In which I embrace regency period rural vibes.
Week two in the serial dramatisation of my thirties.
In the second week of thirty-one I allow myself to sink further into my hot-girl autumn moment and, in particular, to dial into the charming gothic romanticism of regency period Galloway. Here’s how the week went…
Monday:
The sun rose on a new week, which I take in good faith as evidence to suggest so was obscured by an impermeable smog of noxious rain. I encouraged myself to stick to my own meticulously planned calendar and went to the gym in the evening, leaving directly from the office where I appeared mid-morning in a ball-cap and a Scottish rugby raincoat in homage to something with roots in the stoic masculinity of the east coast. That stoicism did not carry into my gym routine, as I stayed for the duration of my work out on the treadmill (pausing only briefly when I stopped to refill my water and was accidentally launched at speed into a man passing by). Sick of it all I retired to the sauna to reflect on my choices.
Tuesday:
During the current block, my Tuesday evenings are carved out for life modelling. I love modelling, there’s something incredibly freeing about being entirely disrobed and perceived by a whole group of people when the focus of the exercise is so clearly and intensely focused on the furtherance of creativity. It’s a really fun way to connect with my own body and self-image, plus aesthetically it just makes sense that my niche in the arts scene locally is to be part time cheerleader and part time disrobed muse like a modern retelling of Lady Caroline Lamb.
Reflecting on it, I’ve found myself in the position of appearing to crowds in a state of artistic undress on a number of occasions - notably twice in Sweden in 2016. In the first instance that year I appeared in a short woodland dramatisation of Swedish folklore as the mysterious “Näcken”, a creature in the guise of a naked man wearing, curiously, nothing but a railwayman’s cap and playing a fiddle. The effect was achieved with just such a railwayman’s cap and fiddle, with the addition of strategically placed drapery fabric representing the unnatural woodland mist I’d conjured to entrap the unfortunates lured by my wistful fiddle playing, before I drown them.
On the second occasion, in our drama final exam, our group put on a retelling of the classic fairytale “puss in boots” but in a modern corporate context where the “puss” was actually a cat-like and very camp freelance publicist (played exquisitely by my friend Björn) who offers to build the youngest son’s recently inherited subsidiary company into a fortune 500 competitor through subversion and back-room PR tactics. I, playing the role of the youngest son, was required to enter into a business sauna session with investors and competitors and then to underscore that my clothes had been stolen from outside of the sauna (meaning I required to be clothed in a borrowed tailored suit in place of my original wide-leg** in a camp retelling of the original ‘bathing in the river’ scene), I had to jump out from behind a screen (the sauna) in just my underwear before being hastily given a towel and ushered into the wings for my dramatic outfit change ahead of the next scene. Both occasions were graded and in both instances I received an A, so it’s plausible I have been chasing that high ever since and life modelling in the nude was the natural extension of that journey.
Whatever the case, the session was cancelled and I remained dressed for the duration of this particular Tuesday.
**It is worth a note to clarify that this played out in 2016 when wide-leg pants on men were still a hallmark of criminality and decrepitude.
Wednesday:
I spent the day in a haze of industry, occupied at work with many a trial and tribulation. On completion of my day’s exertions I allowed myself to be chaperoned to the supermarket where I purchased up a week’s groceries and, in a return to my rural sensibilities, a copy of Country Living magazine. On return home, I retired to a self-care bath and then spent the rest of the evening browsing stories about regenerative forest swine-farming and how to style a Hebridean fishing lodge.
Thursday:
Further losing the handle on my weekly schedule, I began the day on the back-foot and failed to adequately recover my groove. I worked relentlessly and without hope of a break for the entire day. After making and serving up a very delicious Imam Bayildi (which Derry described as adequate), I gave myself over to a face mask and a glass of prosecco.
Friday:
And then Friday arrived in all it’s whimsy and joy. After preparing a dinner of sausages roasted with apples, most hearty and wholesome, we negotiated that we’d pop into town for a drink at our great love, The Dougie Arms. Our pre-discussion on the subject meant we agreed to travel in exclusively for the allotted ‘Friday social block’ I have put in my calendar for 9pm til 11pm, which was blessedly refreshing because with an achievable and pre-set target for when to end the evening I was able to adequately forbid myself from over imbibing on Bloody Marys and getting stuck on the merry-go-round of social catastrophe that invariably grinds to a screeching halt in the White Hart smoking area where a moment of latency washes over me and the whimsy of the night fades into chagrin and fearful anxiety. Controlled, measured and timeous, we enjoyed a pleasant evening with many of our great favourites. Satiated and with most of our faculties intact, we then returned home to watch television and embrace the unique pleasure of curtailing one’s night out to a sensible few and a natter and not the dreadful funerary procession down the Vennel to the White Hart which has been a mainstay of previous Fridays. The growth is a positive consequence of this new decade of living.
Saturday:
The jewel in the crown of this week, Saturday was another turning point in the switchover of my seasonal aesthetics. We had agreed in advance that it was high time that we took our canine children on a trip somewhere where they could burn off energy. I must confess to being exhausted by them this week; if they took the shape of human children and were capable of speech in the English language then the week would have looked like my son and eldest (Bichon frise X Shih Tzu) tugging earnestly at my trouser leg every five minutes, snotty nosed and weepy, begging me: “please, lady mother, I am ailing and need to be cradled” while my daughter, the younger (collie), runs madly through the house on victorian tom-boy energy, collecting curiosities from the garden and hiding them in inappropriate ‘den’ spaces under and behind furniture. I am despairing of them and my finances cannot stretch to a nanny, let alone a governess which would be preferred and, frankly, required for my son who needs attention, refinement and French language engagement in order to be fully pacified.
We determined to take them into the depths of Galloway, specifically to run by the seaside which is always a pleasure to them and has particular benefits to me, their aforementioned lady mother, who by all accounts should be sent away to convalesce somewhere considerably west of Dumfries and certainly removed from society. We settled on Balcary Bay, a huge favourite of mine.
The blustering wind and the breathtaking views entirely re-penned my state of mind, and filled me with the animating spirit of autumn. With every gulp of fresh sea air I was further intoxicated into the impending season of pies, rugby, literature circles and doing embroidery by low lamplight while drinking Claret and watching Poldark. I carried this seasonal feeling into the rest of the day, and made the fortuitous decision to watch ‘Emily’ on Netflix which only sought to further ratify my vibe. It occurred to me that there’s something about the Galloway coastal wild, in all seasons but most especially in autumn, which awakens something in me that has it’s aesthetic roots in regency period rurality. That deeply romantic but unsettling gothic spirit and spine-tingling lyricism in describing the sound that wind makes are utterly front and centre in my psyche, now, and it’s only a matter of time before the weekly meal chart is full of baked onions, sweet breads and white soup.
I pleasantly spent the rest of the evening contentedly wandering the house and listening very intently to the ‘wuthering’ sound of the wind around the house, getting unduly querulous whenever the effect was ruined by a passing bus or timber lorry.
Sunday:
I write these words from the owners and trainers section of Hamilton Park Racecourse where I have quietly installed myself. I have come up to celebrate our club racehorse, the same one who brought us to stunning victory at Carlisle last week. We’re having exceptional sunshine and warmth, but the autumnal colours on the many trees (my very favourite thing about this racecourse, in fact) are picked out beautifully against the ubiquitous racecourse green. Still dialled in to my regency period aesthetic moment, I think it’s entirely appropriate that I have slipped away from my grandfather and mother to hide myself in a quiet corner to write. In other times I would be doing so with pen in a fabulous leather bound journal, but modern times call for modern solutions and so I’m doing so on my notes app. Other racegoers, particularly those of a certain vintage, are probably judgementally assuming that I’m texting some urban clique group chat or doomscrolling on social media but I am, in fact, busily involved in the timeless exercise of journalling my week which makes me feel oh so Brontë.