This is so tedious. I'll be fine and then I won't be. And then I'll have a couple of days of being weak and sleepy.
I really can't say I recommend having a super-rare mast cell illness.
I had things to do today, but for some stupid reason, there was mustard powder in some sliced ham, tucked away as "flavourings" and so I spent the afternoon coughing my lungs out and gasping for breath.
Wood from a fence with a troubled looking face in it
This one looks a bit shocked
This one looks stern
I'm not sure if this one is happy or sad.
I was pulling apart an old fence and I made some new friends. Which one are you?
The Lined Page Stay away from windows, the message said. I gave her daughters my Star Wars figures. Now they and her defiant husband hide. Her last post spoke of the deep jolt As missiles erupted the towers in the sand, Of air becoming flame, transmuting hope to glass. I forgot to close the curtains again and wake To the glitter and drift of dust spirals as I lift My phone to search for word, but no. On Signal, an exile speaks of fleeting joy. Of streets singing the tyrant’s death. Then comes the dread. The “next” question. After letters to politicians, porridge, I write poems. Send the exile cat photos and stories of sheep. We exchange gifs and then we toll the dead. Entire movements murdered and monsters martyred. I can feel the privilege of being able to look away To sleep and even wake without annihilation. Why trace in ink these fading lines of hope? I watch a chaldro peck and hop in sea foam. The dead seal cub on the beach is hollow. A selkie mother keens from her hottest core. “You are a brother,” the exile says. “As you see my pain, I read your peace.” The page splits with drafts, torn through. A philosopher once asked: If you think You’re an individual, what do you breathe? We are porous things, defying borders. We write no line between us and nature. Between bird and beach, life and next.
Sometimes, I find that writing poetry is the only way to make sense of things.
The Lined Page.
I've started transcribing the letters written between the Traills of Elsness in Orkney in the first half of the 18th Century that relate to Barbara Fea, a young (very young) lass who bore a daughter by Patrick Traill, the eldest son and heir.
Here's some notes on bias and process.
People voted Labour because they wanted less of this, not more. With their majority, we could have had a massive programme of renationalisaton of infrastructure. Instead, we helped genocide in Gaza, lost money and influence, and the rich just got richer.
I still think that change can happen.
The scandal isn't Peter Mandelson. It isn't even just Epstein. It's the way the UK is vulnerable to the influence of agents of other states and the corruption of corporate lobbying.
Remember hope?
Whoops, I just didn't notice all that money that appeared after my boyfriend asked a criminal for help doing a course that involves touching people's skin. I just married him.
A great look for someone we were supposed to trust with the wealth and safety of everyone in our country. It's all so grim
I just listened to the BBC news report on this and, wow, they told us all about his career, emphasising how involved he's been with Kinnock and Blair and what a terrible blow it must be for him personally. And phew this means there's no questions about Starmer's judgement now.
Really? REALLY?
Weaponised incompetence is the one type of resistance that, by default, men have been taught for years.
Mandelson resigning now to 'save embarrassment' is like me suddenly remembering that I should tell my partner "I'm keeping the baby" on my way to taking the child to school lol
A very long scroll partially unrolled on a not nearly as long table
Lately, I've been researching the life of Barbara Fea who was born in Stronsay some time* in the late 17th century.
Her story is one of power, legal process and, sadly, awful violence. Throughout this, she endures. I want to tell her tale.
* We'll return to her age in a bit because it's important.
It’s helped me find the voice I need to tell Barbara Fea’s story and, of course, buying it will help me to continue to work on this book.
And, of course, your support online will help to boost her story to reach the audience her remarkable courage truly deserves.
Stay with me on this voyage.
It’s a book about tender discoveries of the astonishing age of the things we pass as we drive around the island and about my own journey, as an immigrant from England into the culture, dialect and history of the place where I want to live out my life and for my bones to rest forever.
A lot of folk lore focuses on the supernatural, but the stories of old Orcadians are wonderful treasures I hope we can enjoy for generations. Jimmy is from an age I can only partly understand, when islanders needed far more self-sufficiency than we currently need and when storytelling was the norm.
For those of you joining me as I discover and share the story of Stronsay’s Barbara Fea, I hope you’ll be interested in my most recent little book!
It’s about the dry stone dykes of Sanday and my friend and mentor, the aptly-named Jimmy Walls.
shop.orcadian.co.uk/product/rag-...
I'm a writer and an artist (and dyke builder and spinner) and I'm fairly new to this type of research, but I'm hooked.
I would love to bring you with me on this journey, bringing her to life, focused on her, not the powerful family she fought against.
Follow me and let's get to know Barbara Fea.
This is a story I just have to write and I just have to keep sharing. I'm desperate to confirm her age, because the Traills say Patrick was 17 when they met and I hope, so deeply, that she wasn't seven, because that casts an even darker shadow.
But I really need your support and encouragement.
The case spans decades and four generations, with Patrick's actions leaving a horrible mess of problems for both wives, his daughter, his brother and so many others.
But I'm fascinated. I'm looking at original letters and court rolls and trying to find the real story of this tenacious woman.
The case takes another turn when Patrick flees again, this time to Ireland, with a new wife. He cannot return to Scotland for his bigamy, and John cannot acknowledge him or be complicit in this.
Barbara keeps fighting, and keeps forming strong alliances, often with other women, but also many men.
Still she fights.
She wins her claim for damages from the assault and to cover expenses for the court processes, but John refuses to pay and his connections confound her ability to get justice.
While he disappeared at sea, she tried to claim his house on Stronsay, but his father and brother raided it and stole the deeds in Patrick's name, saying he never owned it, so she's invading their house.
The eviction is brutal, leaving her for dead and vomiting blood in a neighbour's care.
When she's pregnant, he flees Orkney. His family takes the child and hopes that ends things. No.
His letters in hand, she follows him and has him arrested for promising marriage and deserting her, a very unusual case in itself, but when he had signed a contract, he fled the country.
She met Patrick Traill, the eldest son of the merchant laird John Traill, and he promised to marry her despite his father's hatred of her father and her family.
He was born in 1679 and I've only seen one date for her birth, ten years later, so the daughter being born in 1702 tells a grim story...
A very long scroll partially unrolled on a not nearly as long table
Lately, I've been researching the life of Barbara Fea who was born in Stronsay some time* in the late 17th century.
Her story is one of power, legal process and, sadly, awful violence. Throughout this, she endures. I want to tell her tale.
* We'll return to her age in a bit because it's important.
Do you, love Orkney, dry stone dykes, archeology, folklore or local history? May I introduce you to my latest book: Rag Stones. It has all of the above and is available to you now!
shop.orcadian.co.uk/product/rag-...
A sketchbook page showing two drawings of badgers' heads. One is the sleek and muscular animal from nature, the other is a chunkier, softer and more cartoonish character
After drawing and then rubbing out a few pages of badger skulls that I drew over with more anatomical badgers, here's a moment in my sketchbook where I wonder how much of a badger Badger really is!
Badger and Vole, two anthropomorphic characters, dance joyfully in their winter clothes in this pencil sketch
I just realised that 2026 will mark 20 years since my very first post-it note zines that I photocopied and sold at fares in London. I've been making comics for two full decades now.
I think perhaps we should do something to celebrate Badger's 20th birthday.
