Valentines and Vulvas

A weekend of pink and scarlet, roses and red velvet, foil wrapped heart shaped chocolates, palest pink lychee punch. We have a cocktail party Saturday night, my flatmates and I, Valentine's themed in an attempt to get it all out the way in one big saccharine extravaganza, before the day in question itself.

The three of us spend Friday night in, baking red velvet cupcakes, heart shaped mini Victoria sponges, chocolate-peanut butter slices punched into tiny heart shapes, heart shaped sand cookies, marshmallow studded Rocky Road. Clouds of icing sugar that make me sneeze, bottle after bottle of red food colouring that stains my hands, splatters the work surface. I lick about ten kitchen implements clean, feel mildly nauseous.

Saturday I rise early, ice the cupcakes, then head to The Women's Library where my Women's Institute Group, The Shoreditch Sisters, have a stall at the WI Craft Day that is being held there. We showcase our current campaign, 'Embroideries: A Creative Campaign to End FGM', in which we are creating crafted interpretations of the vulva to raise awareness about the issue of Female Genital Mutilation, as well as collecting submissions from other craft groups or individuals, some from other Londoners, some from Scotland, even one sent from France. We sit with our embroidery hoops, our needles, scissors, home made pin cushions (the cake one below is J's), velvet ribbon, silk threads. We stitch and appliqué, meet members from other WI groups, answer questions, field a few raised eyebrows, but are mostly met with lots of support (link above if you would like to get involved).

Afterwards I head home to string up paper hearts, marinate olives, pop popcorn, smother it in salt and melted butter, light candles, mix up punch, fill jam jars with sweetheart roses. The doorbell rings, guests arrive with bottles, jam-filled heart shaped biscuits from H, and an inexplicable set of measuring spoons of mystery origin. The flat fills. There are bottlenecks in doorways, a jam-packed kitchen, living-room, corridor, liaisons in bedrooms. An impromptu raffle at midnight, pizza at 2am, music still pumping at 4 (very understanding neighbours evidently), in bed before 5, just. Brunch on Sunday with all those who stayed over, then a long afternoon of clear up, but we stick some music on and pause for tea and leftover red velvet halfway through so it is not so bad.

Monday itself is fine, a little lonely I suppose, but really it is just another day, and one that M and I don't make a huge deal over even when he is in the country. He does send flowers to work though, so I am able at least to partake in the excessive bouquet one-upmanship that seems to be rife on the tube journey home. And now I am absolutely drowning in the most beautiful roses - scented bunches reduced on their sell buy date to £1.49, above, leftovers from the party, below, and M's pink roses, very bottom, filling the flat, covering surfaces, heavenly.

Coloured cotton, green shoots

I go to Norfolk at the weekend after another busy week, the theatre on Monday, a failed attempt to see Sofia Coppola's Somewhere (broken projector) on Wednesday, pizza with C instead, uneaten popcorn under the table, another supper club on Thursday with H, this time South of the river at Rosie's Deli in Brixton, most delicious rice pudding I have ever eaten, and Rosie and Steph are lovely. Hopping on a train Friday afternoon, stepping out onto a darkened platform, wind gusting, tugging at my hair, whipping the trees, Dad there to meet me, pulling up the drive to a bright kitchen, Mum, cups of tea. Norwich on Saturday to see S, my sister, smoothies at Giraffe, catching up on her exploits, losing track at romance situation number 3. Meeting Mum and Dad later, all of us heading to the cinema, Brighton Rock, the new adaptation, powerful, gripping, and wonderful lead performances, but I think it helps that I have just read the book and am able to project all the complex, tortured internal monologues of characters onto every half gesture, sneered remark. I must watch the original film too. Driving back to London Sunday night feeling almost homesick. And tucked around all this, the rest of the weekend, signs of life in the garden, winter leeks, grey-green, purple sprouting broccoli that I scoured for caterpillars last summer, earthworms, pink, in the compost bin, clusters of snowdrops under the apple trees, rhubarb, emerging, mossy walls, bright green. Shoots in the conservatory, hyacinths in glass jars. Sewing machine out in the kitchen, using fabric from the Liberty sale to make tiny cushions, and Muji handkerchief featuring old New York backed with velvet from an old skirt to make a large one. Lychees, dusky pink, sticky juice, Madagascar scented.

Hello to everyone who has joined me from here and a massive thank you to Jeska for the link - which means so much to me as Lobster and Swan was one of the first blogs I truly got hooked on, and got me through many a dull hour at a post-graduation temp-job.

Dressing-table, Sunday afternoon

Flowers from M that arrive at work on the grey Monday of last week, come home with me to sit on my dressing table, make it feel like that of the leading lady in a 1950s stage show, opening night. A dressing table that I bought at auction a few years back, dark, varnished wood, sanded down over a summer weekend in a Norfolk garden, primed, painted with Farrow & Ball, two layers, hard work, dry, cracked hands. Sunday's slants of weak winter sunlight, the first I have seen for days, creeping across my bedroom walls, bouncing off the mirror as the sun drops behind the rooftops.

Sometimes I fear all I photograph is flowers

I saw Black Swan on Wednesday, it set my heart racing, made me hide behind my scarf in fear. When the end credits began to roll, I sat speechless, awed. Thursday I went to The Book Club, did some craft in the basement to a soundtrack of live music, sellotape, paper plates, lollipop sticks. Friday night Anna and I had tickets to Twelfth Night at The National, I enjoyed it, but wasn't overwhelmed, though thought the set was beautiful. Saturday Mum, Dad and S were down, and we walked through London, collars turned up against the cold, hats, scarves, hot chocolates in the Tate Britain cafe. Winchester on Saturday evening, boarding the train clutching a bottle of chilled white and a bunch of roses and freesias, a belated Burns night celebration at some friends' house, vegetarian haggis for me (pleasingly, surprisingly, good), two types of mash, brownies for pudding, running groaning, stuffed full, to catch our train, just missing it, half an hour waiting on the platform in the bitter cold. Columbia Road, again, this time with the family, my favourite place to be on a Sunday morning. Bagels, more hot chocolate, a bunch of mixed tulips for S and I to split. S and her dramatic earrings, Mum and her 'country' coat. One of my Christmas presents, from M, comes out with us, a Diana with instant film. A couple come out well, others less so, I am still experimenting. Later, Primrose Hill, visiting some family friends, I see blue sky and sunshine, and am grateful.