Note to self: when a strange woman off the interweb suggests you team up and attend a craft fair in London, say no.
I woke up last night in sweats from a horrible nightmare. I'd been trying to register to get to our stand at Craftacular, pushing and shoving at the hundreds of other crafters who were trying to steal my spot. The organizer looked me up and down scathingly, making a disobliging remark about my makeup (I was wearing none), suggesting perhaps I ought to get lessons from a professional. "But there isn't time!", I wailed. "Where are your magnets?", she replied. Fuck! The magnets! I rushed back to the office, a tall, impregnable building surrounded by crystalline, crocodile-infested waters. I was running through treacle, my floral apron hanging around my thighs like a lead blanket. "What are you doing?", asked a friend as she emerged from behind a bush. I explained. "A craft fair? In London? That's ridiculous. You don't even know how to drive."
This is just the latest installment, the crowning glory of the When Good Craft goes Bad saga. What started out as a harmless hobby has taken over my life. My studio is an obstacle course. Mountains of boxes hang precariously overhead. Unwound spools wait to trip me up. I've been worrying for the past couple of days that I left the iron on when I left.
Home is no better. The kitchen is a disaster zone. I can't remember the last time I cooked a meal, let alone washed a plate. I'm fairly certain I haven't showered since Thursday. I've taken over the sofa, along with two thirds of the living room. Owlinabox is wedged somewhere between two pillows. My boyfriend and I are engaged in a silent battle of wills. He doesn't like me leaving the tiny pair of scissors on the sofa, something about it being sharp and dangerous blablabla, and yet that's where I need it. He moves it to the coffee table. I move it back to my lap. We glare at each other menacingly. He retreats to the bedroom.
Here, let me show you:
There is still so much to do. There are boxes to be ordered, magnets to be printed, cake stands to be wrapped, clothes rails and table covers to be sourced. There is rude - but elegant! - customer service to be practised. Then the Waffle and I must make our way to London from our respective rainy hinterlands, carrying our body weight in dough and wool and embroidered aprons. There we will meet, haggard and dishevelled, for the final baking marathon.
I have painted a grim picture, but it will all be alright in the end. We are not brain twins for nothing. Our competitive perfectionism will prevail; our stand will be a dazzling display of wit, rudeness, and desirable goods.
Do come and say hello if you are in town on the 12th of December. And maybe buy a thing or two. Fuck you very much in advance.