It’s been a year since I dipped my toe in the craft pool. Since then I’ve made six quilt covers (finishing four of them), made myself a dress (which I have worn twice because I have to iron it), a few stuffed toys, several reversible handbags and learnt how to crochet.
I think we can safely say that me and crafting/sewing is a keeper.
Which meant the reality of the sewing machine (a huge, clunky 40 year old Pfaff of Mum’s) and my small but still present collection of sewing paraphernalia and fabrics living at the end of the dining table was shitting me to tears and making my neck itch to a point of irritation.
In the garage was an old IKEA trestle table that had been my brother’s desk as a teenager. I’m telling you, that shit is indestructible.
So in what can only be called a fit of productive inspiration I now have a sewing table come desk where MY STUFF lives (as opposed to being moved from dining table to kitchen bench to sideboard to dining table to floor to WHERE THE FUCK HAS THAT REALLY IMPORTANT PIECE OF PAPER I HAD RIGHT HERE GONE).
OH sure, there was no room for more furniture in our sucky open-plan living space but I’ve made room.
What? You have to turn into Gumby to sit at the dining table. Suck it up sunshine. Mummy has a table.
And there are those ridiculous Christmas wall decals I put up last week. Five bucks for all that. And there’s more of them going along the rest of the wall. It’s not as crooked as it looks in that photo.
Now I need some storage boxes to go under my desk to hold my paltry fabric stash.
Yep, there really is that amount of crappe lying around our place on any given day.
Send help. Or alcohol.