It has been suggested

That I should  blog more, for the extremely hard working public... and so...

Andy just came over in an attempt to drop off my overlocker, and has, for the second time, attempted to give me his mother's old sewing machine. I do have my sewing box back now tho, so at least I have bobbins and what not and can actually use my sewing machine instead of using it as a decorative door stop. Golly I love to sew, and have been without for far too long methinks. I bought all this fabric yesterday - this gorgeous dull green silk and cotton blend and some plain black cotton lycra... sort of envisaged making a dress for Louise's wedding in a few weeks, but without the overlocker I can't really sew either of these fabrics... The Mr Jones is notorious for being a temperamental  bitch of a machine and I don't feel like feeding beautiful fabric through it only to have it completely ruined. I could maybe sew up the corduroy throw on the ugly ugly couch in the other room... make cushions out of the fabric gifted to me by fabulous Liz before she left. Yay, talking to her tomorrow!

So, I am having non-relationship/breaking up dramas, I feel as though I'm living a novel and am suspicious that reading too much KM is causing the damage. Tragic love affair conducted entirely by letter, you know. I'm treating the experience as research for my novel... always healthy. Observing oneself from afar and all that, just as my therapist recommends. ("Sarah, I want you to observe yourself while you're doing these things. What do you see?" "Somebody very foolish and really quite annoying"). Felt hungover, strung out and emotional, but funnily enough, seeing Andy made me feel way better. I am so fond of my ex! Lovely boy. Heart of gold. His new girlfriend is scared to meet me, or at least fearing the awkwardness, and while I understand, I am sooo keen to see her puppy-loving self. I feel it's more natural to dislike the previous ex because you were never in mind during the relationship... could never compete when the good memories become hallowed and the bad memories increasingly blurry.

Last night I stole a plastic killer whale for no good reason. I was firing ice out of it's mouth at innocents in an effort to appear more frenetically jolly than I actually felt. I'm glad I bailed when I did or else it would have been another vomit-athon. Four cocktails before half nine. Eep.