Over the last couple of weeks, I have dedicated some time to sorting out the study. By ‘sorting out’, I mean completely changing its designated role from ‘ramshackle study-cum-mancave’ to ‘lovely crafty room of awesomeness’. I was aided and abetted in this feat of engineering by my dear and long-suffering husband (LSH), who, as you have heard before, suffers from a not too mild case of OCD. I quickly realised that, if I left my crafty ‘guff’,as he calls it, (just wait until I get round to those hand knitted socks, he’ll be scoffing on the other side of his well-attired toes) lying around for long enough, then eventually my ‘change of use’ application would be approved for the study. Ahem, craft room. It only took 3 months of sewing machines on the dining table and various piles of patterns, books, fabric and notions being all over the living room for him to agree to my hostile takeover. That, plus the Babybee is now disturbingly mobile and in the habit of inserting anything she gets her grubby little toast hands on to into her cakehole, with little to no regard as to how life-limiting putting said object into her mouth will be.
Image Details: ‘Tied to a Chair’ by Hanna-, via Flickr.
Twitter keeps happily reminding me how many days/hours it is until Christmas. As I have mentioned countless times on here, I love Christmas. Nothing pleases me more than rebelliously putting the Christmas tree up in the last couple of days of November. Any excuse to adorn the house with tinsel and yet more fairy lights is a good one, in my book. Unfortunately, all this talk of festive cheer and my very exciting but imminent return to the UK for a Costa minty hot chocolate and a decent curry is getting a bit stressful. How so? I hear you cry. Well, because I am suffering from another craft-related phenomena. One I shall call ‘Project Paralysis’.
Image Details: ‘Singer Vintage’ by Jeremy Brooks, via Flickr.
I’ve had my very own sewing machine for about 7 years now. It was a Christmas present, and grand ideas though I might have had about being able to do all my own alterations because I am that tricky height whereby I am too tall for Petite and too short to avoid soggy jean bottoms if I wear Regular, I have only ever really made fancy dress costumes and stuff for the house with it. Some pretty awesome fancy dress costumes, but fancy dress nonetheless. Since my Mum had a habit of shrinking/dying my clothes when I was younger, I developed a phobia about ruining items of clothing. This means I a) have an irrational fear of using the tumble dryer and b) pay a lady down the Royal Arcade in Wigan a fortune to alter my clothes. Wigan is a long, long, way from SA, and I have some lovely new jeans I bought from Fat Face (yeah, check me out, I am all surf-trendy!) which need shortening by about, oh, a foot or so. I’m guessing a Fat Face ‘Regular’ is some tall, willowy, beach type: a category I sadly fail to fall into, being a Northerner. It’s kind of Northern Darwinism. My parents are both pretty small. This must be because tall people were no good at working in mines and were hugely more likely to be decapitated by a bit of heavy mill machinery. Anyway…