I don’t really understand what coptic is so it’s going to be pretty difficult to explain it. I made a coptic book anyway, using instructions from a book. I don’t think I did it right but it seemed to hold together. I’m going to use it as a photo album as I constructed the covers from some spare photos I had. Coptic involves some kind of strange knitting binding thing, I think… I don’t know… but I wanted to try.
The First Beestung International housed in recycled, handmade envelopes as well as handmade notebooks now available at ArtCollective gallery in Mill Street, St Peter Port, Guernsey as part of the ‘Edible Delights’ show.
Trousers: old brown pop corduroy. Umberella design: Miss S Law.
In the skies above a Moustachioed time, twenty six twenty-sixth century storm clouds travelled back in time overnight to a disarmed twenty-third century with strict weather controls. They moved together, holding hands, lead by tour administrator cloud ‘Claude’ who carried a clipboard and waterproof map. It was a long journey and they traversed the three hundred years in question with no delays. A rest was called and they camped down for a nap in early twenty-fourth century Crumberly Hall, a stately home that they intended to visit some time earlier. They were just kids, organised kids but kids nonetheless.
Meanwhile in the rolling green grounds of twenty-third century Crumberly Hall… Continue reading
A: Because everyone is talking about death.
“What did you do with the tin of beans that was at the back of the cupboard?” Dad asked. I had eaten them, heated them up and eaten them on a couple of slices of toast. “You idiot, I was saving that up as a family heirloom! It had been there for six years.” The beans had tasted ok. After that Dad collected and brought home lots of heirlooms – plastic toys from kinder eggs, ornamental gourds, ringtones, roadkill woollens – but none of them lasted. They all became broken or lost or eaten or all of the above. Eventually he found one that would last – a six year old boy named Oscar. “Meet our new family heirloom.” Oscar looked up at me with a confused look on his six year-old face. I was unsure of his suitability as an heirloom, he was not really a thing to pass down through the generations, more a human life to be brought up. “Hopefully he will stay in the family for many generations.” Just like the other heirlooms, Oscar did not last long. Within a few weeks his real family came to collect him and the search for a family heirloom went on. Dad threw himself into the task with his usual cheer and we all wondered what he would bring home next.
“retrospective tailoring.”
no moustachioed gent had said these words to a moustachioed gent before but now, in the forecourt of a quiet tailoring station, a moustachioed gent stood in his usual clothes and heard what the tailor said to him in hushed tones. he took the words and folded them into his ears like precious cotton buds, knowing that he came to this tailors because the tailor was moustachioed and when he made this decision he was letting in bounding oddness.
“we are a dying breed, you and i,” said the tailor, “and i know old and expensive secrets.”
the moustachioed gent’s heart leapt at the sound of secrets and though he had come in for a mere pair of trousers he had a feeling that he would leave with much more.
“tight green elvish trousers at the age of twelve would have changed your early teenage life and had a knock on effect for the next twenty years. striding around town in cricket whites, holding a bright white parasol would have put you at the height of elegance aged thirty.”
the moustachioed gent gasped. “you can make those changes.”
“for a price, i can re-clothe you at any time of your life and you could enjoy the fruits of fashion hindsight. i could put you ahead of every trend for the last forty years.”
the moustachioed gent thought about it long and hard for a few minutes. “what about back-dated tailoring technology? How many years back could you tailor me a parallel universe waistcoat?”
“for a price,” the tailor stroked his moustache as though it brought unknown powers. “for a price i could go back as far as five years. your waistcoat would shift around you with intimate and instinctive knowledge of the fashion of thousands upon millions of parallel universes. i do not properly understand the concept behind it, or the science involved but i can certainly do it.”
“and what is the price?” the moustachioed gent asked giddily.
the tailor leaned closer so that their moustaches were almost touching. “to most,” he whispered, “their souls. but as you are moustachioed like me i’ll ask just your bones.”
the moustachioed gent could not but agree. he said a strange goodbye to his bones whilst the tailor knocked up a new waistcoat in the back of the station. they had served him well but what more need could he have for them when he had his waistcoat of parallel universes.
Digestive Press 