How does it end?

Mostly we lie in different rooms now. For five days and nights I stayed in the same bed with her as it seemed to provide her with some comfort. I try to stay asleep or at least to appear asleep for as long as possible. Ultimately the dog starts frisking around. Scratching and yelping at the slightest noise. Telling me it's time to get up. So I do and we go out. He's become aggressive. When the three of us are behaving normally he behaves well. If she is ill he pushes the boundaries a bit further to see how secure the system on which he depends is. Then if I get ill too he pushes further. It feels like I'm holding it all up and that if I break we all do. Then we come back. I feed him. I make us tea. I try to get her to eat but she doesn't want to often. But I have to get her to drink and to keep up her blood sugar. She is constantly moaning and wailing. This is only broken up when she has a bout of coughing which causes her to urinate a bit and I try to keep things clean. I watch films on YouTube. Listen to audiobooks. Sometimes I can read when she can cope with the light. The constant wailing means she is always in my consciousness. She needs my constant attention. But I need a break so go try read. Between the coughing and wailing she will shout questions. She seldom knows what time it is. Never what day. There is no break. No moment to myself. I try to get her to the chemist and manage to by driving. A doctors appointment is missed as despite my attempts to get her to go she says she feels too poorly. She drifts in and out of delirium and becomes angry when I try to tell her she has something wrong. The doctors appointment is rescheduled for tomorrow. I've not been able to get out of her what time it is at. Tomorrow morning I will ring and find out. Then I'll try to get her there. I ask her what exactly is her main concern but she can't say. And lying here now I continue to listen to her cough and moan and wail. I feel selfish for wanting to know when I get some time. I know only that things won't get better. Maybe for a while but the direction is one way. I'm tired. But I know what I'm going through is not as bad as what she is going through.

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Chapter . Lipton

After the joyful feeling of being free from the mental hospital he'd been in for the last six months Lipton did not know where the fuck to go so he reverted to the lifestyle he was familiar with. He hitchhiked up to bridgewater for want of a better town. He went shoplifting at Asda and walked out with two large bags of shopping and a bottle of port. He even managed to lift a half decent summer tent. With his spoils he walked out of the town to the A road bypass and followed a trick he'd learned from Skree. He found a large roundabout that was covered in trees and shrubs and made his way to the hidden centre. It's a place few people go and a great place to pitch your tent and feel confident that no one will bother you. Once the tent was pitched Lipton stashed the food he'd nabbed and sat outside enjoying the sunshine on his face. Something he'd long been deprived of. Taking a few long swigs from the litre of port he realised that for the first time in months he felt properly happy.

There were a few hours of daylight left so he made his way to the edge of the shrubbery that protected the passing motorists from seeing his new home and waited for o gap in the flow of traffic and ran out to the grass that served as a pavement and walked the two miles to the town centre. He thought back to the events of the Noah destruction. How the Clun Druid witch girls had summoned up the writhing mass of conger eel demon hybrids. How the crazed ex copper had appeared in his tiny boat and fired his artillery of weapons that had blown a hole in to the side of the vessel owned by Rupert Bunsen. The well known entrepreneur. Once the spacecraft was breached the myriad of eels had flooded in with the sea water and eaten all the occupants. The sea had boiled and most of his crew of freinds; Druids, shamen and witches had been thrown in to the water. Only Brock had been smart enough to strap himself to the boat. Lipton had gone under as had Skree. Lipton had somehow managed to recover himself and climb back aboard the boat he'd stolen for the mission. Christ had taken a huge spray of the bullets from psycho cops automatic rifle. It had severed his body; decapitated The son of god who simply had no time to ask a favour from his father. In conversations Jesus had told him that he was on bad terms with his dad and he might not have saved him anyhow. Him and Brock had put the pieces of him in bin bags hoping beyond hope that he could somehow resurrect from this. Lipton remembered Brock lift his severed head with seemingly zero revulsion. But then the Druid he'd come to think of as a close friend since the bare knuckle fight they'd had at Bury Ditches massive illegal rave. He had robbed graves and even taken the heads of two ravers. Removed the brains from the skulls, dividing the hemispheres and carefully collecting the pineal glands for his witches. Compared to this a severed head was nothing.

After the demon eels had eaten all the wealthy people they'd dispersed. There followed a silence. He'd seen a few people who had not yet boarded the spaceship frantically make their way to the houses and the huge mansion that sat on Bunsen Island. Nevertheless they'd managed to kill a good chunk of the world's wealthiest people. This thought was uplifting but the price they had paid. The Druid girls were happy to be taken by the demons, after all they had summoned them up. Brocks brothers, and Skree! Liptons mood dipped ias he thought of his lost freind, his brother, his fellow shaman, all the missions and adventures they'd been on.

Brock had the binoculars to his eyes as Lipton scoured the area all night before having to leave. The survivors would have informed the authorities and their minions would soon be here. And they had looked too long already. There could have been no more survivors. He'd lost his brother and the journey back to the British and Irish islands was spent mostly in silence. Lipton had skippered the craft, Brock only speaking if he was offering food or drinks. The journey back was over 60 hours. On the way there they enjoyed a party atmosphere. The return was funereal. But they had done it. Their mission was always likely to be beyond dangerous. Two survivors, three if Jesus was who he thought he was. That was a result really. The waters were still as the Druid and the shaman slowly made their way across the sea. And at night they both saw clearer skies than they had ever seen.

They'd returned the boat to Porlock Weir in the early hours of the morning and no one bothered them. Brocks Land Rover was still there and they'd carried the components of christs corpse and loaded them in the back. Brock had offered him a lift but Lipton said he'd hang around Porlock for a while. This had been a mistake. Lipton had pestered the few pubs, drinking heavily for his lost friend. It was during a drunken night that the landlord had rang to have him taken away. His rambling about being a shaman, an archangel and lunatic stories of witch and Druid, lost on some imaginary expedition. He was sectioned under the mental health act. Not for the first time. But he was free now.

In Bridgwater town centre he'd sat and begged up £60 then bought some brown and white that he took back to his roundabout haven. Hidden from the receding traffic Lipton smoked the crack in a tin. Can bent and perforated to gather his cigarette ash. The crack was good quality and he enjoyed the rush that cut through his port drunk. Then placing his brown on the foil he chased it until the heroin softened his world. He had no mat or sleeping bag that first night but the alcohol and drugs were warmth enough for him to sleep in peace. A free man once more.

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Footwear

People who know me well will know that I have worn this type of boot for 15 years or more. They are robust. They are easy to take off if you are on site nipping in and out of caravans. Lace up shoes are ridiculous In such circumstances. You'd spend a good chunk of your day taking them off and putting them back on. The steel toe cap is solid protection if you are in the workshop and are handling heavy boards of timber. The heel loop has to be strong, leather in this case. I've had a number of makes that are priced anywhere from £30 to £100 and often the cheaper ones are better. I buy one pair a year and they hold out water for that long. Once they've let in water once they're done. It will happen again. Yet today a good friend gave me a pair of trainers. Native Americans have the philosophy that if you are to understand a man you must walk in his shoes for a month. So I'm going to where trainers for a month to understand the minds of the people in our society who wear t trainers or runners if you're reading this in Ireland. Trainer wearers are many. The design is much like toothbrush designs. In books no one looks down on you. In bright white trainers even the most polite people take a glance. It's only a month and it's for a good cause.

Chapter 5: The resurrection number 34

The resurrection number 34

Simon Whitaker or Diesel as everyone he now knew called him had always thought the bloke was a bit of a cunt. I mean who goes around calling themselves Jesus Christ? Arrogant arsepipe. He was always hitting on his girlfriend anytime he got the chance. Diesel wasn't the jealous type and Angie had a genuine dislike of the man but he still felt he couldn't trust him to be honourable. It wasn't particularly Angie that the bloke hit on it was without exception every bird on site. And what was beyond him was that his success rate was unreal. It was as if, rather than endure the perpetual pestering that continued despite rebuttal women seemed to give in. Just to get it over with! He knew a number of wankers who claimed they were Druids. Some girls claimed to be witches. One bloke even claimed to be the reincarnation of King Arthur. But Jesus fucking Christ! The sheer arrogance! But two months ago a serious looking man who had dark hair and even darker eyes had turned up. He carried himself with a presence that Diesel knew was something he had never seen. He claimed to be a Druid but he was nothing like the Glastonbury types who flounced about with a pretentious pompous air. This man was not theatrical. He spoke with a light Welsh lilt and said little other than he had brought his friend Jesus back. Diesel had a spare caravan used to store tools and engine parts. The visitor asked him to make a clear space on the bed. Diesel did as he was bid before being told he might prefer not to witness what was about to take place. Being his caravan Diesel rightly felt that he should be involved. The Druid raised his eyebrows but acquiesced. From a bin liner in a similar pile in the back of the visitors landrover he pulled out a human head. Diesel involuntarily vomited. Hair matted in dried blood he recognised the severed head of the man he knew as Jesus. At a workmanlike pace, ignoring the traveller's reaction, the Druid brought out the torso and limbs, one leg in two pieces and arranged the grotesque jigsaw in approximation of a man. Brock, the Druid looked to the other man in concern; 'you going to be alright son?'

Diesel could not summon words but nodded. 'Have you got a padlock or something? He's not a pretty sight and I've no more idea than yourself about how long it'll take him to get, you know, back to normal like.'

Diesel again nodded and fumbled through his tackle until he had found a clasp and lock to seal the abomination away from prying eyes.

'Well I best be on my way, lad. I know he's a cunt but can I trust you to let him do his thing? To be frank, despite my hatred of Christianity, he turned out alright. Just leave him be. He'll either rot or not. Make sure he's left to get on with whatever it turns out to be.'

Offering his hand to the traveller who was wiping vomit to respond in something like a civil manner. 'I'm Brock if you have a visit from a Skree or Lipton. Otherwise you haven't seen me at all.'

Diesel shook the Druids hand. It was quite clear from the baring of the man that he would submit to any request.

As he walked toward his Land Rover he nodded back. 'He's who he says he is you know. Believe it or not he's fucking Christ.'

For the first couple of weeks Simon Whitaker wondered if he was the patsy of some horrific murder. He mentioned nothing to Angie. If the shit did hit the fan he'd deny all knowledge and the fewer people who knew the better. Then on a sunny spring morning when he was left alone on site curiosity got the better of him. Carefully Diesel slipped the key he'd kept buried deep in his jeans pocket and felt the click as the u bend sprung free from the locks body. Pulling the clasp free he pulled the door an inch, no more, ajar. The laser like plane of light drew a line across what had been the component parts of a man. Somehow, by some miracle the parts were now fused. The skin retained the white, lifeless look of a corpse and no breath nor blood flow was evident. The shock was on a par with the horror of his arrival but something was changing. Diesel was a devout atheist and mocked his new age site neighbours. His mind had no compartment for what he was seeing. Hurriedly he fumbled, re locked the door and lent branches, tyres and other detritus to make it appear abandoned and empty. This was weird voodoo and he was fucked if he was getting any more involved than he already was. Fucks sake! Which was worse? Having the dismembered body parts of a man he only knew by his stupid nickname in his spare caravan and a good fifteen years if the filth, who had never taken a shine to him decided that he was the responsible one. Or the alternative. That all his understanding of science was just another story. That some sort of re animation was taking place. That life was bleeding into a corpse. That gravity had inverted. Or even worse; that the rancid, womanising, drunken, druggy who'd stretched his hospitality way beyond his patience was indeed Jesus Christ! It couldn't be possible. Diesel had no truck with the supernatural. All his life he had scoffed at the idiocy of astrology. Empirical evidence was the only measure of reality. The idea that a woman could be made pregnant by immaculate conception. That a man could come back from the dead. These were the imaginings of the gullible. Fairy stories for the weak of mind. So through the doubling down on his alcohol and drug consumption he managed to almost forget about the spare caravan and its contents. He compartmentalised it. Some days he didn't even think about it. And spring saw the green weaving of convolvulous, brambles and grasses and lichen patches disguised its appearance. Nevertheless the itch never left. There was no way he was taking a peep inside the thing and no one cared to do so either.

Some people find God from a mystical experience that blows open their materialist outlook. Some seek god to make sense of their apparently meaningless existence. Some people simply choose to believe finding it the most comforting option. And others have him walk right in despite every single particle of evidence to the contrary. For Diesel it came in the form of a filthy guest a Druid had dumped on him.

As resurrections went the one that had caused most repercussions was relatively painless. The so called mate Judas, so called best mate no less had proven a grassing cunt. After all the free wine he'd given the cunt over last few years as well. Jesus thoughts went back to the day. After the gang of homeless street drinkers both hung out with had been on a right old session most were crashed out. Empty and half empty wine bottles were scattered around the snoring heap of men and the whores they consorted with . Jesus was nodding off himself when he heard Judas.

'Jesus mate, I'm just popping down the all night garage. We're out of rizlas! You get a kip. I'll only be a few minutes.' With a furtive look Judas sloped off and Jesus thinking nowt of it fell sound asleep. Last he saw of that cunt. Next thing he knows….well you all know the story. Fucking Cunt! Jesus thought. It had been a painful death, four hours is a long time up on a cross. But bar the broken legs, nail holes and spear wound his corpse had been in relatively good nick. Obviously the numerous overdoses were easiest and since some genius had invented the hypodermic needle he'd had his fair share of those. But this had to rank right up there with the very longest. It was always hard to judge how long he'd been dead for but pulling aside the corner of the curtains it was clear that he'd missed the second half of winter. 'Result!' He grinned. After his birthday was over the long crawl through the first three months of the year has never been his idea of fun. Thirty yards away he could see a handful of people sat around the smoky embers of the previous nights fire. He recognised Diesel and Angie but the other three failed to spark any recognition. Of more interest was the crate of Karpackie 9% lager someone had kindly readied for him and better still it looked like an iPad was being passed round and there was nothing Christ liked more after a good resurrection was a few lines of Columbian marching powder.

Angie felt sure she'd seen the curtain twitching inside Diesel's spare trailer. The one he used to store all his junk for fixing cars and bikes, a skill he laboured over yet seldom seemed to get far with. A few weeks back she'd asked him if she could have a rummage through to see if any of her art materials were in there. Diesel had grown weirdly defensive and said that only car spares and tools were inside and firmly discouraged her from rooting about in there. Now there was undoubtedly some movement in the trailer.

Christ checked over his body, running his palms down his legs, flexing both. He pulled a few stretches to check all was working and began to look around for clothing. A heap of blood stained garments were scattered around him and soon he was dressed. Lacing up his boots and pulling tight a baseball cap he felt ready to roll. 'Ok mortals! I'm back!'

Two kicks and the door burst open and the glaring spring sunshine brought relief from the departing shivers of another death shaken off. Still a tad unsteady on his feet he unzipped his jeans, whipped out his cock and drained his bladder down the caravan side.

' When did that wanker turn up?' Angie asked her gobsmacked boyfriend.

'Er, he rocked up last night Ang! I forgot to tell you. It was late on and I didn't want to wake you.'

Bollocks! Angie thought and left the small band of crusties to let the boys get reacquainted. Last she'd heard he'd been off on some far fetched mission with his shaman mates Skree and Lipton. Word was they were all dead after some accident at sea. She was quite fond of Skree and Lipton. Just her luck that they two had snuffed it and the mysoginistic twat was the one to survive. Last time he was here he hung around for months, trying it on with her at any opportunity. She'd managed successfully to ensure she was not left alone with him for the best part of it until a night she'd regretted ever since. Fuck knows why she'd given in. He'd plied her with free wine. He always seemed to have crates of the stuff and once properly plastered he'd slipped her an e. She had to confess that it was in the loosest sense consensual but she wouldn't have given in had she had her wits about her. After the briefest of foreplay she'd succumbed to in her 34 years he'd flipped her round, bent her over the bonnet of Diesels escort and pummelled her face in to the paintwork. The shame had left a bruise on her psyche she'd never shaken off. Once he'd spurted his muck he'd swiftly whipped out his cock and wiped it on her skirt. 'That's better' he'd said as he walked away as though nothing had happened. Of course there was no way she could tell Diesel. It would have killed him. The first and last time she'd cheated on him. She just hoped this was to be a flying visit. Angie hated the cunt.

'This here is my old friend Jesus!' Diesel introduced the freshly resurrected dude to his traveller buddies.

'Nice to meet you brother!' The three mumbled. Nodding, two offering their hands to shake. Matty, the more observant of the group noticed the stigmata. A hole, perhaps an inch in diameter, clean through the new arrivals palm.

'I guess that's how you got the nickname' he offered nodding down at the palm he'd just shaken.

'Ah! Yeah! You guessed right.'

Christ couldn't be arsed with the palaver of telling the truth. In all the time Diesel had known him he'd never once noticed the holes through his palms. His world was slowly being turned upside down. He'd seen a collection of body parts that could not possibly have been alive, reform and now. After knowing the guy for a number of years he could see that both his palms had holes right through them. Was this really Jesus Christ? The son of God?

Downplaying it Jesus ran with Matty's misreading of the situation. It was, after all much less far fetched than the truth.

'I had a bit of a falling out with some people over a drug debt. Lucky to get away with my life if I'm honest. But not before the bastards nailed me to the floor!'

Jesus broke out in laughter with his story. 'Ever since I got the nickname Jesus! It's the cross I have to bare!'

The group cackled. It made a kind of sense. Not to Diesel but he was keeping quiet until he could question the man he thought he knew alone.

'Well so long as we don't have to pray to you.'

'Or worse still go to church!'

They all laughed, bonding as men do over jokes.

'I'm not being cheeky but can I trouble you for a can?' Christ asked looking at the crate of strong polish lager.

'Dig in brother!' Matty encouraged.

Offering the iPad his way, Ady, Matty's mate proffered a selection of the finely chopped white powder and a rolled twenty pound note.

' Don't mind if I do!' And the son of god hoovered up the largest line with a greed born of three months abstinence.

'Diesel mate, I have to ask but did you hear what happened to Skree and Lipton? They were the closest friends I've had in years. I became separated from them a few months back.'

Diesel shook his head. 'I'm sorry mate. No one has heard of them for months. I hope I'm wrong. I really do but there's very little chance that they are still with us.'

Christ bowed his head. Then something happened Diesel had ever even considered possible. A couple of tears fell down onto the iPads surface, one catching the corner of a powder line and instantly becoming absorbed rendering the cocaine, a substance more valuable than gold, rendering the drug all but useless. Ady quickly retreived the tablet to save the rest.

'No worries brother. I can dry it out.'

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I lost a massive piece today

I'd written over months. I've no clue how it happened and I've checked through all recently deleted files. It was about Jesus Christ and described his resurrection following the events that concluded the last book. The second book written about Lipton and Skree or Peter, the same character that I posted about but left out the ending. If there are any readers that followed the story Jesus had bumped into the two urban shamans at Bury Ditches hill fort. In fact he joined up with them at the second hill fort (these are real places in Shropshire) and went on with the two brothers of different mothers to the great party where all the main characters amassed. Following the party they teamed up with some Druids and witches and hot wired a yacht at Porlock Weir. Meanwhile the super rich were boarding a spaceship named Noah to leave behind the planet their Ilk had plundered. They were being followed by a psychotic maverick ex policeman and a young man under the influence of strange new psychoactive drugs. I haven't as yet finished that book and while I believe it is unique and interesting it requires some serious rewriting and tidying up. There are many loose ends that need to be brought together though I know roughly how it concludes.

Recently I began to write the follow up and as yet we only know that Lipton survived. He has been sectioned for some time but has been released. A dark and secretive division of MI5 has continued the Witchfynder general and his cohorts and we have briefly met him. Then I wrote the long opening to the latest resurrection of Jesus Christ . He's back on the traveller site, much like in the bible, hanging round with the types who have abandoned work, wives and families in favour of homelessness and street drinking attracted by the free wine and convincing patter that Christ is known for. The sole surviving Druid who, contrary to his pagan impulses, gathered together the limbs, torso and severed head and dumped them into an empty caravan that was unoccupied. Here Christ gradually resurrected though the sweet stench of putrefaction was repugnant to the traveller community though finally he was his old self and emerged from the trailer.

Anyway, I don't even know if anyone has read the two books that are somewhere in the middle, around 2015 ish. I'd like to complete and edit and rewrite the second book and perhaps even the first one but I'd like to complete the third too. It may be no bad thing I lost what I did as I'm sure I'll make a better fist of it second time around and I can remember the jist of it.

If anyone is out there reading it, and I think there are about a dozen who followed the story, please bear with me. It will be worth it.

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Side table

Are they called rectory tables. This one was cool. In a dark oak it had an arts and crafts feel to it. Maybe 10 feet long but only maybe 720mm wide it meant any side drawers would have to be not too deep. Losing a little from the overhang of the top a central structural rail meant they were restricted further. I discussed having alternative side drawers but not pleased with the asymmetrical look a sacrifice in function had to be made to preserve the look. Very shallow drawers too but they were only for cutlery and odds and ends. In one I made a drop in lining to form orderly divisions. A shallow but long drawer is the toughest to get to run smoothly; physics just isn't on your side. I overcame this by creating a double central concealed runners that stood underneath the drawers to prevent any annoying snagging that is common in long, shallow drawers. Again the stretchers weren't my ideal. I'd have gone for a simple version of the Barnsley hay rake structure that delivers an intuitive feel of security as all but the most inobservant people subconsciously succumb to the persuasion of. Our designers trade mark stretcher structure was indeed his own but there are reasons why designers have steered clear of this innovative triangular wheel. But in this context. A smaller side table or narrow kitchen main table would be perfectly strong and robust enough with no stretcher rails at all so we can forgive our designers shortcomings on this occasion. The legs were beautifully turned by Marley Wellings, a great designer in his own right who ended up knee high in shavings and dust each day because he was a great wood turner. Put the four legs together and even your vernier callipers struggle to find a difference. A remarkable craftsman. There were some decorative deceptions to make the side rails appear to run through the legs top but in truth these were appendages. The top was perhaps 22mm thick with breadboard ends. Another feature our designer was fond of and, to be fair they give a grounding fullstop. Table ends here. I made several of these but this was the first.
Now we come on to the chairs. Unforgivable was the verdict of my good friend Gareth. Indeed he was right. I was provided with silhouette paper templates of the designer and his wife's profiles. These I carefully bandsawed out they formed the backsplats for the two carvers. The chair was copied largely from a piece of vernacular furniture of French origin. It lacked some delicacy that might have been found on an English made chair of the arts and crafts movement though this was about 400 years old. The arms were tricky. Compound curves in free space are tricky but making its mirrored other hand takes a lot of free eye work with little to no datum to work off. The uprests hit under neath the palm hold of the arm and are secured with a split wedged dowel head. Otherwise pretty straightforward. But imposing your profile on the world on the back of your chair spews out an unnecessary pompous attitude that as Gareth accurately described as unforgivable.
In truth designers very rarely design pieces of furniture. Some do having spent time at the bench and still make the judgments one has to make by the myriad on a daily basis and quickly for the design to be commercially viable. But on the whole they do a drawing, a kind of styling. From here the maker picks up the baton and designs his or her way through all the problems and creates the reality with their hands. Usually there is some variation in opinion and the maker has to bring home the idiocy of what the designer sees as their free expression. And if you are looking to make this type of furniture where you genuinely are stood on the shoulders of giants it is important to recognise their wisdom as the giants speak, imparting their wisdom.

Some oak doors

Big door

Door ready and door fitted

Oak staircase winding box

Chair made from a railway sleeper

Stairs

Introverted Demon Box

I wonder where that is now

Massive dresser

Nice simple one

Hard to pick fault with this one

Door

Door

Last piece I made at that workshop using any old wood left kicking around

Can’t beat them

Planers now are often made using a spiral cutter block. Not only much quieter they leave a far better finish. The separate teeth are four sided and I think we only just needed to change them after ten months and a fuckload of wood had gone through them.

Building Jonathan’s workshop

Round window

A nice window for my bosses house

Can't fault this one. Interesting the contrasting timbers using up what was lieing around. Ultimately to be painted of course.

Wardrobes

These had a bit about them but they were made in an unheated converted agricultural building during the winter. Once inside the house in Bath they faced full force central heating and literally were ripped apart. We sorted them out in the end but you need to try to make a piece of furniture in similar conditions to where it will sit. Ideally let your timber into your warm workshop for as long as possible before you start.

Top details

Sort of squashed bureau

Nice colour contrast if a little gloomy. The black walnut plant ons were cool and had a violin like quality. However the over large flap that was to drop down and form a work surface for some rich kid to do his homework on lacked any slide out supports and relied on chains of bathroom sink like quality that provided a good inch of bounce to disorientate the young student. Mechanical movement in furniture has to work well. Of course one day some kid will sit on it and hopefully incur hospitalising injuries.

Another one from the bad table design that became something of a style icon to a specific school of design

See how the dovetail drops into the circle section rail. If you have a fat nephew over for Christmas and the young porker seeks a hiding place, don't let him under your table to sit on that oh so fragile rail. Having left the place some five years ago I free to say a few things, things I said before these tables were even made. I wonder how many have gone and how many are still waiting to go.

The biggest dresser in the world

Built for a shop in London from Douglas fir. The finish was ruined by the designer's intervention. He didn't understand how to use wax and it will no doubt look very dirty now.

Table for designer

Here is a table, one of maybe 20 I made to the same design. At first glance the untrained eye might see a sturdy oak kitchen table. But the designer's eye will see not just style or look but will understand why a 'look' evolves. Take the Barnsley hay rake tables in the library at petersfield. The structure is the three dimensional diagram of the different structural forces that come to bare on a table. My reimagined version in Ash for the modern day, well 23 years ago but in terms of this sort of furniture a decade or two is not a long part of its life. They are tables built to last millennia. But here we see a none structure. A poor structure. A drunken oaf at Christmas dinner, full of port and turkey might slam his feet down on the stretcher frame. And try imagine, if you're not a good designer and can't see it yet. Imagine three siblings just below puberty, hiding alongside each other, hidden under the table and all bouncing at once. Even more simply imagine glueing it up. I won't name the designer but he is well regarded and is often seen in interior design magazines and Sunday supplements. And of course from the moment he showed me the drawings I told him what I thought. I tried to explain to him that there is a reason why things look the way they do. To adopt the style severed like a head from it's body, to dismiss structure as though it were a trivial matter for the consideration of the tradesman. And of course class comes in to play. While I may know how to design furniture the fact I know how to make it too becomes of great use to the middle class dandy. I've lived a life seeing these characters. They are much like the different versions of doctor who. They're a little bit eccentric. A little bit wild. Perhaps long hair, a beard or brightly coloured clothing. They are able to speak the language of the wealthy. Able to deliver a flamboyant performance with an air of confidence. To play the part of a visionary; a special man. And the client wants this more than anything. The theatrical manner and the use of language that draws the client into thier vision because, let's face it the clients have even less. To confidently say that this magnificent table is available for even less than you are paying for your mass produced car. This bespoke wonder that comes from the designers educated and intuitive genius, from a very special person, the like of which you are seldom fortunate enough to come across, this bespoke, hand crafted play on traditional themes yet with a comedic subtlety of touch that is the pure epitome of the arrows tip of style, an arrow that you too could be aboard during the commissioning process. Such a special man.
I actually like the guy who designed this series of tables of which I made about 20. And I can't do what he does. I am always agnostic. I'm not sure of anything. I know I can be wrong and I don't have the confidence to tell a client otherwise. I'm humble. I don't wear strange clothes, drive a vintage car or affect idiosyncrasies I don't naturally have. I don't know how to talk to people of certain classes. I try but it's easier to not.
So there you go. If you get to be a competent maker but lack the social skills, no it's deeper, lack the conceit to believe you are right when experts tell you that you are wrong, then you will end up making pieces for these performers, these charlatans, these snake oil salesmen. And it will be their names in the books and magazines.
So there you go. A crap table frame design I perfected making for a well known designer whose work graces the homes of many a wealthy John who only had weekends to find out what really special objects are about.

Extroverted Demon Box with drawers showing

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1Be7KnNPzB/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Sent from my iPhone

Extrovert Demon Box

https://www.facebook.com/share/1DAomQg49c/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Sent from my iPhone

Stairwell moths

Common Plume