Hand-drawn stories, process and play
Most autumn drawing ends up as a pile of brown leaves and a bit of regret. This year I picked one ordinary street tree, one low branch and the same short walk to the corner shop, then turned up twelve times with a pencil. Here is what twelve days of drizzle, patience and one stubborn leaf actually look like on paper.
A December 2026 sketchbook visit to a British primary school nativity, where tea towels become headdresses, tinsel becomes halos and the cardboard star is held together by hope and gaffer tape. Notes on drawing fabric folds, wobbling cardboard edges and the very particular nervous energy of a rehearsal before the curtain rises.
A November sketchbook trip to a British coastal town, where shuttered arcades and chip-shop steam make better subjects than summer crowds. Notes on cold hands, stubborn pencils and the quiet that changes how familiar landmarks look.
A December gathering, a pile of coats on the spare bed and a sketchbook open on my knee: this is a hand-drawn look at the British Christmas jumper, from quiet Fair Isle to flashing reindeer, and the small family stories stitched into all of it.
A pencil, a sheet of A3 and a rainy Sunday are enough to make a family board game from scratch. This is the process behind one wonky, biscuit-powered game, complete with smudged puddles, cardboard tokens and rules that fit on three cards.
A hand-drawn wander through the morning after Bonfire Night 2026, where flattened fireworks, wet grass and one very damp Guy Fawkes become a quiet study in soot, smoke and very British optimism.
Stir-Up Sunday is flour, steam, family politics and a hidden sixpence. This is a sketchbook account of drawing the Christmas pudding ritual in pencil and ink, from sticky spoon handles to the great clockwise argument.
The weather map with its stubborn little cloud. The soap pub that everybody's been in but nobody's been in. Six ordinary bits of British television, sketched and argued about, and a case for why the telly is still the best life-drawing class in the country.
Before the curtain rises on this winter's regional pantomime, there's a whole world worth drawing: the Dame's makeup mirror, the wing-space chaos of a four-second costume change, and the exact moment an audience decides to boo. A sketchbook dispatch from the 2026 panto season.
A low-pressure daily drawing ritual for the darkest weeks of 2026, built from frosty bins, tangled fairy lights and steaming mugs. Less polished portfolio, more paper evidence that you were here for the winter.
A process-led wander through the UK's everyday colour vocabulary, from terrace brick and stewed tea to mossy walls and chip-shop vinegar. Practical mixing notes for building a hand-drawn palette that feels collected rather than downloaded.
A practical, cold-fingered guide to drawing UK town-centre Christmas lights switch-ons in 2026 — from simplifying crowds to turning rough field notes into a finished festive illustration.
A mock-serious field guide to drawing the tiny monsters hiding in lukewarm tea, passive-aggressive notes and broken ticket machines. Part observation, part ink, part excuse to laugh at the queue.
Painted lettering, chalkboard specials and sun-faded vinyl are some of the most generous subjects a sketchbook can ask for. Here's a practical route into drawing the signs that give a UK high street its character — without turning the place into a heritage exhibit.
A watched kettle, a bus-stop shuffle, a corner-shop 'cheers' — ordinary UK moments are already structured like tiny comics. Here's the thumbnailing, pacing and silent-panel process behind a one-page story, plus a challenge to make your own.
Some places photograph badly and draw beautifully — a chapel on a cliff, an allotment in September, a museum room that smells faintly of dust. Here are seven lesser-known UK spots where nobody's rushing you, plus a hand-drawn exercise to try at each one.
There's a drawer in my studio that will never make it onto the grid — filled with roughs that didn't work and the evidence of someone changing their mind. As polished, instantly-generated imagery floods every feed, I'd argue the smudges are the most valuable thing an illustrator has left to sell.