Yes I could dance it. Lots of finger gestures and floor rolling would cover it. 2013 has been crap, a tacky mix of thread and dog treats washed down with prosecco. Some of the less sucky bits were:
Making a pavlova on a 45 degree day, when most sane people are passed out under the air conditioner.
You had to eat it all fast, slathered in whipped cream before the humidity gooped it all into sludge. Prosecco helped.
I hid the 100 year old french linen sheets used to drape my stall under the stairs in case some mom-trepeneur, fresh from graphic design school wanted to screen print a geometric design and cut them into toddler wear.
Thoughts turned darkly inward, creating journal style bunting.
Then Bruce put a doggy in his mouth. Not the whole dog, just the head. Though nobody was hurt, we learned new things about Bruce's ability to socialise. I discovered a doggy shrink costs three times more than a person shrink, and expert guidance from these guys had us squealing with joy every time Bruce made eye contact.
The trainers sent Bruce a Christmas card from their island get away that we probably paid for. The story was stitched here.
In April, the editor of Mingle magazine spotted a blog post about the wonderful time I had at Les Seours Anglaise. It got published. OK, that didn't suck too much.
The bunting continued.
Winter was spent stitching small hand pieces of bunting.
But I was feeling more like this:
Journaling like this:
So Bruce suggested this at a third of the price:
when Bruce went to the shrink
Spoke my mind about a few things, like bitchy gossip that travels half way round the world.
And that felt good, so I let fly about a few other things that were just too heavy to carry round any more. Like what happened after I read my dad's will.
It's filed under "my dad is a dick."in case you want to read.
Dad did make an excellent Voodoo assemblage, though.
Not long after, I discovered the real reason he wrote us all from his will, but, like they say, the truth is stranger than fiction, and if I told you, your head would explode.
Better to skip along, and express yourself in stitch.
That was the year in interpretive hand gestures. We've made it through and I salute you for hanging in there. Here's to a less sucky 2014, and thank you for coming along for the ride.