My Mum bought a white rabbit-fur coat when I was 12. She was trying to justify its purchase and I’d said of course I’d wear it too just to make her feel better. But really I wouldn’t have been seen dead. It wasn’t until the night before I chopped it that I wore it. First time and only time. I put on my Grandma’s green crystal and gold-painted-plastic bead necklace, frocked up, and drank a toast to its softness and it’s feminine beauty. Then I went home and snipped.
There is some Japanese thread I was lucky to find which I used up completely in here. It was the day of a bad and boring date. We had gone to see a film which I enjoyed and he didn’t. It was, in my opinion, one of those fundamentally good films that you know you’ll buy the DVD when it comes out, which showed that fundamentally he wasn’t a keeper. Grumpy to boot. So there we were. Fumbling. Bored. Enduring stoically with not much to say, and as a handy diversion we went into a Japanese-ware shop in South Melbourne. I found inside a basket carelessly placed up the back full of perfect threads all in a mess. Obviously quite unappreciated. Not priced. I only had ten dollars and deliberated and hummed and hahhed choosing two. Thinking ten dollars was two. It was hard because there were three I needed. But I took two up to the counter. The date was bored and boringly sighing and gnashing his teeth. The boy in the shop didn’t know what anyone would want these for and asked me with a puzzled face. I told him Embroidery. His eyes registered a dull vision of something dull old people did and we were much too clever these days. You can have them he said. So I explained that really I needed the green one too.
I havn’t used that one yet. Every time I see it in my box of silk I have a Mona Lisa moment.
So you see that the date was worthwhile in the end. But even the silk didn’t save him.
Years later I was making it, the cushion, working as a gardener. Lunch time or morning tea. I carried little bits of silk and fur in my overalls pocket. Little snippets of fuzz and gold littered the flower beds wherever I went.
One day I lost my thimble. It’s a First-World-War ‘Housewife’s-kit’ thimble and I’ve used it for fifteen years and I nearly cried. It’s a humble sort of a thimble. I offered the owner of the garden a million dollars if she found it, and I looked and looked and looked. My big love worked there sometimes too. Weeks later he walked down the path that I’d walked up and down and up and down looking and looking and there it was! So I’m happy now. And he’s happy because I’m happy and that’s always good. We’re both happy. I got lucky and so did he. He’s a keeper!
A friend asked if The Cushion could stay at his place for the weekend and I let it, just the once. He sent it a post card afterwards.
But it’s still just as pure as the driven snow.
P.S. The thimble and I had fifteen years together, but I lost it here at home and it’s gone. Really gone.
There is some Japanese thread I was lucky to find which I used up completely in here. It was the day of a bad and boring date. We had gone to see a film which I enjoyed and he didn’t. It was, in my opinion, one of those fundamentally good films that you know you’ll buy the DVD when it comes out, which showed that fundamentally he wasn’t a keeper. Grumpy to boot. So there we were. Fumbling. Bored. Enduring stoically with not much to say, and as a handy diversion we went into a Japanese-ware shop in South Melbourne. I found inside a basket carelessly placed up the back full of perfect threads all in a mess. Obviously quite unappreciated. Not priced. I only had ten dollars and deliberated and hummed and hahhed choosing two. Thinking ten dollars was two. It was hard because there were three I needed. But I took two up to the counter. The date was bored and boringly sighing and gnashing his teeth. The boy in the shop didn’t know what anyone would want these for and asked me with a puzzled face. I told him Embroidery. His eyes registered a dull vision of something dull old people did and we were much too clever these days. You can have them he said. So I explained that really I needed the green one too.
I havn’t used that one yet. Every time I see it in my box of silk I have a Mona Lisa moment.
So you see that the date was worthwhile in the end. But even the silk didn’t save him.
Years later I was making it, the cushion, working as a gardener. Lunch time or morning tea. I carried little bits of silk and fur in my overalls pocket. Little snippets of fuzz and gold littered the flower beds wherever I went.
One day I lost my thimble. It’s a First-World-War ‘Housewife’s-kit’ thimble and I’ve used it for fifteen years and I nearly cried. It’s a humble sort of a thimble. I offered the owner of the garden a million dollars if she found it, and I looked and looked and looked. My big love worked there sometimes too. Weeks later he walked down the path that I’d walked up and down and up and down looking and looking and there it was! So I’m happy now. And he’s happy because I’m happy and that’s always good. We’re both happy. I got lucky and so did he. He’s a keeper!
A friend asked if The Cushion could stay at his place for the weekend and I let it, just the once. He sent it a post card afterwards.
But it’s still just as pure as the driven snow.
P.S. The thimble and I had fifteen years together, but I lost it here at home and it’s gone. Really gone.
P.P.S. There's another, stupider story about the bad date here...
