Saturday, 2 March 2013

Was it Flea Market Saturday?

Failed to make the ukelele festival in Berkhamsted. If it was today. Also failed to grab a pitch for my Knicker Drawers at the local Flea Market.

All time-related confusion comes thanks to my usual ineptitude with that day-month-thing people call a calendar.

Honestly, the older I get, the less the datey-thing seems to concern me. I suspect I can thank the menopause. There's no need now to follow a diary to count the days until Planet Incomprehensible Rage when I grab a carving knife after I clap eyes on the wrong shade of pink. These months I simply watch the moon for the pleasure of timelessness, while it washes over my head its sublime cycles of darkness and light.

But I was sad about the ukeleles. I was cheered up by the fact that the lack of a craft stall didn't matter in the end. And I have commissions to keep me busy. At some point I popped down the road, sat at the flea market coffee bar and sold a little book I'd finished. Wise Me. Here it is.

Perhaps the buyer chose this one to offer to their late-teenage sibling a little objet d'art that emphasised all those gentle qualities of softness, solitude, quiet reflection, and thoughtfulness. Rather than the alternative; a black leather goth creation that suggested one wrong word and I claw your face off.

I am in love with various people who like these mini works, too, struck by their sudden expressions on handling them, from 'It's hard not to take advantage of you' (not sure about that one) to 'They're like little books of poetry, but we have to supply the words' (made me smile).

I don't know whether to tell you or not where I'm next booked with my bag of Knicker Drawers and my over-enthusiastic sales patter (like a Spaniel, apparently. I'm not sure about that one, either). I am about as hopeless at self-promotion as I am with a calendar. (But I suppose if you are in the area, and want to put your hands on one, you could send me an email and I could let you know.)

PS. It struck me - what with my reference to our local Flea Market - you might think I take my Knicker Drawers to a very chi-chi Parisienne affair, where Empire porcelain rattles alongside the occasional Bauhaus toilette set. Hmm. Round here it is a status symbol to wear a sleeveless t-shirt in minus four degrees. We could be talking actual fleas. Just thought I should clarify that.

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