The vacation

So, last night I drank an entire bottle of champagne (minus one glass) to celebrate having a week off work. I woke up (not to the sound of an iphone xylophone) but various street noises at roughly 11am. (I have not slept past 7am in about a month.) I then sat on my kitchen floor and watched my chocolate chip brioche toast under the grill whilst I sipped my coffee. I decided I was going to have a productive day so set about planning the various bits and bobs I wanted to do. Firstly, I ignored the pile of dishes, and like a good wife washed a mountain of clothes instead. Next, I collected squares of fabric from my craft room and ironed them into a nice little bundle so my friend could experiment on her new sewing machine. Then I drew space invaders all over my shower door whilst I was doing bath time. (Like you do.) Then I made a cake fork pouch my mother had requested as a gift for a friend. Then I made a giant piece of "paper" with calico and sewed an extract from the story I am writing (complete with illustration) all the while raiding my fridge of pickles and yoghurts and listening to caravan palace songs and dancing round my house in intervals. Then I cleaned up my mess, had some dinner, read my book and now its the end of my first vacation day. 

The Scarecrow

Whilst methodically upholstering a footstool, I realised I was undoing the handy work of another person before me. I started to notice similarities in the avoidance of the arduous tasks of un upholstering. This person hadn't removed the staples that held the fabric in place but simply cut it out from the base structure. When putting the new fabric cover back on they had used staples for half the edges and little black tacks for the others. As I worked my way deeper to the core of this little old footstool I found myself making new discoveries. I became tremendously excited upon realising the stool was stuffed with straw.