A friend suggested I check out the work of textile artist, Yorkshireman Mister Finch.   The fruit of two years' work, he has published a book to accompany his major exhibition which opened yesterday.  There was a book signing event today at YSP and, intrigued by this enigmatic character, it was the perfect opportunity for another creative top up.

When I arrived at the Visitor Centre just before the signing began, the queue was already snaking out beyond the doors.  In true un-British style I went on my meander.  It was a belter of a day and I quenched my thirst to be beside water as I took yet another unfamiliar route through dappled woodland.

Appeased, I returned a couple of hours later and headed straight upstairs to view Mister's work.  I wasn't disappointed as I admired his pungent squishy toadstools adorning the ascending staircase.  I was whirled into a pinch-me wildlife wonderland.  I felt privileged at seeing his deliciously intricate and almost over-imaginative work so close.  He has taken upcycling to an exquisite level.  I feasted on the minute details of the finery of his work and was astonished at how he has injected each character with a vivid personality.  I loved the plush thuggishness of his soft moles.  His hedgehogs were delicately spiky, his rats amusingly benevolent.  I couldn't get enough of his giant buttermotherfly with it's twirly tongue alighted beside an arachnid that could've played an extra in an Alien movie if it didn't look so, well, cute.  A skilled anthropomorphist, I can easily imagine Finch engaging in lengthy conversations with his individually christened, lovingly crafted intricate creations in a candle lit studio in the eaves of an antique filled Victorian house.  I'm sure nothing could be further from the truth but allow me to indulge.

I looked down at the dwindling queue and saw my opportunity to meet the man behind the dreamlike creatures.  I observed patiently while he charmed his audience with his warmly charismatic easy personality.  Bearded and dressed in a white shirt, an inappropriately hot looking wool waistcoat, snappy tan leather shoes and with a lively twinkle in his eye, he was a genuine gentleman and gratifyingly quirky.  I couldn't help but be fixated by his finger candy - a topless thimble.  How very apt!  He told me the story behind it.  What a warm open gentle soul with a mischievously dry sense of humour and devoid of artificial airs and graces.  In my brief research I noted he was a cat lover so I knew he couldn't be bad and we would at least have something to talk about, but we didn't dwell on the subject and I sensed he'd been asked about felines before.  I told him I noticed all but one of his pieces had been sold (I wish I'd written a wish post) and he was modest in his pleasure.  Although he had a brace of vigilant attendants, I sensed he didn't really need them.  I asked if he wouldn't mind signing a card for my friend and he also patiently signed one of his beautiful flyer posters for me (sorry K if you're reading this, with hindsight I should've gone with his flyer suggestion...)  As I spelt out my name I told him I was Welsh and went on to say I was a musician too.  In my playful mood I asked him to guess which instrument.  Groan.  No wonder the poor bloke struggled to write my name with my barrage of chatter.  Flute? *?!?*  Ummm, triangle? *?!?!!*  Ummmmmmm, guitar? *?!?!?!!!****  Somewhat disappointed at his admission of defeat, I gave my childish game away.  I took my leave of this unique authentic character with a heartily firm handshake.  Afterwards I felt a strange sense of being okay with being how I am, being quirky, being me.