Are we ever happy? Starting to wonder if I have some sort of incurable condition.
Finished that damn essay at about 1.30 this afternoon. A great cheer went up. There was dancing and ringing of bells. The coffee machine was fired up. Cake was talked about.
Its now about 5.30. I’m already frustrated by the fact I have hand-washed all the lovely children’s clothes I bought yesterday and they’re not dry enough for me to iron yet, and so start working on. They are quite beautiful. I shall photograph them before I start working on them. There’s a creamy silk smocked dress with embroidered bluebells; a white cotton coat with pearl buttons, double breasted; a very delicate pale pink cotton dress with short sleeves and embroidered rosebuds; a a brushed cotton nightie with bluebirds on. I know exactly what I’m going to do with all of them. They spoke to me in the shop!
I asked the shop lady if she had any dresses to fit me. I must confess to being rounder than I should be. It is rare to find clothes to fit me in vintage shops. She said no. But I had my secret weapon with me, my friend Helen, who, not taking no for an answer, went ferreting about. She found me a dress. A Dress. A DRESS!!! It fits me. It is from the mid 50s, purple and floral and gorgeous. I show a small amount of daring cleavage! If I wear it to my Private View Evening I will look like the Mummy of all those children I intend to show. Perfect. You might even get to see a photo of me in it.
