If walls could talk, they’d tell stories of falling in love, eating soap and the arrival of an eccentric thespian.

(an excerpt)

…

Was he just giving me the good parts in the school plays because he had the hots for my ma?!

When the drama teacher started visiting us regularly and gazing at Mum with doe eyes, it was clear he’d fallen for her, big time!

He was in a relationship with another woman, though. A woman whom he’d been with for ten years. It was complicated, as his feelings for my Mum were deepening by the day and he simply couldn’t ignore them.

A tall, dark, and handsome man, with a large nose. He could pull off scruffy in denim dungarees, or be a dandy in a tweed three-piece suit, but he always elevated his attire with a silk scarf or bow tie, a peaked cap, or Theodora hat. A visibly eccentric thespian.

My Mum welcomed his advances; the feelings were mutual, and as soon as he knew for certain, he packed his bags and walked away from his relationship, leaving behind his partner and her son, his precious collections of books, instruments, and vinyl.

It was a brave move to step into this all-female family of three. My sister, Mum, and I had been a team for so long, it was normal for us to talk openly about ‘female issues’, and we secretly reveled in his blushes as we discussed bodily fluids around the dining table.

He was thoughtful and considerate, though, and did a good job of stepping into a tight-knit group, cautiously, sensitively, never offering advice unless advice was requested, never trying to parent these teenagers with an attitude that had come as part of the package.

Living with my sister and me through our adolescence can’t have been a breeze, but perhaps the work he did as a psychiatric nurse before he took up teaching was helpful to him at this time? A calm understanding of our intensely emotional reactions to just about everything.

He was smart too. I mean, highly intelligent, with an IQ in the top 2% of the general population. A member of Mensa. And entertaining. A great storyteller. Through his nursing, he’d realised that the imagination has the power to heal. He took this clinical philosophy into his teaching, championing oral storytelling, not just as entertainment, but as a vital therapeutic tool for mental and emotional development.

He was obsessed with stories of every kind, and his mind had filled with a wide variety over the years. They could be about the ‘Knights of the Round Table’, or a psychiatric patient from his nursing days:

‘I used to clean a patient’s false teeth for her every night, and every night she’d say the same thing to me: “You brack ‘em, you pay for ‘em!”’

The stories you are about to read are true. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

(an excerpt)

…

At the table next to us was a raucous group of drama students, out celebrating their Christmas break.

‘I’m going to ask them for a cigarette,’ she said as she headed confidently over to their table.

I’m not sure if it was the jet lag, the wine, the cigarette, or (most likely) the concoction of all three, but when we glanced over just a few minutes later…

Deborah was dancing on the table with one of the guys!

We called it a night, and I offered her my arm to steady her as she staggered back to the house.

She’d hired a car in order to bring lots of art materials with her. As Colin unlocked the front door, I turned to see her popping open the boot, then begin unloading the contents. First up, a huge roll of canvas that sent her reeling backwards into the gutter.

‘I think you should unload the car in the morning?’ I suggested as I helped her to her feet and into the house.

Deborah wasn’t the last resident to accidentally get sozzled though. There have been plenty since. Let me tell you about Lisa, who was completely destroyed!

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True stories of Grindr, ghosting and unexpected romance at our artist residency.

(an excerpt)

…

I couldn’t help but feel frustrated recently when we’d offered to take two residents out for a day trip. We were driving through lush green hills, past stunning châteaux, enveloped by sunflower fields, as far as the eye could see under the bluest of cloud-free skies, and I could see him in the rear-view mirror head down, staring at his phone.

The stunning scenery rolling by unnoticed. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

France isn’t romantic because someone is waiting on Grindr twenty kilometres away hoping for a quick rendezvous. It’s romantic because you’re driving past vineyards, chatting to locals drinking espressos in cafés, discovering beautiful villages, and getting to know the other talented and fascinating people we have in residence.

Put the bloody phone down and look aboot ye!

Stop obsessing. Swiping. Pacing, head down, like some deranged flamingo hunting a crustacean.

…

A short story about heartbreak, homelessness and how an artist residency helped me find my feet again.

I want to tell you about an Artist Residency. A residency in a remarkable mansion house in Arbroath, Scotland. But first I’ll have to take you back a little, so you understand what stage I was at in my life and how this might save me from losing my mind!

In June 2004 I was on the tube in London with my boyfriend of 13 years, heading to the party of one of his work colleagues, when the straw finally broke this camel’s back.

He’d moved to London four months ahead of me, to take up a job with a company that would offer him the final training he needed to qualify as a chartered surveyor. I’d stayed behind in Scotland to continue in my job at Aberdeen Art Gallery, whilst looking for new work in London. It was a fabulous job with the fancy title: Exhibitions & Display Officer. I was loath to leave knowing I’d never be able to match it in London but had always fantasised about working in Theatre Costume or as a technician in an art college, so these became my focus for job applications.

There followed a few failed interviews in London and time kept passing on by. I could feel us drifting further apart, so I bit the bullet, said ‘goodbye’ to the gallery and my life in Aberdeen and joined him in London.

It was strained from the off. He was clearly angry with me for not having gone down with him in the first place (though he’d never even hinted at that before!) and his criticisms of me were relentless. Whenever I tried to defend myself or resolve a conflict, he would give me the silent treatment to punish and frustrate me further. He was clever, so could put me down with just a few words and could keep up the silence for days on end. Once he even managed a fortnight!

I was constantly on edge and miserable in the relationship, as well as unemployed with no friends.

The man I’d been in love with since my 21st birthday, who’d lived with me through my art college years, who’d supported me when I went for my first residency in Huntly and who’d moved with me for the entire year to Stranraer for my second residency there, and so many more critical life changes in between, was now sitting in a different room than me most evenings.

That day on the tube in June was no different. Once again, his cruel and cutting put-downs broke me and I hung my head to hide the tears that rolled down my cheeks, clinging to the yellow grab rail to steady myself. I didn’t even want to go to the party. I didn’t know the people there, I was shy, and I certainly didn’t feel I was heading there with a supportive friend.

The tube pulled into Camden Market station and, just as the doors started to close, I stepped off, leaving him alone in the carriage.

…

From scraping by in Scotland to owning a creative residency in France

How did we change from thinking that being able to afford a fried egg sandwich in a café on the East Coast of Scotland was ‘Living the Dream’ … to realising that living in a mansion in the South of France was ‘Living the Dream’?

The grass is actually greener over here!

We’d managed to find a gorgeous wee cottage to rent in the countryside, about a half-hour drive from Edinburgh, and had welcomed a couple of Labradors into our family. We were happily adjusting to the rural life, but, to be brutally honest, every month was a huge financial challenge.

I was working from home as an artist, web designer and administrator for an arts society. All of my clients were self-employed artists, which meant that they paid on time (most of them being in the same boat, they understood how crucial it was for cash flow to be predictable). My husband, Colin, on the other hand, was working for corporate clients, and he was constantly having to chase to get an invoice paid. It seemed to be a game to these businessmen to delay payment for as long as possible.

‘You’re on a what? A ski holiday?’ I heard Colin ask on the phone one day to the (self-titled) CEO. ‘A ski holiday? A ski holiday?! I can’t even afford a f***ing ski yoghurt!’

A change was needed.

…