This is the positive, non judgemental blog of a British female Mystrader and Carvelier, early sixties, unashamed fanfiction writer, Larper, Steampunk adventurer and Mother of Cats. Be welcome, whoever you are. Love who you want, be who you are.
My husband is 5'7". Not imposing. Not tall. He's 67, going soft round the middle, silvering dark hair. Currently sporting a short beard and mutton chops for our Steampunk group. His hair is *wavy*.
But...
But...this guy used to be a re-enactor. He knows how to fight with sword and axe. That's where we met 45 years ago. Somewhere I have a photo of him literally laughing while swinging his axe...
He may be shorter, but I'm now wondering how I can get him into Baratheon colours and an antler crown...he would literally make an older version of Lyonel...
(Apologies, no photos...he's not on tumblr and I won't violate his privacy...but...*Seven Hells*...)
As a potter, I adore this. Okay, so I've been making clay suff for decades and I know I'm way better than most, but I teach this shit to people. I shut it down when they compare their work to other people who are much more advanced in the craft. Seriously, stop doing that, because you're setting yourself up to fail. I adore seeing first efforts, their creativity and enjoyment shining through. This cat is amazing. What I want to see is the same thing in a year's time, in five years time, and see the difference. Like any craft, practice makes perfect. Keep doing it, my dude. This is the beginning. The start of something special. Now you need to keep learning, keep doing, listen and learn and improve. Don't be scared of mistakes, they inform you. I cannot stress this enough, we cannot progress unless we make mistakes. Just ignore it if people try to tease you. They're just insecure themselves. Keep going. Make stuff. Create stuff. Get better, learn what your chosen medium can accomplish, and make what brings you joy.
This is basically a rich sponge cake.... the British equivalent would be
225g sugar
225g butter/margarine
225g flour
4 eggs
Teaspoon of baking powder.
Cream the butter and sugar together (do not melt the butter!), add a bit of flour and the beaten eggs to it and whisk, then add the rest of the flour, gradually. Give it a good whisk, and add a bit of milk (not too much, this is supposed to be stiff-ish, not sloppy), then bake at 180°C, 160°C for fan assisted ovens, gas mark 4, for 20 to 25 minutes until golden and firm in the centre. If you need anymore ideas, refer to this site, offering recipes since 1880! Have fun.
I'd be interested to see the differences between this and the pound cake.
"I wrote a eulogy for my best friend last week. Then I read it to him. At the pub. On a Tuesday."
He was alive, holding a pint, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I have.
I'm Mick. I'm 70. The man across the table was Barry. Seventy-two. Best mate for 46 years. Met on a building site in 1979. He dropped a plank on my foot. I called him something unrepeatable. He bought me a pint after the shift. Haven't gone a week without talking since.
Three months ago we went to a funeral. Bloke we'd worked with. Cancer. The eulogies were beautiful - people saying what he meant to them, things they'd clearly never said to his face. And all I could think was, he can't hear any of this.
Every beautiful sentence. Every "he changed my life." Said to a room of crying people and a box of wood.
I turned to Barry. Whispered, "What a waste."
Drove home. Couldn't sleep. Because I realised, if Barry died tomorrow, I'd stand up and say extraordinary things about this man. Things I've never said in 46 years. And he'd be in the box, missing all of it.
So I wrote them down. Took a week. Harder than expected - not finding the words, but admitting I had them.
Rang him. "Tuesday. The Crown. Need to read you something."
"Have you joined a book club?"
"Just come."
Same corner table. Pint of bitter. Crisps. I pulled out the paper. He saw my hands shake.
"Mick. What's this?"
"Your eulogy. I'm reading it now because I'm not wasting it on a day you can't hear it."
"Have you gone mad?"
"Probably. Shut up and listen."
I read it. In a pub. To a man very much alive and very much uncomfortable.
I told him about the plank and how it was the best injury of my life. About the night he drove forty minutes in rain to help change a tyre. About how he rang every day for three months after my divorce and never once asked "Are you alright?" - just talked about football and weather, because he knew I didn't need a question. I needed a voice.
I told him he was the funniest man I'd ever known and his jokes were terrible and both things were true. That he'd been a better father than he thinks. That his wife's a saint and he knows it. That I'd have been a worse man without him.
He didn't look at me. Stared at his pint. Jaw tight. Doing that thing men do when the feelings arrive and they'd rather swallow glass than show it.
When I finished, long silence. Then he picked up his pint, took a sip, and said,
"You're paying for the next round. And the one after."
That was his answer. Perfect. Because Barry doesn't say "I love you too." He says "you're buying."
But in the car park, he hugged me. Not the quick back-pat. A real one. Thirty seconds. Neither let go first.
And he said quietly into my shoulder, "Don't read that again at the real one. I want new material."
Who would you write a eulogy for - while they're still here?
Don't wait. The flowers can't hear. The box doesn't laugh. Say it now. At the pub. Over a bad cup of tea. You'll feel ridiculous.
They'll look uncomfortable. It'll be the most important thing you've ever done.
Read them the speech while they can still hug you in the car park.”
I cannot reblog this enough. Never wait. Never hold back your feelings; young or old, man or woman. One day, tomorrow won't be there.
Men, for God's sake, show your feelings, it isn't shameful or weak. Its the bravest, strongest thing you can ever do. Tell your mates you adore them. You can love deeply, wholeheartedly, and sincerely without sex being anywhere near it. Loving another person of the same sex doesn't make you gay, but why worry about that anyway? Who cares, love who you will.
If someone has changed your life, make sure they know, thank them, tell them. You might never find out how much you have helped others but never think that your words don't have impact.
I have decided I need a t-shirt with some D&D image in the middle (a crossed sword and bearded axe behind a chipped shield perhaps), with the legend "I was conquering the Temple of Elemental Evil before you were born" emblazoned on it. I'm in my mid 60s. If I go into one more gaming shop where they look at me like I have no idea what I'm doing, I will scream. I was rolling dice before your parents were an item. I was a nerd before nerds were cool. I was checking for traps, listening at doors, and not splitting the party before you were in diapers! So please, younglings, do not regard this parent browsing the shelves of the games shop looking for a birthday gift for the son that SHE TAUGHT TO PLAY, as though she's no idea what a D20 is. I've made more critical roles than you've had hot dinners! I've rolled more 1s and nat 20s than you'll ever dream of. I have more dice in my collection than the hairs on your head... So please, do not look at me and assume I'm a novice.
Somewhere on my shelves I have the original grey box set. I am a Greyhawk girl. I've survived Ravenloft. I've played AD&D, Bushido, Call of Cthulu, Traveller, Elfquest, Shadowrun, Vampire (Dark Ages, Masquerade and Requiem), Mage; the Ascension, Werewolf; Apocalypse, Space 1889, Thieves World, Ars Magica, Judge Dredd, Star Trek (FASA), Babylon 5, Space Opera, Dr Who Adventures in Time and Space, Runequest, and now Daggerheart.
Seeing the diminishment and erasure of the legacy of Anne McCaffrey's Dragonriders of Pern series occur in my actual lifetime is mind-boggling.
You've got people out here making youtube videos about the legacy of dragons and dragonriding in fantasy fiction without talking about the dragonriding Grand Master of SFF herself Anne McCaffrey.
This isn't some obscure thing where I'm trying to promote someone who is only kind of known because of forgotten representation. Anne McCaffrey was A HOUSEHOLD NAME when I was a kid when it comes to fantasy literature. She's the first woman to win a Hugo and to win a Nebula. In 2002 there was a TV pilot filmed for Dragonriders of Pern.
Eragon, Temeraire, Toothless, and the dragons of Fourth Wing exist because these people grew up on the blueprint set by the Pern novels. Talking about dragons and not mentioning Pern is like talking about Orcs and not mentioning Lord of the Rings.
Y'all need to read your fucking classics before you go talking like an authority on a topic. Jesus Christ.
I’m kinda surprised that nalbinding isn’t as popular as crochet and knitting tbh because it has an even lower barrier of entry tools wise and unlike crochet and knitting it makes fabric that you can cut.
I feel like part of it might be casual people are generally aware of the existence of crochet and knitting, even if they don’t know very much about either, but have never heard of nalbinding
Yeah I hadn’t heard of it until recently and I ordered a big bone needle for myself to try it out and that should be arriving soon.
I was surprised that I’d never heard of it though. It’s older than knitting and crocheting and even though it’s been done all over the world it’s super relevant to Nordic culture and my grandmother and I are both into keeping in touch with our roots a bit so I’m surprised I’ve never heard of it.
It seems like the sort of thing that would be popular even if not as popular as crocheting and knitting, considering the low barrier of entry.
You also don’t need a bunch of different sized needles for nalbinding or whatever. The size of the stitch is controlled either completely freehand or by pulling it against one of your fingers. Most people who have a lot of nalbinding needles seem to either have tried out wood, bone, and metal ones to see which kind they liked or they enjoy carving wood or bone and like making their own needles as an extra hobby.
It’s also a lot easier to freehand and adjust as you go than crochet or knitting and you mostly go by inches instead of rows and number of stitches so a large number of accessories like stitch markers or whatever isn’t really necessary.
Maybe the lack of accessories also makes it unpopular idk. People do like collecting things in their nests.
I've been wanting to do so, I cannot find anyone who can teach me, and any books I can find on it are Ass in the Visual Learning department. Otherwise I'd be making the hell outta some nalbinded fabric
I thought this would be kind of a niche post to make but I was quickly reminded that I’m on tumblr, the website full of gay people with one billion hobbies.
The Jorvik Viking Museum in York has the UK's largest complete garment made from this - a sock.
I love this technique, it's such a great craft, but hardly anyone knows about it. If you're on Facebook, there's a nalbinding group. Sally Pointer has a very (new) good book written about it, and you could go with this lovely English lady who has these tutorials on you tube.
Hello! Welcome! To an Ancient Craft with A New Interpretation!
Here at Nidavellnir Nalbinding I'm going to teach you and show you all abou
I’m watching that documentary “Before Stonewall” about gay history pre-1969, and uncovered something which I think is interesting.
The documentary includes a brief clip of a 1954 televised newscast about the rise of homosexuality. The host of the program interviewed psychologists, a police officer, and one “known homosexual”. The “known homosexual” is 22 years old. He identifies himself as Curtis White, which is a pseudonym; his name is actually Dale Olson.
So I tracked down the newscast. According to what I can find, Dale Olson may have been the first gay man to appear openly on television and defend his sexual orientation. He explains that there’s nothing wrong with him mentally and he’s never been arrested. When asked whether he’d take a cure if it existed, he says no. When asked whether his family knows he’s gay, he says that they didn’t up until tonight, but he guesses they’re going to find out, and he’ll probably be fired from his job as well. So of course the host is like …why are you doing this interview then? and Dale Olson, cool as cucumber pie, says “I think that this way I can be a little useful to someone besides myself.”
1954. 22 years old. Balls of pure titanium.
Despite the pseudonym, Dale’s boss did indeed recognize him from the TV program, and he was promptly fired the next day. He wrote into ONE magazine six months later to reassure readers that he had gotten a new job at a higher salary.
Curious about what became of him, I looked into his life a little further. It turns out that he ultimately became a very successful publicity agent. He promoted the Rocky movies and Superman. Not only that, but get this: Dale represented Rock Hudson, and he was the person who convinced him to disclose that he had AIDS! He wrote the statement Rock read. And as we know, Rock Hudson’s disclosure had a very significant effect on the national conversation about AIDS in the U.S.
It appears that no one has made the connection between Dale Olson the publicity agent instrumental in the AIDS debate and Dale Olson the 22-year-old first openly gay man on TV. So I thought I’d make it. For Pride month, an unsung gay hero.
A stalwart of British acting, with an incredibly varied talent, from the hilarious Hercules Shipwright in Cabin Pressure, to long suffering Giles in Buffy, even Frank N Furter in Rocky Horror on stage, Anthony Head, you shall be missed.
Okayokayokayokaybut "My hand will wear out but the inscription will remain" is kind of a power line BEFORE you factor in that it is, in fact, over a thousand years old.
"Thorstein makes good combs" advertising his work in the 10th century...
We are all human beings, with faults, flaws, joys and ambitions, loves and hates. Same brains. That's why we progressed to where we are now. Kids make toys out of other people's rubbish a thousand years ago. An older medieval husband writes his young wife a helpful instruction book to teach her how to run a household. Medicine given by Saxons works on a modern antibiotic-resistant infection.
We are kind and generous and playful and fun. We are clever and inventive and open to new ideas. We have always done the best we can with the lives we have.
Adult ProTip, from a security professional: If a kid tells you, "My parents are gonna kill me / kick my ass / kick me out" for something relatively minor, don't respond with shit like "Really? ;) that sounds a little extreme, don't you think sweetie?" because that shit really does happen.
Instead, respond as though whatever threat they are afraid of is fully valid, and offer whatever you can do to help- ask if they believe they are in danger of being hurt in any way, and work accordingly.
If they're overreacting, they'll usually realize and dial it back, self-correct and begin thinking a bit more rationally.
If they're not overreacting, and the danger is real, then they'll need a level-headed adult in their corner, not another condescending authority figure who doesn't believe them.
Some kids who ARE being abused will backpedal too btw, and minimize things. But investigating gives you a chance to assess, and lets THEM know that there are adults who exist, who- even when they’ve done something wrong- still care about their wellbeing more than they care about punishment
Basic safeguarding practice in the UK, if a kid tell you they are feeing unsafe, listen to them. Don't promise to sort things out, don't make promises you cannot keep. If they ask you to keep it secret, don’t promise that either. Tell them that in order to keep them safe, you'll have to share the information with someone who can help them. Tell either your Safeguarding Lead if you are at work, if you have one, Child Services, or the police. Never share it with a parent if they are the problem. Coax as much info out of the child as you can; names, what happened, dates, addresses, and record this as well as your personal details. Don't write it down while talking to the child, do it immediately after. If you want to, repeat it back to make sure you've understood. Don't ask leading questions (how did that make you feel?), stick to facts. That kid is trusting you, so don't dismiss them. Remember to trust your gut feeling and report it even if you're not sure. It's down to others to determine if there is a case and effect the child's safety. You are the beginning, the catalyst.
Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling
and you don’t need much convincing
18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)
he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.
the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.
maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daella’s hair with the other, whilst listening to aemon’s muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.
and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.
he’s not gentle.
it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.
maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.
he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.
you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.
“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”
he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.
“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”
you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.
maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.
“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”
“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.
“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”
you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.
maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”
he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.
but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.
maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.
he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.
he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.
“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.
“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.
maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.
“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”
you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.
