Craft wars

I have just received an e-mail from the Bodleian library which has confirmed my worst fears. I have indeed, as I previously suspected read every book on Everest ever published. So if any of you know of anyone who wrote one in pencil on scraps of paper,  then died horribly of cerebral oedema before they could get to a publisher do let me know. In the meantime I am going to have to find a way of filling in the down-time I have when I’m not otherwise encumbered by delivering Quality Teaching and Learning, parenting ineffectually, writing rubbish, drinking crap wine or threatening legal action. A girl needs a hobby.

Fortunately these fair Isles are full of useful pursuits and groups which peruse them. Some of them may even be undertaken whilst simultaneously smoking and lying down so I’m onto a winner. But I must be careful because hobbies are taken seriously hereabouts and I do not wish to offend by being half hearted in my approach which is going to be difficult. Half-hearted is my default setting ordinarily.

The annual craft fair has been advertised in The Penguin news since at least February so the excitement was tangible way before I arrived. The venue was school and as I have a key, I availed myself of a bottle of Exportation, let myself in a 2am and had a private viewing. Marvellous stuff. Though according to all, not as much submitted as last year for reasons people are only muttering about in dark corners. It matters not to me, though I knew something was afoot when the heir and Spare’s Sunday play date insisted through gritted teeth we put down the DS’s and ‘Make something’. Hmmm. I came 8000 miles with two children and a 21” suitcase. Crafting equipment wasn’t part of my payload. Still I managed to find cereal boxes and wool and if you’ve got those the possibilities are endless, as it would appear are the awards and Laurels.

All weekend, the town was a seething mass of rumour, conjecture and unrivalled bitterness as the prize winners were announced and cab drivers rang each other mid-job to discover whether each others taxidermical efforts had garnered a rosette. Such blue air when they discovered they were only highly commended! Ugly scenes!

As if all this excitement wasn’t enough, as we left the public viewing for a gentle stroll home along the harbour in the sun, the still skies on Stanley were rent asunder by the horrific cacophony of helicopter engines. 20 feet away on the school field a Sea king and 14 seater  hovered ominously churning a morass of goose poo and gorse bush into the air where it mingled with the crisp bags tossed carelessly by year 8, became a swirling mass of debris which immediately flew into the eyes, cleavage and wellies of all present. The spare being a small person keeled over in the force of the down draft and seemed pinned to the ground by some oddity of gravity. As I looked around, many other people were starring as if insensible as their pre-tween children lay flat on the tarmac. The helis landed and everyone wandered off spitting vitriol about the vile miscarriage of justice that was the judging of the felting.

Having peeled the boy off the floor I too wandered off considering as per that my skills are just not up to this sort of thing. Craft looks too full on for my liking. I may have to look into prime-time radio broadcasting instead…..

Borah Out