Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
. . . because you may not even get a chicken! 🙂
Did you know that handwriting can indicate over 5,000 different personality traits? I didn’t even know there were over 5,000 different personality traits, but handwriting analysts maintain that the size and shape of your letters, the spacing between your words, and even the pressure you apply to the page when writing, all signify different personal characteristics. How you dot your ‘i’s and cross your ‘t’s can reveal much more about you than you might wish to be known . . .
But you know, this may not be much of a worry for us in the future. I mean, what happens when people stop hand-writing altogether? How will they (the ubiquitous ‘they’) analyse all those thousands of personality traits then? ‘Never going to happen’ you might say. Perhaps. But many schools no longer teach cursive (‘running-writing’) to their students and schools in Finland have become the first to completely phase out handwriting lessons at all in favour of typing . . .
I admit I have been grumbling (loudly, often, and to anyone who will listen) about the sad decline of penmanship and the depressing illegibility of many of the handwritten documents that have come across my desk of late.
Please bear with me while I have a little ‘vent’ . . .
In 2015 a new initiative was introduced in the education sector in Australia whereby each student enrolling in a nationally accredited course was required to obtain a ‘Unique Student Identifier’ (USI). This USI was a 10 digit computer-generated mix of letters and numbers, individual to each student, and no-one would be able to enrol without one. This USI would (eventually) be used to create a secure online database of all student training records.
Sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? Sure. Why not? Except that now, two years down the track, I spend half my working days peering at incoming enrolment documents, desperately trying to correctly decipher these (handwritten) USIs so they can be entered into my own student data system. ‘Is that a 2 or a z? . . . or a B or an 8? . . . a 7 or a T?’ Without the context of a sentence to ‘guess’ at a poorly written letter or figure, it is often impossible to tell.
(Added to my aggravation is that my computer could care less. If I don’t get that USI exactly right, it won’t verify it. Period.)
In my less fraught moments, I get it. I really do. Advances in technology have meant that many people don’t need to hand-write anything much any more so it’s hardly surprising that these skills have taken a back seat to typing (or texting).
But . . . don’t you think that’s a bit of a shame?
Setting aside for the moment the fact that trying to read poor handwriting is increasingly driving this humble office worker further into madness, handwriting is, as the analysts point out, the outward manifestation of an individual personality. Is that not, in itself, reason enough to nurture the skill?
Don’t you think it would be great to see all the world’s fabulous individual personalities reflected in wonderful, bold, beautiful, creative, colourful (and legible—please let it be legible) handwriting? I do.
What about you?
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
Before I moved back to the coast about 13 years ago I lived for many years in Armidale, up high on the Northern Tablelands. Armidale is a beautiful place, and unlike much of the rest of Australia, it also has four distinct seasons. My favourite season has always been the autumn and I especially loved those Armidale autumns. The nights would be getting cooler and the early mornings would often be foggy, but when the fog burnt off the days were bright and sunny and still quite warm . . .
. . . and the city itself was gorgeous—everywhere you looked there were corridors of trees all dressed in the most magnificent autumn colours . . .
(I realise I might sound a little nostalgic here but I would like to point out that I am very happy living here in the Camden Haven and I am not remembering Armidale entirely through ‘autumn-coloured’ glasses. Armidale autumns were gorgeous, that’s true—but the winters were downright vicious. It was those long . . . long . . . long . . . icy winters that eventually drove me away and back to more temperate climes . . . )
I learned a long time ago to pay attention to my dogs’ moods and behaviours. When the girls are sitting happily idle, or playing with their toys, or dozing (and snoring) I know there’s nothing to worry about—all’s right in our world.
However, when they go very quiet (suspicious in any instance) ears cocked and listening (usually followed by a sudden, explosive volley of wild barking and a mad headlong dash to either the front or back door)—then I know I need to pay attention. There is definitely something ‘out there’ . . .
Sometimes the girls are simply letting me know that the neighbours have visitors (they’re nosy, my girls, and they assume that I am too), or the postman’s delivered something for them, or (the nerve of it) next door’s cat is sitting in their front yard. But sometimes they are telling me, the only way they know how, that it could be time to take the washing off the line, close the doors and windows and batten down the hatches, because there is inclement weather on the way . . .
I pretty much know the ‘storm’s-a-comin’ signs now. When the girls start to pace, tense and on their tippy-toes, with ears’ pricked and noses’ twitching—it’s not visitors, or the neighbour’s cat, or the postman—it’s for sure there’s a storm approaching. (I swear they are more reliable than the BOM.) So with the turn of the season now upon us and a sudden onset of seemingly neverending rain-and-thunder storms over the past couple of weeks, you would be right to imagine that doggy-tempers in my household have been somewhat fraught . . .
I myself have never minded storms. I mean, I would really rather not be caught outside in the middle of one, but if I am inside at home, or at work, the boom of thunder and flash of lightning doesn’t bother me at all.
Because of this I have always assumed that if I remained calm and unruffled during a storm my dogs would pick up on that, realise there was nothing for them to worry about, and stay calm themselves. And this approach worked very effectively when I had my first dogs, Harry and Frank. They were never even slightly fazed by extreme weather. Harry would happily snore his way through a pounding thunderstorm, and Frankie used to like to sit, half inside and half outside his doggie-door (with his backside in the warm house, and his front feet and head outside in the wind and the rain) and watch the tempest rage around him.
That same approach has worked pretty well with Maudie and Molly. Although they still definitely don’t like storms I find that talking to them in normal tones or sitting quietly and reading (with both of them sitting on my lap of course) is usually enough to calm them enough to see the storm through.
Mabel has been harder to convince.
Since she was tiny Mabel was always the first to let me know when a storm was imminent. She would become whiney and agitated and snappy with her sister (who would, of course, respond in kind) and she would prowl the house, shaking and whining and panting. Like most doggy loving parents I tried everything (short of medication) over the years to try and ease her through these trying times and I eventually found that a Thundershirt did the most to help relieve her storm anxiety (although she always did look somewhat embarrassed when wearing it . . . ‘I’ll wear it but please don’t let anyone see me . . . ‘)
It has taken a couple of years but I am now happily able to report that we haven’t had to resort to the wearing of the humiliating thundershirt in quite a while now. (I hope saying that out loud hasn’t jinxed us). Although it has taken a lot longer than I had hoped I think my perseverance has finally started to pay off and my calm, quiet, relaxed approach to storms is finally working on Mabel. Don’t misunderstand me. Mabel will always be frightened of storms, and the first thundering boom will still send her flying across the room and on to my lap (momentarily scattering the already settled in occupants) but she gets nowhere near as terrified as she used to. I’ll take that. It’s a blessing. For all of us . . .
But, you know, when I left the house this morning my three little weather-trackers were all cuddled up together and sleeping soundly, so hopefully we might have at least a couple of hours respite before another ‘dark and stormy night’ sets in again.
We can but hope . . .
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I live in a coastal town. The Camden Haven River runs right past the end of my street and North Haven Beach is only a short walk away. I really like living so close to the water. I like the sound of it and the smell of it and the beauty of it. Even on a crappy, overcast, rainy day our river is beautiful . . .
And because we are a coastal town, everywhere you look there are people in, on and around the water. People paddling, swimming, surfing, kyaking, and boating. Especially boating. There are boats all over the place. They are on trailers parked in driveways (and on front lawns), and in queues lined up at the boat ramps, and idling about in the lagoons, and chugging up and down the river, and moored in any one of our small local marinas.
I like looking at all these boats too―there are so many different shapes and sizes and styles (and names―there are some hilarious names out there . . .’Ship for Brains’―HA!) and it always looks like everyone on these boats is having a simply fabulous time (except perhaps those still parked on the lawn or in the driveway . . . )
To be perfectly honest, even sketching these boats from my nice, stable, dry spot (under a tree) was starting to make me feel kind of queasy . . .
With the wane of summer and the cooler weather on the horizon I have been prompted to start going through my wardrobe again in readiness for packing away my light summery clothes and bringing my cooler weather gear to the fore. I like this seasonal ritual. It reminds me of what clothes I have (far too many), what I might need (absolutely nothing, but I doubt that will stop me from buying anything new), and there is always a surprise to be found in those deep dark closet-y depths . . .
(Sometimes the surprise is good―”Wow! I forgot I even had this and, even better, I still really like it.” . . . and sometimes the surprise is not so good―”Oh dear God, did I really wear that last year? What was I thinking? . . . ” This year, so far, I have found a brand new sweater (it’s still got the tags on) and rediscovered an old (but fabulous) pair of boots I haven’t worn in years . . . )
But the thing that struck me most this time was the range of sizes that my wardrobe now encompasses. I guess that’s not really that unusual. My weight has done such a merry dance up and down over the years that it is hardly surprising that the clothing in my wardrobe reflects this. But, wait a second. Didn’t I spend days last year sorting and culling and getting rid of everything that was too small, too big (or just plain ugly)? Well―yes I did. So that means that all the clothes left in my wardrobe now, regardless of their size labels, all actually fit me, as I am, right this very minute. Mmmm . . .
It has been many years since I concerned myself too much about sizing labels. At my current size and shape I ‘should’ be (according to the size charts the fashion industry insist on foisting upon us) a standard Australian size 12. (Ha―’standard size’―who thought that one up?) but I have no qualms about ‘going up a size’ (or two) if the style or material of the garment I like demands it. (I got over that particular vanity years ago. Besides, a sharp pair of scissors cuts offending labels off quite nicely.) When shopping in a ‘bricks and mortar’ shop I will often try on several sizes of the same garment and if a larger than usual size is more flattering, so be it.
(I’d much rather do that than cram myself into my ‘standard’ size and have all my ‘wobbly bits’ on full display for all the world to see. I still have some vanity left . . . )
But I don’t only shop in bricks-and-mortar outlets. In fact, most of my clothes shopping these days is done on-line. And I don’t only buy Australian-made clothes either. So this adds another complication to the shopping experience, because every country has completely different parameters for sizing their garments. (An Australian size 12 equates to an American size 8, an English size 10, a European 38 and a Japanese size 11.) And then there are the XXS, XS, S, M, L, XL, 1X, 2X sizings to contend with . . . and don’t even get me started on ‘One Size Fits All’. On what planet does one *&^%ing size fit all?? (A more appropriate tag would be ‘Fits Where It Touches’ . . . )
(By the way―if I think it’s difficult getting my own clothing sizes right, I am no better with the dogs. The last time I ordered the girls new winter jumpers, I did all the measuring up beforehand to get their right sizes but, unfortunately, I failed to take ‘girth’ into account. Mabel’s sweater was a perfect fit, but by the time I managed to shoe-horn Maudie into hers (after much wriggling and squealing (by her, not me))―she looked like a stuffed sausage. Having been in that same situation myself a number of times I took pity on her and sent the offending sweater back . . . )
So why is it such a chore to find clothes that fit? (These (First World) problems are sent to try us.) But you would think that someone, somewhere, on a planet of around 7.5 billion souls (all needing to be clothed) would come up with a solution to this irritating conundrum.
A conspiracy theorist might speculate that if clothes really do ‘make the man’ (or woman), perhaps making it impossible to find clothing that fits and flatters is all part of some nefarious, insidious world-wide conspiracy to keep the seething masses shoddily dressed (or naked) and ‘people of little influence’ . . .
The truth is out there folks. The truth is out there . . .
Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
Our summer this year has been a real scorcher, even here around the mid-north coast where we are used to a much more temperate climate. But thankfully (at least I am thankful for it) the summer heat is finally starting to wane. The days are still sunny and warm but they are getting a tiny bit shorter and there is something in the air that smells just a little bit like autumn—and autumn is my favourite time of year . . .
But before the summer finally leaves us I thought I would do one final quick ‘summer’ sketch . . . and there is nothing more summery than a sunflower. I like sunflowers. They are big, bold, happy ‘in-your-face’ flowers.
And, it turns out, they’re even kind of fun to draw . . .