Photography, art, and copyright

abstract image

Drowning Fields adapted from an original photograph by Slawek Staszczuk http://www.photoss.net

Since re-entering the art world recently (long layoff, politics, diversion, good-career-anyway-so-never-mind!), I’ve discovered something I hadn’t known which is that many people work from photographs, replicating the image with superb (or varying degrees of) accuracy, or placing on it their own interpretation. Many use their own photos for this, after all, it’s got to be more comfortable painting a landscape back indoors than struggling with the elements on a windy hillside, and do cats ever sit still when you need them to? But some don’t, they use images from the internet or cut from magazines and, from what I can tell, many are unaware that using those images is a breach of copyright if they pass them off as their own, and especially if they go on to enter them in competitions or benefit financially from them without crediting the photographer and getting their permission to do that. It’s a bit like someone re-typing one of my stories in a different font or rendering it as a poem and then cashing in on it without mentioning that it was mine in the first place, and since that’s plagiarism so must be using photographs in that way.

The image then: This is based on a photo from a magazine which my local art group has chosen as a project by which all of us can display our different skills. Most will never see a public platform of any kind but you know me, I was born with an Enter button pre-installed just waiting for the internet to happen! The photographer is Slawek Staszczuk and his website is www.photoss.net. Our agreement is that my adaptations of his work will not be used in connection with any commercial venture or for any profit which, to my mind, includes even local art competitions, and that I will send him links to wherever they end up – something he may regret asking! I’d include his original for comparison but since I’ve no idea what magazine it came from, I can’t request permission so you’ll have to take it from me that it’s very beautiful, full of luscious greens, and about as far from my interpretation as it’s possible to get. As to what ‘Drowning Fields’ means, you’ll not be surprised to find there’s an ecological message paddling around in there about rising sea levels. It’s probably easier to pick out in the colour version*, executed in Rebelle2 software, where you might spot a seal, a whale, turtles, and coral. The monochrome skinned down image above was further filtered in Procreate on my iPad.

I have paint and I’ve even used it recently but heck, I couldn’t resist importing the picture and running it through some software for added oomph! It’s called Beach Huts and it’s on the Rebelle* site next to this one. The sky top left quarter is unadulterated paint and pastel.

*My grandly titled gallery for Rebelle based work is here.This software is very easy to use, unlike some of the more elaborate programmes such as Paint Shop Pro’s Painter/Essentials. The paint behaves like paint, it runs and blots and drifts about, it merges unless you dry it, and you can do that with a click which is a whole lot easier than a hair dryer! What’s more, there’s no palette for cats to wander through, or water to knock over (or absently take a swig from instead of your coffee), and no disposal problem for leftover oils and acrylics. And if your eyesight is becoming a tad iffy, you benefit from being able to zoom right in while you dot in the tiny details. Perfect!

‘Let Me Tell You a Story’

Now released as an album via Soundcloud. All audio tracks are free to access but if you prefer to see what they’re saying, the book is still available from Amazon.

‘I Don’t Like Mondays’

drawing of car on top of trainI am travelling to work as usual but I have changed my route slightly with a view to using the outdoor parking area. So, tootling gently along and preparing to turn right at the appointed moment, I am mildly irritated to find that there is an obstruction accompanied by a degree of ill-tempered inter-vehicular communication, blocking my preferred exit so I have to drive on to the next one. It’s 8.15 on a Monday morning, I already don’t need this.

Missing that turn means heading for the underground car park, a dismal affair at the best of times, but with the influx of new parties having permission to use it, it’s currently wearing an air of contained chaos along with the obligatory grunge. My car and I plunge down into the murky depths. At the bottom, there’s a narrow-ish track with, to the right, some shops and to the left, a railway line. In fact the track is a lot like a station platform with all the bustle you’d associate with that environment. Vans juggling around bikes, bikes juggling around people, and everybody rushing. The buses come down here too to discharge passengers bound for the day care services above, so wheelchairs and the occasional lurching individual unsteady on their pins but going like the clappers anyway, appear – like those targets used by the military to teach soldiers how not to shoot the good guys.  I pick my way along, keeping an eye on the drop to the left onto the rail line.

 

Suddenly, a van pulls in from the right and starts to move into my space. Any closer and I’m taking the 8.45 to Victoria, assuming my unorthodox boarding strategy doesn’t impede its progress. I holler. The driver ignores me so I stop. This is one situation in which discretion is probably the best approach but there’s a jam up ahead and he is stationary in it. I leap out of the car, hurl myself up the road after him, and let him have the full glare with elbows akimbo in through his open window. He winds it up and lets off a stream of invective without waiting to hear what I have to say. It looks as though he may be used to this kind of encounter, in which case he’s going to win because he’s undoubtedly better at voluble ignorance from inside his cab than I am at articulate indignation from the middle of the road.

I retreat and head back to my car to resume my journey. Well, that’s the plan anyway but there’s a flaw in that the car has vanished. I trawl the locality, up and down, in and out of road-side establishments. Eventually I come across a man at a fruit and veg stall who knows what happened and it’s not good; it’s far from good. He’s been talking to a Detective Chief Inspector and now I get to talk to him too. I explain what happened and he tells me my car has been impounded so I’ll have to apply to get it back but it might be ‘a while’ because they’re investigating a murder that has major implications and my car is one of its casualties. ‘But I’m going on leave!’ I wail, with all the naïveté of a person whose winning lottery ticket just emerged from the heavy-wash-spin cycle as a bedraggled lump of papier mache.

At this point, the fire sprinklers start up and my new T shirt becomes transparent. To say this is not turning out well is an understatement. My car has been impounded in a murder case and won’t be released for decades, I am late for work and I am essentially naked in a public place.  What to do?

Well, wake up of course[1]. They say some dreams take only seconds of real time; but this one took a life-time’s worth of anxiety metaphors and, when I’ve got them all pinned down and translated I am SO going to have words with the local chapter of Psychotherapists Anonymous. They’d better have insurance is all I can say

[1] Yes, really sorry about that but it happened and it took me most of the morning, which did not involve close encounters with trains or involuntary indecent exposure, to recover. Vivid narrative dreams that I actually remember are a rarity and normally I’m just left with a vague feeling of having fought off the screeching  hordes of Hades with nothing to show for it but a couple of detached spider legs on the pillow.

 

From From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

‘McCartney and Hendrix Should Not Be Held Responsible’

drawing woman playing guitarDid we talk about my guitar lessons? No, probably not.  Well, after a zillion years of consuming the product of other people’s efforts, I’ve decided to take a shot at it myself. I did used to play, plucking out a melody on an upside-down old acoustic and receiving the adulation of family members, but that’s where it stopped. When you’re a leftie, anatomically speaking, in the early sixties and have the social constraints both of class and being a GIRL, the idea that account might be taken of your disadvantage never occurs to anyone. Yes, we had Paul McCartney but beyond noticing that his guitar was the wrong way round, we never gave a thought to how he managed to make the same notes as everyone else or what he did with his strings. At the time, we were more preoccupied with his boyish rabbit-in-headlights appearance which contrasted nicely with Lennon’s rather more rakish demeanour. Looking like the kid who just got detention for hiding in the cloakroom during break and hauled out by his ear, Lennon was the Beatle parents least wanted their daughters to warm to, although even he was preferable to any number of Rolling Stones whose unwashed and deviant personae sent dads into a frenzy of gate-keeping activity. To say there was a national lock-down for teenage girls during that era is to suggest that Khrushchev and Kennedy were maybe having a bit of a spat over a few silly weapons in Cuba. Had there been DIY stores at the time, the run on locks and heavy duty razor wire would have cleaned them out.

Anyway, the upshot was that, plonking aside, I never really got to ‘do’ any music. Even when Hendrix crashed onto the scene, his handedness rather passed me by.  By that time I was at art college and although art was essentially the medium through which its practitioners would abstract and interpret the real world, actually living in it was not terribly cool so we didn’t. As a result, I was more inclined to float enigmatically and with a studiously vacant expression to ‘Purple Haze’ than try to figure out how he achieved an Amaj7. It didn’t matter of course. Unlike doing the high jump, playing tennis or rounders, or passing maths exams. Ok, maybe the last wasn’t so much down to being left handed as being mathematically brain-dead but you get the picture.  With tennis, I was always facing the wrong way and spent most lessons searching in the cow field for a ball that my powerful but undisciplined clout sent there. Rounders? Goes straight to first base and you’re out. Embarrassing but not injurious, unlike the high jump when, taking off from the same start as the righties, you end up in a tangle of legs and poles through trying to pirouette in mid-air having taken off from the opposite foot.

The delight, although possibly not for my close neighbours, is that a search through that wonderful Emporium, the Internet, reveals gee-tars of all kinds, including a selection properly constructed and strung for lefthanders. Unfortunately, the one I bought didn’t come with a plug-in talent chip so I’m having to struggle with fingers that now seem ridiculously short and fat, a chest I can’t see over to find the chords, and a left hand that has suddenly become more wooden than an entire series of Space 1999[1].

I have a patient teacher. He plays heroically along while I crash and stutter from A to C, D to Em, then G to something that ought to be C again but plainly isn’t.  After practising the simple ditties he left me (‘Jambalaya’ being one and ‘Wonderful Tonight’ another and I am SO SORRY you guys.) I discovered I have two speeds. The first, my troubadour mode, results in recognisable chords at least and goes chord tuneless-wailing, chord more-wailing. The vocals, if we can call them that, offer an interval of time during which I can line up for the next strike of the strings in the manner of an ice skater preparing for a big jump. There is certainly a jump but I rather fancy the scores would come in at a generous 3.2 leaving me well out of the medals.

My other speed is George Formby. Told to keep moving, never mind what the right hand is doing, my left is going like the clappers on the grounds that any attention to its activities will bring it shuddering to a halt. You won’t have heard ‘Sorrow’ played in the ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ styleeee I expect and for that you should be more than grateful.  In fact if you pay me, I might consider not putting it on YouTube. I’m not greedy, a couple of quid each would be fine. Tonight I have a Roxy Music number in my sights.

[1] What can you say about Space 1999? Like Thunderbirds without the strings, it was on British TV in the 1970s and probably set the standard for Blake’s 7. We were easy to please.

 

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

Unlocked: final three audio tracks from Let Me Tell You A Story

So go on, let us do that – we’re ready and waiting.

‘Terminus‘; descent into a room of sly eyes.

‘Puddles Like Pillows’. When gravity stops holding things down & litter fills the skies.

Phillippa Yaa de Villiers exceptional poem, ‘Origin’. 

From Let Me Tell You a Story available from Amazon.

‘Dressing Up Boxes, and Dressing Up By Wearing Boxes’

drawing of figure with wingsYou have to be a certain age to remember dressing up boxes. Today’s tiny tots can put in for a replica of the entire Beckham estate for Xmas & call their lawyers if Santa doesn’t deliver, so the frisson of transforming cast off curtains and abandoned antimacassars into theatrical costumery will be lost to them.

Our dressing up box was a battered old suitcase out of which we selected ancient curtains & lace doilies to serve as the trappings of royalty. Net curtains became the wings or the floaty ethereal dresses of fairies; the big velvet ones you had to lug out two-handed transformed scabby-kneed six year-olds into caped crusaders, aided by some tin foil and a cracked cricket stump to serve as a death ray. A bit of old rag and several terabytes of imagination and you were castaways, princesses, knights and astronauts, pirates and bandits, pressing into service old cardboard boxes, stuff from your dad’s tool box and any domestic animals that could be persuaded to wear a bonnet.

But once you’re grown up, that’s it, isn’t it?  Well, no as it turns out. Somewhere in the depths of your computer, assuming it’s fast enough and has a graphics card you could light NASA up with, is the facility to grant access to the biggest dressing up box you ever saw in your life.  Second Life[1], actually. Once you’ve signed up, logged on and discovered how to make your legs work, you can be let loose onto The Grid, as it’s called by its developers, or the ‘What the Cripes Was That?’ as everyone else knows it, at least until they’ve discovered how not to wear boxes on their heads[2].

Once there and in full charge of your limbs, you can head off (walk, fly, teleport if you don’t mind) to a shopping mall of your choice and dress yourself in anything at all that takes your fancy. A bit of a yen to be a punk? Missed out on the Goth era and fancy taking another crack at it? Want to feed your inner Barbara Cartland with acres of pink fluff and confection? No problem.  You can even change your skin colour, your hair and your shape – Bit less bum, rather more leg Madam? Of course. T-W-E-A-K. One person I first came across as a rather gangly bloke, turned up a few days later looking much shorter and rather more girlie.  Clearly either an identity crisis or he/she hadn’t got the hang of the controls yet.

And you don’t have to wait to get your new stuff home before trying it on – just drag it over there and then and … this is the moment you realise that all your clothes just disappeared and you’re standing in a shopping mall wearing only a pair of leopard print stilettos and a mysteriously acquired tattoo on your backside proclaiming, ‘Queen Bitch’ in a large florid font.

Still, at least you haven’t got a chunk of advertising hoarding round your neck or a skateboard with a mind of its own attached to your left foot. Once you have that sort of thing in hand, you can afford to pass off the odd episode of inadvertent exhibitionism with a casual burst of multi-coloured particles, or simply break into some smooth moves you picked up at the animation warehouse. Do be careful with these though, some of them are not too clearly labelled and you don’t want to be demonstrating er, how shall I put this – reproductive behaviour. In a crowded bar. On your own. Best way to get yourself banned.

 

[1] Second Life is a virtual world in which scientists conduct experiments and everyone else dresses as dragons, cats, or women in suspenders whose legs end somewhere under their armpits. The populations are possibly interchangeable.

[2] It still happens. Did it last week.

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

 

Unlocked: five more audio tracks of poems & short stories

All from the Let me Tell You a Story anthology.

Here’s ‘Tantric Twister‘ by multi prize-winner Tracy Fells, who is also a very naughty girl! Lyn Jennings, who isn’t – here reading her poem ‘Heatwave’, and you know you need that as the nights draw in up here in the north!

There’s Nguyen Phan Que Mai’s gentle poem, ‘Mrs Moreno’,  about grief and comfort, and Phillippa Yaa de Villiers’ insightful ‘Breastsummer‘, an awakening so many of us will recognise.

Finally, a bit of sci fi; a tale of first contact but not as we know it, Jim. This is ‘When Gliese Met Glasgow – and Muira made a mint’.

The print book is on sale at Amazon 

 

‘Drop Dead Gorgeous’ – a Halloween(ish) tale of a ghostly (maybe) gran

drawing of people on a sofaDrop Dead Gorgeous – a Halloween(ish) tale of ghosts (maybe) and quantum phasing (your guess is as good as mine). Bit sweary so don’t let the kids loose.


I first met Dillon when my dead Gran tripped me up in front of him. There was me, meandering along the sea front watching small dogs on extending leads crochet themselves into yapping compounds each time they encountered others of their ilk; and there was he, arrowing through them, the sleek lycra-ed warp to their woof. I was ok but he landed up in hospital with several broken bones and his bike was a write-off. Gran beamed like it was her birthday and she’d knocked back her celebratory bottle of whisky all in one go.

I wasn’t planning on visiting him; after all he’d reason to be mad and maybe even to monetise that. Can you sue pedestrians? But Gran had other ideas; I got the train to uni, it broke down and the replacement bus dropped me outside the hospital. I walked, there was an incident and a diversion that went right past A&E. I tried taking a taxi; the driver had a heart attack. So to avoid any further disasters befalling the largely innocent public, I gave in. Five minutes tops should do it, I reckoned.

‘Ok, I’ll go,’ I said. ‘But I don’t need an audience, right?

Fat chance. ‘Lovely, innee?’ Gran said, breathing pickle fumes over my shoulder.

‘Shut up,’ I said, trying not to move my mouth as if this somehow compensated for the conspicuous absence of a third party. It didn’t. Dillon looked around the room and started to reach for the call bell. I could see his point.

‘No, not you,’ I said, and fiddled around with a fantasy earpiece under my hair. ‘Bloody signal’s gone,’ I said, palming the non-existent device and shoving it in my pocket. I gave him one of those modern technology, what can you do? looks and shrugged at him.

Gran continued her onslaught. ‘Physicist,’ she said, picking at teeth that would be at least a hundred years old if she’d managed to haul her liver past eighty-six. ‘Should suit you, with all your book-learnin’ an’ that.’ She gave me a shove, ‘Go on, sit on his bed.’ I was propelled forwards and alarm spread across Dillon’s face as the woman who had put him there in the first place threatened to flatten him all over again. I grabbed at a drip pole. It was on wheels so we took each other down, along with a vase of flowers, a jug of water, and a box of tissues. The almighty racket drew the attention of a frosty-looking nurse in pink scrubs who rushed first to Dillon to inspect him for injury, and then turned her rather less solicitous gaze on me, sprawled on the floor at her feet.

‘And you are?’ she said, like we were at a posh party and I wasn’t on the guest list. I opened my mouth preparing to kill two birds with one F-bomb but …

‘My girlfriend,’ said Dillon, into the gap.

‘What?’

‘Yes,’ Gran said through my teeth, tittering in my ear and making kissy-kissy noises.

The nurse glared at me, then at Dillon, ‘Well, in that case …’ and she stomped away to find a cleaner she could terrorise.

‘Jeez!’ Dillon said, rolling his eyes. ‘I owe you; bloody woman’s been ogling me since I got here. Never seems to be off-duty. Have you seen that Stephen King film?’ He smiled one of those crooked smiles you read about.

‘Look look look!’ Gran whickered at me, ‘Drop dead gorgeous!’

I cocked an appraising eye, ‘Well, actually …’

‘You saw it, the movie?’

‘No, I meant – anyway, how are you?’

He told me.

We laughed.

I stayed two hours.

I promised to pick him up and take him home when he was discharged, and cook dinner as he couldn’t use his hands that well. Turned out he could. Whole other story.

I moved in.

Gran stayed away for quite a while, probably to focus on another deviant descendant, then suddenly, back she came.

‘Cheating gigolo,’ she announced from behind the sofa. I nearly lost my takeaway. ‘Quantum research shove-it-up-your-jacksie conference, my Aunt Fanny,’ she said. Gran liked an expletive or two, albeit somewhat retro ones.

‘What do you mean?’

‘So-called research assistant – more bosom than brains,’ she said, ‘And the bosom’s not much to write home about, if you ask me.’

Gran was right; Rihanna, her name was, and I met her at the faculty Christmas do a couple of months later. There she was, goggling at Dillon, passing him wine and nibbles, chirping about quantum entangled whatnots and superstring that apparently has toes, and Dillon mesmerised by her heaving chest. Gran dug me in the ribs then grabbed both my ears. This, apparently, was a way of establishing a conduit between her plane of existence and ours. She shrieked at Dillon, ‘You cunning, conniving, slippery little wormhole, you!’ Then she rose into the air and loomed over Rihanna, ‘And you should know all about quantum, with your itty bitty IQ and your Schroedinger’s now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t brazz-ee-ere!’ Gran had evidently upgraded her vocabulary since our last encounter; she embarked on a cackle.

Then somebody with a beard that looked as though it might house a decent sized lunch, and a T shirt bearing the periodic table in swear words said, ‘Quantum phasing,’ in hushed tones like he was in a church. He gawped, simultaneously awestruck and terrified and Gran turned on him, treated him to a blast of old onions and fried liver right into his face. She clacked her teeth, ‘Phantom,’ she hissed, and hovered yellow fingers over his throat.

‘Cobblers,’ said Dillon. ‘No such thing as ghosts. Quantum phased reality shifts though, there’s mileage in that.’ His face went into intellectually distracted mode. It was short-lived. Gran loomed back in Dillon’s direction, ‘Quantum reality shift, my arse,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, though, let’s put it to the test.’ And she dropped the ceiling on him.

Some days it’s just Dillon sitting behind me on the train; sometimes it’s Gran; other times it’s the pair of them. They’re still arguing the toss about ghosts versus quantum universes and they can’t agree on suitable boyfriends for me, which threatens the long term survival of potential suitors. So Gran borrowed me a part-time dog for company. ‘Big bugger,’ she said, handing me his collars, ‘And he’s got what you might call ongoing duties elsewhere, but he’ll keep the riff-raff away; happy clappies, dodgy roofers, Tories.’

He is and he does because he’s got one helluva howl on him, but he’s a poppet and when all three of us are indoors together, we each have a head to pat.

(c) suzanne conboy-hill 2017

‘February-ish’

drawing cat and photographerThis week has been quite an eventful one in the life of our rather unremarkable little hamlet. Described variously as ‘picturesque’ (Oooh!), ‘quaint’ (Aaah!) and ‘sleepy’ (Oi!), our hitherto undistinguished residential aggregation has attracted the national press. Why, you may ask. Ok so you didn’t but you might as well stick around; you’ve got nothing better to do or you wouldn’t be here, right?  Apparently Dark Forces have infiltrated our local political environment.  Already somewhat right wing, apart from a very few socialists and a larger LibDem enclave whose meetings are apparently attended by one of my cats, the locality was obviously thought fit for an assault by an unpleasant but not banned extremist organisation in the guise of a harmless looking mum who appears to be involved in everything from Scouts to taking out vandals single handed.

Not that we have too many vandals. For the most part the kids here are decent and responsive so that even teenage boys are capable of mustering a social nicety when greeted in the street.  Headlines trumpeting the activities of miscreants generally end in the shocking revelation that litter bins were pushed over and bring to mind an article about terrorists hitting a nearby town.  After describing in detail across an entire front page the alert, the police, and the evacuation of three shops; the journalist, somewhat unwisely in my view, added the clinching commentary of an eyewitness that it was, ‘Really cold out here!’  Well that’s terrorists for you, no consideration of climate or people’s clothing requirements in the event of being decanted onto the pavement in December.

So anyway – Harmless Mum (HM) decided to get herself co-opted onto the parish council (think Dibley[1] here) which woke up with a start (even the bloke responsible for burials and booking the village hall) and began consulting protocols that hadn’t borne the gaze of human eye since Bob Cratchet’s day. The upshot was a parish council election and the sudden racking up of national interest with retired councillors putting themselves back on the market and a couple of new ones emerging to take up the slack, an ill-judged reaction as it (nearly) turned out.

The village, we were told, was divided with HM cornering the market in other HMs who were evidently able to get past the poisonous politics to the wonderful warm human being beneath, and the rest who consulted Babel Fish which translated ‘community involvement’ as ‘subversive infiltration tactics’. We were out in force. There were paparazzi.  Well, one anyway, presumably on the lookout for a rumpus which, disappointingly, did not transpire while I was doing my civic duty at the polling station.

The upshot? According to the parish web site (oh yes, there is one although you can quite easily end up on the god-botherers’ home page and narrowly miss signing up for the graveyard grass-mowing rota) the Good Burghers of the village thwarted the Silly Burghers by just twenty votes.  We went back to being journalistically immaterial.

[1] That’s the BBC’s The Vicar of Dibley with Dawn French, just in case this publication ends up in a time capsule under a bridge.

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.

 

‘Soaked Again’

drawing of person and dogs

Ok, you’re getting the hang of it now, Brits really do talk about the weather constantly. This is because it is generally neither insipid nor deeply traumatic but impactful in that must-find-something-that-doesn’t-go-transparent-when-wet sort of way.  British weather is idiosyncratically variable such that prediction is rather more psychic than meteorological and today is no exception. After hurling rain with the consistency of stair rods most of the night and glowering in a hostile manner most of the day, it turns the heat up the moment I hit the fields.

Not that this evaporates the moisture (I say moisture – it’s more like an Olympic swimming pool dangling on threads at knee-height) from the vegetation.  No. Two yards in and I’m soaked from the feet up and the grass is at chest level so now I’m wading through the equivalent of the Thames and gathering enough seeds to keep me in lawn mowing for the better part of this century.

Donovan the Lonely Horse has friends today, both in outdoor kit.  A nod to him (if it still is him, I’m not that great at equine face recognition) and I’m nearly deposited full length over a patch of nettles.  The thing about long grass is that, while the motion is essentially one of wading through water, the behaviour of the medium is not the same at all.  One wrong placement of the left foot clamps the distal end of a clump to the ground and constrains the proximal end under which one’s right foot is now hooked so that an impromptu triple axel is both beautifully executed and irritatingly unappreciated.  The dogs, of course, are simply further convinced of the madness of humans and in that they are not far wrong. After all, I wouldn’t be out there at all if it weren’t for them. 

From Not Being First Fish by P Spencer-Beck.  Available from Amazon (non-illustrated edition). Second edition (illustrated) due 2018.