Naughty step for my calligraphy hand...

Last weekend I made a somewhat unpleasant scribal discovery; my batarde scribal hand is a two-year-old who has hit the 'NO!' stage.

I thought I'd knock out a couple of AoAs in an earlier gothic hand (a longtime favourite and previously my best) rather than the batarde I've used most often of late. I love the batarde, but my calligraphy heart still belongs to the 12th century.

But I found my hand fighting me: insisting on the curly swoops it has needed most often lately ('MINE!'), whining about penning plain straight uprights and rounded Os and Ps ('WANNA BIKKITT!'), utterly failing to follow instructions regarding a modest curve on the Hs ('NOT TIRED!').

'Want elephant ears! Want swooshes and swivels! Wanna sweep! Waaaaah!' wailed my hand.

So I did what any experienced artist (or tired parent in the supermarket) would do: caved like a coward, after two badly written lines, and gave my hand a bag of sweets to shut it up I did the scrolls in batarde.

Now that I've given in, I'm going to have hell's own time reasserting my authority over my hand. That said, my next deadline isn't immediate and I have some time to make doing earlier hands fun again.

Anyone know how to distract a toddler calligraphy hand, so it doesn't notice it's now doing plain-and-elegant Carolingian or classic early Gothic instead of the rich and swoopy Batarde it's grown used to?

Odds and ends

I braved the temples of Mammon on Oxford St on Monday in search of summery clothing. Everything was still at full price and this season features two of my least-favourite shirt/blouse styles: sleeveless, or cap sleeve. Worse is this flappity gathered ruffled ruched short sleeve thing going on - not very attractive IMO. No purchases.

Boozy week: this week's fight practice was cancelled because of a prior booking so the fighters agreed that meeting in the pub was a far superior choice to trying to find another site - The Cittie of Yorke is one of our City favourites, as very atmosperic.
It seemed hit by about half a dozen hen parties at once (gaggles of underdressed women who all order half-pints) but otherwise was a splendid evening.

On top of that we're meeting liadethornegge  this evening, after work for a drink near the Wallace Collection, as she's in town.

The Tube was eerily quiet this morning; either masses of football fans are (cough cough) calling in sick to watch the opening games on TV, or it's the start of the long summer weekend season. Or both.

England flags are out on car aerials and hoods, hanging from windows and draped across the street opposite the nearest pub. In past years we've been able to keep score just by listening to the pub noise.

It's all in your sense of perspective: recently Robert and I took a minicab to the train station. And in the conversation, the cabbie told us that in his opinion, having the Knowledge and driving a hackney cab was the best job in the whole world. Absolutely the best, bar none.

Once you had your license, you could set your own hours, and work your own preferred days. You could work like a dog for 3 weeks and then spend 1 week in Spain each month, or you could work Thurs/Fri/Sat every week and take the rest of the week off - he had mates doing exactly these routines. What more could one ask for in job satisfaction, really? It was a splendid example of having different goals...