© Stock.xchng

However much people tell me that it was invented by greetings card companies, however much I tell myself that it’s a shamelessly sentimental holiday, there’s a big part of me that just adores Valentine’s Day.

I come from a family that like to celebrate every possible occasion, from Christmas to Diwali to the Chinese New Year. As a child I was used to associating Valentine’s Day with receiving cards emblazoned with hearts and signed by mystery suitors with handwritng uncannily similar to my mum’s. It was a day when my parents would sparkle at each other and there would usually be something especially nice for tea.

These days, two years into my marriage, I’m glad to say that romance is still on the agenda, and it really doesn’t have to cost a lot. I’m lucky that my hubla ensures I always have flowers (currently gorgeous purple irises), but our Valentine’s tokens to each other were personal rather than expensive - my hubla graciously accepted wonky homemade card from me, just as he will accept a wonky homemade card for his birthday.

Not being blessed (or cursed) with an overflowing imagination like mine, he buys his cards, avoiding anything padded or sporting a printed poem.

Often we celebrate Valentine’s over a special meal eaten at home, but this evening we’re going out for dinner, partly because January was particularly grim this year and partly because the recession has led to some fab restaurant deals (hurrah for a positive-side to the credit crunch!). We feel in need of an excuse to get dressed up, eat some good food and smile at each other in a candle-lit setting.

Actually, that latter bit is the part I love best about this day. It’s not really about gifts and cards and flowers, its about being given a nudge to devote some time to the person you love, and a candle-lit setting isn’t a bad place to do it.

On the opening night of Barry Lewis’ Monsters exhibition 13 out of 40 pieces sold, which is pretty impressive. Sadly all the ones my hubla fell in love with went within moments, but I managed to get a red dot onto a rather lovely one of a pegasus, very similar to the horse of spoons, but with an elegant pair of fish-knife wings. I can’t wait till the end of Feb when I can take it home.

The exhibition gained loads of media attention, partly, I’d like to think, due to my press releases. I picked up a copy the Evening Post and found that one of the journalists had used paragraphs from my release word for word. Nice to know I’m making life so easy for them, but odd to see my words credited to someone else…

A selection of my words are also currently taking part in an art and poetry exhibition called Exploding Poetry. It’s being held at Bank Street Arts Centre, and is on the topic of women and warfare. I wrote short piece called Not War, Nor Peace, inspired by my time in Israel, and it got accepted! Love it when that happens – it almost makes all the rejections worthwhile.

Sabre tooth tiger by Barry Lewis

Last night’s preview of Barry Lewis’ Monsters exhibition was the most bubbling I’ve been to for a long while. I barely got to say hello to Barry as folks crowded round him, eager to meet the great creator of so many magical beasts. I’d seen countless photos of his work, but never come face to face with the animals until the event, and I was intrigued by how many I fell deeply in love with. No wonder red dots were springing up all over the room.

Sadly, Horse of Spoons, sold early on, as did my hubla’s favourite, Codzilla, a huge glimmering fishhead made of fish knives and other reclaimed materials.

There’s something about the combined elegance and unpretentiousness of the scultures that really appeals to all kinds of people, including those, like my hubla, who occasionally complain about not getting art. There’s a playfulness to the whole collection that’s hugely appealing, as people crowded round, identifying old coffee pots, forks, engine parts and gas canisters. It was like a version of Where’s Wally for grown ups.

The menagerie was populated by enough creatures to put Bristol Zoo to shame, with seagulls hovering overhead, gigantic scorpions, spiders and dragonflies, lobster, crabs and vast coppery fish, an alligator with a body woven from bike tyres, as well as more abstract works such as a heart made from spoons and a satellite dish - ideal for Valentine’s Day.

The one serious undercurrent running throughout is the message of reclaiming, restoring and recycling, the three R’s of our era. In taking other people’s rubbish and transforming it into art, Barry works magic on several levels. The animal-heads mounted on plaques  made from old table tops take this a step further, by poking fun at those who still believe hunting is a good, honourable hobby.

I’d rather have a sabre-tooth tiger made from cutlery on my wall than the head of a dehydrated, stuff dead animal any day, and the hordes of people at the Grant Bradley Gallery yesterday seemed to agree.

Horse of Spoons by Barry Lewis

The latest artist on my radar is Barry Lewis, a Welshman who trained as an engineer, worked as a carpenter, became an ice sculptor and finally put his passion for South Wales’ Rhondda Valley together with an eye for aesthetics to create his own, uniquely eco-friendly kind of art.

The result is an exhibition called Monster, which begins tomorrow at Bristol’s Grant Bradley Gallery. He describes his work as a means of letting “nature get its own back”, and meanders through the countryside, reclaiming parts of the rusting cars and bikes dumped in rivers and on mountainsides and transforming them into wonderfully peculiar beasties.

“Someone might chuck dump a bike on the hillside, then I’ll bring it home to pull apart and turn into a sculpture of some weird animal, making it into art and clearing up the countryside in the process. I use all kinds of things - some of my sculptures might include six types of metal, from a bit of stainless steel cutlery to an old petrol tank from a motorbike. A bit of metal might resemble a nose and the animal grows from there.”

The curious creatures range from immense scorpions to alligators – one of my favourites is a horse made entirely from junk-shop cutlery. There are also dragonflies with tea-strainers for eyes and a dragon made from an old car seat with fence-posts for teeth. The scale of some of them is immense – a true zoo of the bizarre.

Around forty of the recycled beasts are taking residence in the Grant Bradley Gallery for Barry’s Monsters exhibition. I can’t wait to see more of them for myself at the open preview tomorrow, and maybe even take a small one home, though my landlord might protest – there’s a no pets clause in our contract.

© J Darley

Unexpectedly, I got my wish. After lamenting the end of the Christmas break and return to reality, snow sailed in and brought most of the UK to a halt.

I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but if I’d known at that moment that I was to have a wish granted I might have chosen something a bit grander, more life changing, such as, ooh, I don’t know, a nice fat book deal.

The snow has been rather remarkable though. We southerners quail at a few flakes, buses and trains are cancelled, minor roads closed while ambulances howl endlessly along the bigger roads.

I had plans for every night last week, and all but one failed to happen, one because the bus I needed to take to reach a birthday party was cancelled, one because a friend lost her nerve about venturing out onto the ice, another because another friend came down with a cold and lost her nerve. The one that did take place had no excuse not to, as my hubla and I went to the house of our next-door-neighbour-but-one (next-door is a glaciers) for dinner. Even then, I almost slipped and fell, and wore a woolly hat for the two-second journey.

My cousins in Colorado would laugh at so much fuss for a few inches of snow, but I think it’s all about what you’re used to, and, according to the news, to how much grit your council has on standby (not much, it seems).

In desperation, I’ve headed out each day, and lost myself for an hour in the vast Victorian cemetery up the road. It made seem like an eerie place to go, but for the resting place of so many generations of dead people, it boasts more life than any local park. At this time of year the basking adder is hiding away, but there are still plenty of birds flitting from headstone to headstone, and holly and ivy runs more rampantly than on any Christmas card.

In the snow the cemetery was even more impressive than usual, with stone angels sporting fluffy white highlights and tombs encased in glittering shrouds.

With schools closed many local kids were exploring the woods that grow across the cemetery, and as I wandered through one morning, two bobbies marched towards me, each hailing me cheerily. What on earth could they have been guarding there?

Being amongst wildlife always seems to bring out the friendliness in people. While we strike past each other stony faced on the streets, we nod, smile and say hello in parks and, in this case, cemeteries. It’s as though being surrounded by trees prompts inherited memories of earlier times when people really did greet every person they met.

I love this time of year. Despite the cold weather that nearly snapped my nose off when I went out earlier, there’s something about all the sparkle and shine, the bright smiles on shoppers faces (note: this was at 10 this morning - they’re probably a bit grumpier now), the decorated trees (ours is a glittery black faker bought in Woolworth’s closing down sale last December), and all those promising presents balanced beneath it.

Frankly, I’ve turned into an over-excited kid, and the soothing carols oozing in off Classic FM are only making me fizz harder.

Christmas bauble © Julian Cenkier

The one thing I usually miss at this time of year as a freelancer is the buzz of a pre-Christmas office. The world of publishing is slightly unusual in that it firmly shuts down from Christmas to New Year, so deadlines are crazy, everyone’s overworked, but no one’s complaining because they know they’re about to wallow in at least nine days off. Tins of fancy chocolate biscuits, mince pies and festive chocs do the rounds, and tinsel creates a cheery fire-hazard around computer monitors.

This year I’ve had the chance to appreciate it in full thanks to a few days subbing at a publishing house in Cheltenham, a mere 40-minute train ride from my house in Bristol. I’ve loved every moment of it, despite having to leave my house when it’s still dark and returning home when it’s dark again.

Cheltenham is a very pretty town that comes into its own at Christmas time. As www.britainexpress.com succinctly puts it: “The town is resplendent in Regency terraces of cream-white houses and wrought-iron railings.”

With lofty Christmas trees and tasteful fairy lights twinkling in each window, the town is even more elegant and enticing, with bright baubles and Advent candles adding to the glow.

Previously I’ve only ever been to Cheltenham when the literature festival is on, but now I think I’ll go there more often, and if the opportunity comes up to work there again, I won’t hesitate to say yes.

© Marcel Iordan

It’s been a weekend of wind, rain and art. As the gales whipped the deluge into stinging, lashing whips, the artists in my neighbourhood opened their houses up to the public.

Outside each home a pile of sodden brollies lay heaped like broken flowers; an abstract sculpture, while we trod patterns of water into carpets and across bare floorboards.

From the walls hung colourfully painted canvas blocks, or shelves of lovingly stitched and knitted skulls, paper beetles, necklaces strung with buttons, and, in one extraordinary living room, large statues made from carefully selected rocks, pinned together to exude movement in the guise of people dancing, horse-riding, balancing on a single stone hand.

Art trails are among the best treasure hunts of our age, taking us into private homes to catch glimpses of private lives. The artists who sell well are the savvy ones, the friendly ones, who understand the value of a few smaller, cheaper wares and a warm smile. When I find I like the artist as an individual, I find myself yearning to buy their most glorious works, regardless of price.

But the ones who imprinted themselves on my mind are those who embodied their art in some way. I’ll never forget the kitchen and living room transformed into an exuberant 1950’s teashop, selling extravagantly decorated cupcakes and oodles of atmosphere sold by ladies in vintage print dresses and wigs crammed with pink curlers. We bought jam from them and birthday cards, and paused to eat cake in a noisy, cosy corner.

Likewise, I’ll remember the photographer who had managed to capture an underground car park in such a way that each shot transformed it into a scene of serenity, light and beauty.

People who view the world differently should be celebrated, and if they can share that view of the world, so much the better.

So, the most legendary blogger since blogging began has been unmasked, and it turns out she epitomises brains as well as beauty.

We knew she had to be smart. Nobody could write a blog so intriguing it would be transformed into three lucrative book deals, then a television drama (with Billie Piper playing the lead role and shown in 25 countries) and not have an impressive mind. But a scientist?

It isn’t unusual to find doctors and scientists supporting themselves through the long years of study with some rather dubious activities, but I don’t think any others did it with the finesse of Belle du Jour.

Bristol-based research scientist Brooke Magnanti has confessed all to The Sunday Times (note: not one of the tabloids, not even the Sun, but one of the major broadsheets!)

The steamy encounters that turned into some of the most compelling viewing of the past few years began as a means to make money while she wrote her PhD.

To cope with the stress of being a high-class call-girl, in 2003 Brooke began writing the blog that led to the 2005 publication of best-selling book The Intimate Adventures of a London call Girl.

Now the debates over her true identity and over whether her memoirs were genuine or not, have been answered by the 34 research scientist who works in developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology at St Michael’s Hospital in Bristol.

On Sunday she wrote in her blog how happy she was to be out in the open and stated how important the anonymity of the blog was to begin with, allowing her the freedom to be utterly honest about everything other than her name.

I think coming forward was a brave and rather wonderful thing - now we know who she is, people might realise that the women they see on the street and in strip clubs are more than meat on a platter - they could be on the way to discovering the cure for cancer.

© Richard Mallinson

Last Tuesday I joined a scriptwriting group held at a local pub. Scriptwriting is a medium I’ve never tried before, but I’m always looking for new writing challenges.  I’m currently writing a short story that seems to be morphing into a script, so I thought it would be a good idea to find out more about the art before I attempt to tackle it for real.

The thing about scriptwriting, as opposed to many kinds of writing, is that many of the people who end up doing it aren’t writers at heart. Often they’re people who want to act or direct. It’s also relatively social form of the sector – you may write alone, but then you might redraft and revise in the company of actors, directors, producers, or even, if you work in TV, be part of a team of writers. So much for writing being solitary!

When I interviewed Mark Ravenhill about it, he commented that he became a writer by default – he wanted to be a director. And he also said that one of the major challenges is that “to work in the theatre, you have to be a person who enjoys collaborating with others, who enjoys working as part of a group. But writing is a solo experience. I don’t like that. I get it over with as quickly as possible.”

I think I have two sides to my personality – I need my own space to write and create, then I need to get out there and talk to be people to drive me forward, keep me inspired.

The scriptwriting group proved to serve the latter part enormously well, as we all gathered together in a room upstairs, and one writer handed out her script for us to read through. Anyone who was willing was allocated parts and I ended up with four small roles, which scared me slightly until I got into it and remembered how much I’d enjoyed acting as a child.

The script was really interesting, and after we’d read out the first episode of the writer’s eight-episode TV series, the critiquing began. I felt like taking notes. Some comments seemed harsh, but all were useful, making this as valuable, if not more so, than any scriptwriting course.

I can’t wait till next week to see what more I can learn – and what role I’ll get to play…

Last Saturday, October 31st, I meandered into town, minding my own business, and got caught up in a cloud of zombies. What’s the collective term for zombies? A herd, a flock, a gaggle, a stagger? Yes, a stagger seems right.

Their bodies disjointed, hung from some unseen string that harpooned a shoulder, a hip, for the ultimate lopsided gait, blood-stained flesh tinged an unseemly green, mouths agape uttering haunting moans, they made their way from the town centre to the shopping district, lunging at passerbys and thrilling and chilling in turn.

Doctor zombies carried dripping limbs and saws, chef zombies wielded menacing whisks, bride zombies in shredded gowns dragged more blood in their trains while the most fearful zombies of all, toddler zombies, had the staggering down pat.

Normally rational people flinched away from their reaching, wavering hands, staring with amazement and alarm, then one voice rang out. “Get a job!”

Interesting thought. Can someone who isn’t actually living make a living? Does a cemetery counts as a home address? And what kind of job would they be best suited to? Working in a creche might be a no-no, as might the city farm (too many succulent piglets to suck on). Their taste in clothing is distinctly of the soiled and stained rags variety, while the blood on their hands would ruin the wares of any fashionable boutique. No, I’ve got it, they could work in MacDonalds. The only thing is, you might end up with a few unspecified bits of meat in your burger, and don’t expect service with a smile.