A song from where the wall is cracked

Wouldn't it be nice if artists and writers could find a way of combining the creative spark of a need-ridden angsty lifestyle with the worry-free smugness and comfort of a wealthy middle aged banker?

On Saturday G and I found ourselves reminiscing about the good old days when we were young and needy and had enough time on our hands for creativity to be in full flow.  Given that a lot of these memories started before we knew each other (when our ages and musical tastes were sorely at odds with each other) it was funny to discover the little touches that we had in common.

For example...

We both had sewing machines and spent many hours customising charity-shop clothing.   (I remember making a bizarre black chiffon capelet and turning old ladies' velvet skirts into hotpants and halter tops and sewing sequins and beads all over them.  someone really should have told me!)

We both pilfered little pots of Dylon from Woolworths. (In G's case, naturally, to turn everything black.  In my case, to convert a cream, ladies woollen coat into a military-style overcoat by dying it with endless pots of gunmetal Dylon until it felted - and sewing on big brass buttons.) 

We both enjoyed using cardboard boxes as furniture.  (Until I was about 30, my bedside table was an up-ended box with a cloth over it, which I can still see no problem with.  G was more creative... when he first left home he made himself a cool shelving unit by stacking up cardboard boxes and spray-painting them black, then folding all his clothes in them, Benetton-style.  He was delighted with this feat of artistry, and therefore felt somewhat bewildered when he found his visiting mother in tears because her baby was "living out of cardboard boxes".

It's quite interesting to remember how we all lived pre-Primark...    e.g. dying your jeans black every six months cos it was too expensive to buy new ones and ironing on those bits of fabric on the inside where they were fraying.  These days new jeans probably cost less than the iron-on patches... and does anyone still use Dylon?

Having said all that, I berate myself for romanticising the past whenever I am feeling frustrated and resentful of my time-poor existence, because in truth I would hate to relive the sickening financial dread that also characterised all of those years up to my late twenties...   that persistent voice of 'oh my god I have exceeded my third overdraft limit and there is no way I am never going to get out of this financial nightmare'.   One particularly dismal year was spent at art college with no grant (cos for some reason the Foundation Year did not count as either FE or HE).  I had to pay my rent out of borrowed money and lived on about 30p a day, which amounted to a single baked potato every night.  The bank eventually demanded a full repay and closed my account and told me never to darken their doorstep again.  My only uncompromising luxury back then was Lurpak...  (hell hath no fury like me getting home to find my flatmates had used my butter and replaced it with St Ivel Gold or some other revolting yak!)  

But that same year was one of the most creative I can remember...   I worked in a fabric shop for a pittance, but it was such a rich source of creative ideas.  All of my gifts were homemade and I even fired up the nerve to peddle my handmade earrings to complete strangers in cafes.  (God, I'd hate it if someone did that to me now!)

The problem with nowadays is that even when I find myself off work with time on my hands, the whole "what shall I do with my precious free time" thing is so laden with expectation and pressure that I end up wasting the entire day surfing the web in my pyjamas and playing on my Xbox.   So... really, I am a pointless peasant and just deserve a kick up the bum.