The driver of the 07.44 Gatwick Express to London Victoria usually starts his onboard announcements/excuses with ‘Good morning, gents’. Perhaps someone would be kind enough to tell him that women now have the vote and that some of us actually commute. That is, of course, once we’ve done our chores.
You’ve seen the photographs on my website — now view them in a beautiful gallery setting!
A selection of my work is on sale in the Eclectia Gallery in Brighton Marina Village, East Sussex. Swoon at the vibrant colours, sigh at the gorgeous images and smile as you realise you can now buy a Milton masterpiece and take it home to admire at your leisure.
Go on, make yourself happy, visit the Eclectia Gallery and buy a slice of my Brighton in a frame. You know you want to.
The Eclectia Gallery, 3 Mermaid Walk, Waterfront, Brighton Marina Village, Brighton, East Sussex BN2.
www.juliemiltonphotography.com
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think it was summer a few weeks ago. Anxious to get some rare sunshine, I headed for the beach and exposed my brilliant white legs (that’s brilliant white as in the Dulux colour chart, not a complimentary description) to the elements for a few hours.
At home later that evening, my sunburnt feet, ankles and shins were pinky-pinky, burny-burny. Lesson for the day? Even in the heat of the moment, always remember to practise safe socks.
It’s Artists Open Houses time again and this year I’ll be exhibiting my photographs of beautiful Brighton and beyond in a very special venue – All Saints Church in Hove. An Open House regular, my images include seascapes, the seaside, street scenes and abstracts, with prices starting at an amazing £20.
Part of the Hove Arts trail, Art @ All Saints is a group of talented artists boasting a fantastic range of photography, jewellery, paintings, ceramics and textiles.
For a heavenly experience in a divine venue, visit me and my fellow artists at All Saints – see you there!
Where: All Saints Church, The Drive/Eaton Road, Hove BN3 3QE
When: May 7-8, 14-15, 21-22, 28-30
Opening times: 11-6 Saturdays and 12-6 Sundays
See my website at: www.juliemiltonphotography.com
More details on Hove Arts venues and artists at: www.hovearts.com
For information on Artists Open Houses, visit: www.aoh.org.uk
Forget Burberry, BlackBerry, Jimmy Choo and Green & Black’s. If you’re after real shopping satisfaction, buy a stepladder. You may well raise your eyebrows, but once you’ve handled that firm but lightweight body, got up close to its supportive side straps and appreciated its British Standard-approved build, you’ll realise life will never be the same.
You see, it’s all very well living in a character building, but with 13ft-high ceilings and me being just shy of 5ft 3, it’s character building just trying to change a light bulb. My floor-to-ceiling windows are impressive, but I can’t reach the curtains to take them down when they need washing, or comfortably reach the smoke alarm to replace the battery.
It was time for action and when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. It was time to resist the seductive pull of H&M, Next and New Look. It was time to say ‘no’ to a Greggs Steak Bake and a Costa coffee on a Sunday morning. It was time for this girl to grow up and go shopping for a stepladder.
Determined to get over my fear of all things DIY, I gingerly stepped into Robert Dyas, willing myself not to roll over and die of boredom at the sight of screwdrivers and spanners, Rawlplugs and white spirit. Then, hanging out with the laundry baskets, there he was, tall, strong, and ready to help a damsel in distress – my £43 Atlas five-tread aluminium stepladder.
It was love at first sight. I quickly took in his sturdy frame and swooned over his lockable platform and slip-resistant feet. Now all I had to do was get him back to my crib. I did what any woman in need (and in love) would have done. I paid my money, slung him over my shoulder and headed up the hill to home. Reader, I carried him.
Within minutes of getting back, I’d torn off his protective wrapping, got him into my bedroom and up against the wall. I gently caressed his unflinching frame and he stood proud and steady as I mounted him. Suddenly I was working my way up to heaven and my tab-tops were getting the attention they so richly deserved.
An hour later, it was all over. I was emotionally spent, physically satisfied and deliriously dreamy. My tab-top curtains had been safely taken down, washed, and were now clean and back up at the window. My bedroom was a haven of happiness and heavy with the aroma of ladder love and Bold 2-in-1 Lavender & Camomile.
And it won’t stop there. Now I’ve got a taste for altitude and aluminium, I’m going to be mounting my ladder at every opportunity. I’ll relish resetting the smoke alarm, painting peeling cornices and making light of blown bulbs. Mark my words, this girl’s going up in the world.
It’s official. Last December was the coldest on record. That explains why I’ve been eating for England, look like the Grim Reaper in Ugg boots and am still sharing my bed with a hot-water bottle (and, unfortunately, precious little else). Winter isn’t done with us yet, but we’ve already had more than our fair share of snow. Here are three things to bear in mind about the white stuff:
1. It’s beautiful to look at
2. It’s wonderful if you’re a toddler or a terrier
3. Treat it with caution if it’s yellow
Last winter’s avalanche of snow and ice resulted in our street becoming treacherous underfoot and virtually impassable. The council, in its infinite wisdom, deemed not to grit the street or those surrounding it, choosing only to treat the main highways.
Once again I witnessed people (unsuccessfully) re-enacting Dancing On Ice on the rink outside my window, while two vans abandoned mid-pirouette in the middle of the road were the stars of a bizarre open-air ballet.
After almost a week of living in these picturesque but hazardous conditions, we residents had finally had enough. One bright sunny morning people ventured outside and like one big chain gang proceeded with grit, salt and shovels to clear the pavements of snow and ice. Neighbours previously only on nodding terms began talking to each other and there was an air of community spirit and goodwill. Our Regency square looked like a snowy film set and at any moment I expected the men to puff out their chests and burst into a rendition of Who will buy this wonderful morning? A few hours later the street was passable once more and all was well with our world.
So this year, should you find yourself trapped inside because of the snow and fancy getting to know the neighbours, grab a shovel and some salt, and hit the road – it’s a great way to break the ice.
I entered the room, removed my top, slipped off my bra and stood in front of the assistant with a self-conscious smile.
Then I realised I was in Starbucks.
‘Right,’ said the assistant, glancing down at my chest, ‘that’s two flat whites to go, then.’
For someone who doesn’t own a mixing bowl or a 12-hole bun tin, I watch a lot of food and cookery programmes. Blame it on Holby City, Toilet Duck, fungal infections and mouthwash. Stick with me on this one.
After a hard day at the coalface of magazine publishing, I arrive home at 8pm, prepare my microwave meal and sit down in front of the TV to eat. And without fail, just as I’m about to tuck into my M&S Lemon & Ginger Chicken Curry, the adverts come on. Suddenly I’m bombarded with giant toes brandishing discoloured nails, close-ups of lavatories in need of a clean, and mouthwash: ‘Simply swish, spit, and see the results in the sink!’ Erm, not while I’m eating, thank you. I hastily switch channels, only to witness a patient in hospital drama Holby City vomiting into a bowl. Nice.
In an attempt to skip the sick and lose the lav, I turned to MasterChef. In fact, I’ve become so hooked, that when my microwave pings, I pretend I have two minutes to plate up and present my meal to the programme’s hosts, John and Gregg. Will my Tesco Lamb Moussaka, lovingly microwaved to within an inch of its potato topping, get me through to the next round?
But it isn’t only MasterChef that provides food for thought. Man v. Food, fronted by the boyishly handsome and charismatic Adam Richman has my stomach rumbling and my heart skipping in equal measure. Adam travels around America visiting pig-out establishments, sampling the house specialities and taking on scoff-tastic food challenges.
In Man v. Food, portions are always huge and look delicious. Burger buns burst with chicken, beef, melted cheese and pickles, and come served with generous side orders of fries and onion rings. No use denying it, the show brings out my inner American. I long to devour those juicy burgers dripping with melted cheese, or order a multi-deck marinated meat and salad sandwich. It’s this naughty-but-nice attraction that makes Man v. Food so watchable. I can enjoy my fantasy of tucking into grub I don’t usually eat, while my hero Adam clogs up his arteries for me. Now that’s what I call love.
Despite the onslaught of boiling and baking and roasting and toasting, until recently I simply let these programmes wash over me as I ate, never seriously thinking I was actually going to cook anything. The notion just doesn’t appeal to me. I get home late, I’m tired and hungry, and I’m certainly not ready to spatchcock a chicken. But the relentless drip, drip, drip of MasterChef and Man v. Food, seems to have seeped into my foodie subconscious.
Inexplicably, on a recent overcast Sunday afternoon, I suddenly had the urge to make rhubarb crumble (or, more accurately, to eat some). The concept of using my oven other than for something to rest pans on, came as a body blow. I’m still getting to grips with the idea, so don’t expect to find me in the kitchen elbow-deep in flour and marge just yet. But I’ll get there eventually. I’ve found the recipe and am working up to buying a pie dish. One step at a time, Jules. One step at a time. Just hope I don’t make a fruit fool of myself and crumble at the first hurdle. The proof, as they say, will be in the pudding.
Some people are never happy, are they? Take my neighbour M, for example. No, seriously, please someone take her. Noisy neighbours are a pain and they can make life hell. But despite M’s protestations and opinions, I am not a noisy neighbour.
In what must have been an oversight on my landlord’s part, my Victorian conversion flat doesn’t come complete with zero gravity. Nor is there a series of chains and pulleys dangling from the ceiling from which I can swing from A to B without touching the ground. Bad, inconsiderate landlord! It means that I have to walk from room to room, much to the despair of M, who can apparently hear me stomping around on a regular basis. All 5ft 2, 8st of me. Oh, how those floorboards must groan under my weight.
In a recent episode, being a decent person, I called M to say that I was having four friends over to stay and would be coming in late. She huffed and puffed at my news, saying that it was noisy enough with just me in the flat.
Now let’s get something straight. Firstly, I was being considerate in letting her know I was having friends over. Secondly, I was under no obligation to do so, and thirdly, I did not sign up to a life of solitude when I moved in. I’m out for 12 hours a day, come home at 8pm, have dinner, watch TV, then go to bed, ready to start all over again the next day. No parties. No loud music. No practising Ten Green Bottles on a French horn. What can I possibly be doing that is driving my neighbour to distraction? Oh, that must be it, breathing.
Of course, insulation could be better in many homes and people should be mindful of the fact, but I could be a stay-at-home mum with a youngster toddling around. I could be playing loud music all day. I could be making mad passionate love all night with a guy who screams my name (or that of his favourite football team) every time he shoots and scores. M doesn’t know how fortunate she is to have me.
When my friends and I got home after our Saturday night out, we sat happily reflecting on the evening. No music, no TV, no Mexican wave across the living room. Then we began to blow up the makeshift air bed. Suddenly the phone rang and it was M from downstairs ranting about all the noise we were making, the constant thumping on the ceiling and that I was being selfish. Get. A. Life.
Now M is selling up and moving on. With her acute sensitivity to, and zero tolerance of, noise of any description, why she lived in a basement flat, I’ll never know. She’s probably off to live in a lighthouse. Jesus, I hope the sea behaves itself.
Yes, it’s that time of the year again! Artists Open Houses, which sees Sussex artists displaying their work and inviting the public into their homes will run at weekends during May.
The popular event is the perfect opportunity for artists to showcase their art and for the public to buy some original pieces. This year I will be exhibiting my photographs of Brighton, Paris and Venice at the Vehicle Testing Station in Hove. It will be my fourth Open House appearance and I’m looking forward to sharing studio space with other artists. As well as photographic prints, a range of paintings, stencils and street art will also be on show.
If you fancy a day at the seaside with the added bonus of looking around other people’s homes, then Artists Open Houses is for you. See you there!
To see my Hove Arts home page, go to www.hovearts.co.uk, click on ‘Artists’, then ‘Julie Milton’. The Hove Arts website also has details of all venues and artists on the Hove Arts trail.
Venue: Vehicle Testing Station, 20 Cambridge Grove, Hove BN3 3ED.
Opening times: 11-6pm weekends of 1-2, 8-9, 15-16 and 22-23 May.
For details on Hove Arts, visit www.hovearts.co.uk
For details on Artists Open Houses, visit www.aoh.org.uk