandwidth of what 'good' lives should look like. And they don't factor in the natural world at all. [...] I'm giving you permission not to succumb to media and brand demands to change yourself. These dark days are ideal for nurturing and soothing, for resting and recuperating. However, we're not entering total hibernation. We need to remind ourselves there's life behind walls and computers. We must begin rewilding ourselves."

I think the hair stood up on the back of my neck when I read that. It was just so precisely what I needed to read. I wanted to climb into my almanac, with its recipes for soup and natural cosmetics and gentle, earth-loving, wholesome advice, wrap myself up in its pages and live there. I immediately ordered the first of Salisbury's #WayBackBookClub books.

Very early in the year I felt myself flailing around a lot, bouncing from one social media app to another, neglecting my sit spot, forgetting about watching the sunset. But unusually for me, I wasn't shopping, or even browsing very much. I kept getting the old twinges of comparison if I spent too long online, but as soon as I closed the apps I seemed to come back to myself.

Oddly, I kept having this recurring image floating to the surface of my mind in quiet moments - just myself, meditating. But this image gave me such a strong sense of peacefulness and calm - a rootedness in my being. It felt like an invitation, a starting point. It kept drawing me back, over and over, to the concept of simplicity, of letting go of all the frantic nonsense of the overculture. It grounded me in the conviction that actually, not banning myself from shopping seemed to be the right approach at this time.


When my garden started to come alive again in spring, I approached it differently. Instead of immediately eradicating my weeds, I tried to learn about what was there. Dog's mercury is poisonous, so had to go, but possibly indicated that an established woodland may once have existed where my house now stands. I gathered cleavers - which like me you may know best as 'stickyweed' - and chopped it into my scrambled eggs for breakfast - eating my weeds made me feel like a bit of a badass, not going to lie. I've read (in Rewilding the Urban Soul) that wild foods are more nutrient-dense than cultivated foods, so I possibly gave my health a boost too.

However, this was the bright spot - over the winter I realised I had become almost completely disconnected from nature. Since the Spud started nursery and we moved away from the nature reserve we had less time for our walks, and for a while I had a bunch of mega stressful life stuff going on (at one point a section of my hair turned grey overnight, which I thought was just a TV trope). The weather was cold and horrible, and our new house lost so much heat through its ancient windows that I was loath to go out and get chilly knowing I'd struggle to get warm again. Our daily walks dwindled to a once-a-week adventure, but then after the Spud came down with one bug after another from nursery, these too faded away, and by March I felt less 'wild' than I had to begin with.


Shopping

So what you may now be wondering is, how's my shopping actually doing without those self-imposed limits and restrictions?

Well, it's been a mixed bag. At the beginning of January, I felt so uninterested in shopping that I thought I might fly through the year without buying a thing, that perhaps all these shopping bans had been a case of barking up the wrong tree. In mid-January, however, digging up old photos from my goth years reminded me that I used to have a lot more fun with style, and I felt some regret that in many cases I'd replaced beautiful items with prosaic ones. Acknowledging that I need my clothes to be somewhat practical, I started keeping an eye open for a few more items that were really stunning. However, I knew I had a trip to Glastonbury booked in April, so I didn't throw myself headlong into online shopping. Happily, I've stopped craving a quick fix to any perceived wardrobe dilemma - I'm more able to proceed slowly and build on what I already have rather than purging half my stuff and panic-buying a ton more every time I have a change of heart.

I've observed before that my urges to buy are often synced with certain times of the month; I noticed this time around that the moon also plays a part. At full moon I am more likely to feel dissatisfied with my appearance, and have a sense of restlessness which can lead quite easily to acquisition. Now that I'm not trying to eliminate purchases altogether I'm not demonizing these tendencies, but it's useful to have an understanding of when I might find it hardest to stick within my budget.

In February, one of my dear friends was taken shopping to celebrate a milestone birthday, and I was caught off guard by the nostalgia - and, I'll say it, envy - this provoked in me, remembering teenage trips to the mall, giggling in the changing rooms, the glory that was the sheer variety and affordability of cheap brands. I really wanted a 'proper' shopping trip, and I lamented to Dai that I kind of wished I could go back to a time when I didn't really know about the scale of the damage that fast fashion is doing. When it was just a pleasure. 

After a few days of feeling really deprived, isolated from my friends (I know there's some sexism behind the suggestion that shopping is a women's pastime and that's a whole can of worms I haven't really even peeked into yet, but in my circle there are only one or two others who are cutting down on their consumption for environmental or ethical reasons and it's definitely considered a bit niche and eccentric), and demotivated (I hadn't really considered that it takes energy to keep setting yourself apart from what everyone around you and society-at-large considers 'normal'), I compromised. I took a trip to TK Maxx, which I had previously considered off-limits. 

Since reading Consumed by Aja Barber I learned that discount stores, while not ideal and, in an ideal world, unnecessary, perform a sensible function in that they sell end-of-the-line items that would otherwise be destined for landfill. I tried on anything and everything that caught my eye. I really made a day of it. I exhausted myself and had to stop for a protein bar. And I bought two items - a summer dress (I only owned one other at this point) and a smart top made from recycled polyester. Perfectly anticonsumerist? Definitely not. An improvement over years previous? I think so.

I noticed that Instagram use definitely corresponds with increased shopping, or at least an increased desire to shop, which is a bit unfortunate. Perhaps I'll have to give serious consideration to putting my account back into hibernation, as by April I was kind of hammering through the clothing and cosmetics budgets I'd laid out for myself this year, although it's not critical yet.


Inspirational reads this season:

The Way Back Almanac 2022 by Melinda Salisbury

Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature and Spirit by Lyanda Lynn Haupt

The Wheel: A Witch's Path Back To the Ancient Self by Jennifer Lane

The Outrun by Amy Liptrot

The Way Home: Tales from a Life Without Technology by Mark Boyle

Consumed by Aja Barber

The Guide to Eco-Anxiety by Anouchka Grose

Afloat by Danie Couchman 

Thursday 7 April 2022

She Might Be A Faerie: Three Strange and Curious Style Concepts

So, I wrote a few short pieces some years ago as 'style concepts', an idea I picked up.from Gala Darling's blog, and when I came across them recently I couldn't help but laugh - I thought I had put ideas like these aside, but the third one in particular is - well, not far off the mark, if incredibly idealised. (Confession: originally the author of choice in the first vignette was Neil Gaiman, but oh my goodness, Katherine Genet, I want to leap into your books and live there forever.) Although I have updated them a bit for modern me, and do please forgive a bit of artistic licence - at thirty, I'm not precisely a 'girl' any more!


1) Casual Faerie

The idea that sparked 'casual faerie' as a style concept was me trying to combine several of my favourite styles - faerie, boho and a raggedy art-student kind of look vaguely inspired by the character Karou from Laini Taylor's Daughter of Smoke and Bone, all slouch beanies and messy hair - but in a casual, non-overpowering, non-costumey way, as though (to get kinda cheesy about it) a faerie had decided to take a bunch of art classes and needed to blend in a little bit.

Casual faerie is: combat boots with tea dresses, lots of lace, blue and silver, smudged eye make-up and glitter, messy hair (probably blue or green or faded pink), a faraway expression, short nails, torn stockings, mismatched socks, worn boots, chunky scarves, sketchbooks and bitten pencils, ink stained fingers, silver earrings, slip dresses, thrift shop cardigans, muted or dark florals, jewel-coloured velvet, moon jewellery, flushed cheeks and bright eyes, body glitter in strange colours, wilting daisies tucked into braided hair, oversized leather jackets, dungarees, ugly sweaters, strange charms and magpie feathers tucked into your handbag, the smell of books, mismatched textures and layers, silver beads in your hair that glitter like stars.

The casual faerie girl shops in flea markets and thrift stores. She smells of tea leaves, lavender and peppermint. She carries her art supplies in a battered old brown suitcase she picked up for £1.50 in Age Concern. She wears vintage lace bridal gloves with the fingers cut off. She likes to sit outside and drink tea in the moonlight. The bottom of her handbag is coated in glitter and birdseed. An introvert, she talks and laughs with friends in the coffee shop but never seems quite there, as though she has one foot in this world and one in Tir Na Nog.


2) Storybook Girl

She's the one who stumbled into a fairytale and never found her way out.

She's the smell of books, dust and sunlight.

The storybook girl needs comfortable clothes, because there's another world in the back of her wardrobe and there might be lions around the corner and you can't run away from witches if your shoes don't fit.

She's the queen of cable knit, pensive expressions and steaming coffee. There are ink stains on her cuffs and she doesn't read Vogue and she has non-fictional feelings for fictional characters*. She spends her life looking for magic, both inside her books and in the world around her.

The storybook girl doesn't care much about her make-up or nails. Her hair is messy from running through the forest, her cheeks are flushed from the fresh air and she's half-mad from living in the world inside her head. She's scuffed Doc Martens and chunky scarves, mustard and beige, cranberry and cream, moss and autumn rain and fallen leaves. A wildflower wanderess with freckles and a ready laugh.

She likes things cozy and quiet inside and wild on the outside. She lives for a mug of cocoa by the fireside and a howling wind. She dreams of moonlight and mountains, becoming a lighthouse keeper or a mapmaker or a professor of folklore. She slips away from parties to read and look at the stars. She's not a manic pixie creampuff, just intense, bookish, more into Tolkien than Twitter.

She sees the wonder in the everyday. She owns legwarmers, fingerless gloves and a bobble hat. She knows her own mind and doesn't mince her words. She's not minimalist because it looks good on Instagram but because the time it takes to put on jewellery and lipstick is time that could be spent reading or wandering in the fields. She's a nerd and a bird-mad girl, both at once.

The storybook girl is free and wild, unconstrained, unconventional, and quietly, gently feral. Fisherman's jumpers, baggy jeans, men's belts, scruffy boots, undone shoelaces, patched-up backpacks, elbow patches, cat hair on her blazer, the smell of bonfires, road trips, grass stains, muddy Converse, unraveling cuffs, long hair, flannel shirts, vintage sweaters, drunk on fresh air, daydreams, wanderlust and sweet tea.

*I borrowed that from Bookworm Boutique.


3) Untitled

Half-woman, half-faerietale, she is a nomad, slinging cards on roadsides and in taverns all over these isles. She wears earth tones, patterns in rich autumn colours, jewel tones, brocade, paisley and tapestry prints. Crochet and lace, silver or warm copper-coloured jewellery. She smells of coffee and incense, moss and rainwater.

She could be a professor of divination. Big spectacles, a gentle (if not slightly bewildered) demeanor. She has long, soft, flowing hair. She collects Tarot cards. She wears cardigans, crystal jewellery, moon and star symbols. Soft, rosy, golden make-up, or a flash of iridescent teal. She wears gold glitter under her eyes on nights out. She loves witchery, owls, and walks in the moonlight.

She's a writer or an artist, a pencil in her hair, ink on her fingertips. Short nails, messy hair. Her haunts are greenhouses, old, quiet bookstores with that musty vanillin smell, and abandoned places. She might live in a fortune-teller's caravan, or in a houseboat with forty brocade cushions and clove-scented candles, or in a tiny apartment with plants growing on the windowsill. She might serve you in the bookstore with her hair in a messy bun. Sometimes her hair is blue, sometimes brown, sometimes red or blonde or faded green.

She studies folklore. Cable knits, dungarees, midnight-blue velvet, faded jeans, pin-striped waistcoats with worn buttons, jumpers patched at the elbow, long skirts, vintage dresses, silk knickers, harem pants, embroidery and folk prints. Tie-dye socks. Her dressing table is covered in perfumes and scented lotions; oak, frankincense, woodsmoke, amber. Her lip balm tastes like tea. She always has candles burning.

She reads runes. There's a Katherine Genet book in her handbag. She wears an old leather jacket, and takes her coffee milky and sweet. Glitter on her sheets and on her collarbones. She drinks elderflower cider and honey mead. She wears tea dresses with combat boots. With her friends she goes vintage shopping, stargazing, storytelling and wildcrafting, seeking out poky shops in strange towns, drinking espresso Martinis at two a.m..

'She's mad but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire,' - Charles Bukowski.

'She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and thoughts that wander off the edge of the world,' - Joanne Harris.

'Like a magpie, I am a scavenger of shiny things; fairy tales, dead languages; weird folk beliefs; fascinating religions, and more,' - Laini Taylor.


As fun as it was to re-read and resurrect these, I must also admit that this prescriptive approach to dressing isn't me any more - I like to be free to change and let my style remain fluid. Whilst I'm much pickier about my purchases, I don't like to overthink or try to impose rules or labels on myself. I've gotten much more relaxed - a far cry from deliberately trying to style myself in an 'effortless' way. My main takeaway from these concepts is that I didn't trust myself very much at the time - I very much felt that my style needed some kind of limits, or a solid definition, in order to "count". Whereas nowadays I just make sure I love the things in my wardrobe and get dressed in them - I don't really mind that I can't sum up my look in a pithy statement (or perhaps I can: Pippi Longstocking does witchcraft? Rainbow Brite has let herself go a bit? Luna Lovegood goes to Glastonbury? Dai says these are not far from accurate - "if the Pippi Longstocking and Luna Lovegood ones were smashed together in a car crash, that would be you".).