Patterns of Home: Linoleum, Legacy and the Joy of Tat

I’ve lived in my hometown of Kirkcaldy all my life. A place rooted in working-class history, Kirkcaldy was once the linoleum capital of the world — an industrial powerhouse with a legacy that shaped the very streets we walk. The industry left its mark not just in the homes it floored but in the very air of the town. So strong was the smell from the linoleum factories that it found its way into the final line of Mary Campbell Smith’s famous poem The Boy in the Train —

“For I ken mysel’ by the queer-like smell,

That the next stop’s Kirkcaldy.”

My upbringing was steeped in that same atmosphere — a blend of history, humour, and homemaking — shaped most vividly by two women: my granny Vera and my great-gran, Annie who I affectionately called Pussy Tabbykins. As a child, I thought my great gran resembled a cat with her white hair and striking green eyes, and she was just as curious and full of life. Her home felt like a museum of oddities, bursting with colour, character and charm. Visiting her was like stepping into another world.

Granny Vera, my maternal gran, has always been a second mum to me. She’s hilariously funny and full of life, always joking around, always dressed in bold colours. I remember dressing up in her clothes, even using her floral curtains as capes — a memory I still cherish. Both my grans filled their homes with patterned linoleum, wild wallpaper and textured carpets — layers upon layers of visual stimulation that have undeniably influenced my art.

Those early memories of richly decorated interiors, combined with a lifelong habit of noticing and collecting, have grown into the foundation of my creative practice. When something touches me — a place, a moment, a mood — instead of writing about it in a journal, I make a pattern. These patterns become part of my library and eventually surface in my artworks.

One of my most recent inspirations came from a trip to the Lake District, where my husband and I visited Hill Top, the former home of Beatrix Potter. I’ve always admired her work, but seeing the environment that shaped her creativity moved me deeply. Her house is filled with curious objects — much like the ‘tat’ I collect from charity shops — and her studio, with its cabinet of curiosities, made me feel seen. She even had Wedgwood pieces like I do, and collected rocks, which I often use in my still life work.

What struck me most was how Potter built a world around herself, weaving her life, her home, and her garden into her stories. Her illustrations aren’t just sweet; they’re deeply personal. And that intimacy is something I crave for my own art. I want to create a world around me — filled with meaningful objects, textures, colours — and let it spill into my work.

As a tribute, I’ve started developing a small pattern series based on the wallpaper in her house. I plan to use these designs in my own pieces, and maybe even turn them into cushions just for fun. Eventually, I want to incorporate them into the wall hangings I’ve long dreamed of making. That will be a whole other blog, I’m sure — pattern has become a language for me, and I’ve got a lot to say with it.

So, for now, I’ll pause here — with linoleum beneath my feet, charity shop finds piling up, and patterns still to be made.