No Show Rose

There's a bit of a chicken and egg situation going on with the page I'd love to show you today. Sort of. I do know which came first - the page - which I finished last month. But when I came to do the journaling, I realised that I hadn't really left enough room for the full story. At the time my solution was to add strips of journaling along the side of the photo: but I know what you're going to say. They don't look very easy to read. You'd be absolutely right. So, to remedy that now, I'm telling the story again right here where you can read it too. It goes something like this:

It was June 1972. I was about to finish my first year of school and I was going out on a high. It had been a good year and the best was yet to come. My Rose Princess costume - lovingly, cunningly crafted by my mum from old Bridesmaid dress- was ready for the Fancy Dress Parade. It had layers of pink organza, a leaf green bodice and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. I was going to look hot.

"You look hot," my mum said, putting a cool hand to my forehead and bustling me to bed. I wasn't the only one. Turned out that nearly everyone in the class was hot. We all had measles and we all missed the show. Disappointed wouldn't be the word. I was distraught; i was devastated. Even the promise of a new handbag (orange pvc. Gilt chain handle. Fabulous.) didn't ease the pain: and it usually did. Does today too, if I'm honest. Anyway, I kept the dress. I wore it until it ripped; until the bodice and the bits I was trying to force into it were nowhere near the same size. You never forget your first party dress. Never. Maybe sad, but always true.

Today I'm Loving...Bright November sunshine and clean windows at the same time. It's like polishing your glasses. Supersized. Happy Sunday!