Remembering Clothkits

This Easter has been the Easter of the sock (and I'm still knitting). But most every Easter I make something. I connect chocolate, roast lamb and shops being closed for the weekend with new projects. Creme Egg in one hand, crochet hook in the other. When I was a teenager, my Easter projects very nearly always involved something to wear. This was the time to open up the season's first Clothkits parcel. Clothkits?

We discovered them at Easter, too. I came back from an exchange trip to France and my sister had the catalogue waiting for me. 

Back in the 80's, and before, Clothkits produced...kits: pattern pieces screen printed onto fabric to be cut out and stitched together into coordinating outfits. Instructions, buttons, zips, even a label: everything came neatly packaged up, ready to sew. Clothkits was our secret weapon. We didn't have much to spend on clothes, but because we had to put in a bit of creative effort this way, these kits were a parent-approved purchase. We were always allowed to choose an outfit or two from the catalogue which arrived like Clothkjits clockwork twice a year, August and February. Those catalogues were works of art - with foldout flaps front and back, so you could compare colour swatches and decide which of the variously themed collections to choose. I wish we had kept ours. They're collectables now, selling on ebay for serious money. For a catalogue! 

I was about sixteen when I made the quilted jacket you can see on my layout (modelled here by my own sixteen year old). I had lots of other pieces - red cord dungarees, skirts, a gypsy petticoat - but the jacket survived because of its story. Of course. When I was nineteen, I put it on for a first trip to meet my new boyfriend's family. The girls all said "hello". They looked at each other. They looked at me. "Clothkits!" they chorused. And so that was alright. I would do. 

After that I had to keep it. And when that boyfriend asked me was there anywhere I wanted to go for my honeymoon - anywhere in England, which was as far as we could afford - I chose Bath. Partly because I knew it had a Clothkits shop. Was there one in Cambridge too? Am I remembering that right? I'm hoping I'm not the only one out there who waited for those catalogues and loved to rip open those packets.

When Clothkits closed I stopped sewing my own clothes. Several years ago, though, I discovered the name had been relaunched and there were kits to be bought once again. On my list, oh yes they are: how long can I hold out? At least until after the next pair of socks. That's all I'm saying.

Any other fans out there? Please say yes!

Details, Details

1. I've been meaning to make a "Clothkits" page for ages, so as soon as I saw this Pinkfresh paper, with its prints like the ones on the clothes I used to make, I knew I had a starting point. I had my doubts about the photo, which wasn't what I had wanted, but I decided to go ahead and see what i could make of it.

2. Oh, but choices! was that paper too busy? Would I be able to fit in the story? Was I just using it because I loved it and not because it was going to work? I pulled out some other choices..maybe white with the Pinkfresh stickers instead, just using the original as inspiration?

3. No: I'm going to stick with the original. Until I cut off that bottome strip I can never decide how it's going to look. Next..working with the photo I chose extras to enhance it instead of trying to ignore it. So, we have more woodgrain, which I found on my desk, with some "graffiti" stamps from Gossamer Blue

4. Nearly finished and just thinking about the journaling when I had a revelation! How about the best of both worlds! If I turned it into a double pager I could fit in all of the story AND have a chance to use the extra patterned paper and stickers. That's what I did:

So now it looks like this:

I have a feeling there'll be at least one more page, though. I still haven't told the story of how that Clothkits gypsy petticoat saved my life..

Scrapbooking with Staged Still Life Photographs

Oh, all this talk of postcards has me dreaming about holidays! Here, we're starting to gather our bits and pieces together for our July journey. For the last week, The (Not So) Small One has been carrying about with her The Big Book Of Florida: a pink exercise book filled with everything she feels she might need to know, and a lot more besides. She has been saving all winter for this trip, and the list - colour coded, cross referenced - of Things I Might Like To Bring Home? It's a long one.

When I was about the age she is now, we went to the seaside for our holiday

and the souvenirs came from shops of the bucket and spade and candy floss kind. Nothing cost very much, or lasted very long. Except for one little token I have kept for all these years in a little china pot beside my bed. It's a copper bracelet with my name stamped on and I told its story for Storytelling Sunday last year. When Get It Scrapped asked for a page using a staged still life photograph it immediately came to mind

I have a year's worth of still life photographs to scrapbook. The writing is done, only the cutting and sticking remains.

With a big block of journaling here I wanted to add interest as I was pulling it together. Maybe it's hard to see in the photo, but I made the background by piecing together lots of punched out postage stamp shapes (from a Martha Stewart postage stamp punch). I thought they looked like Morrocan tiles and gave a nod to the design of my little storage pot. 

The pot became part of my still life photo because the bracelet on its own looked lost. It couldn't tell its story without its home. Maybe that sounds odd? I think that's the thing about a still life, though: it has to have a story to make you take a second look. (And the story it has isn't always the one the photographer intends: I'd be willing to bet my bracelet makes you think of a holiday souvenir of your own). You can find other thoughts on the process over at Get It Scrapped and Ideas For Scrapbook Page Storytelling With Staged Still Life Photos

My tip? If you are using a white background to enhance your photo, make sure it's clean and free from wrinkles. Better than a tablecloth or a sheet? A roll of cheap white drawing paper you can tear off and keep fresh after every picture. 

The Knotty Issue of the Worm in a Bow

I'm taking a deep breath and putting my reputation on the line here today. I'm telling you a deep, dark secret.

Once, I was a worm worrier.

I try to be good, I honestly do. But we've all got a past. Right? And in my past I was a worm torturer. Or so I believed.  I can't have been much older than I am in the picture here, though maybe a little, because I can remember it so clearly. Oho, yes, I remember it.

I was playing in the garden, in the sunshine, by myself when I spotted the worm. And someone, something, some little voice in my head came to me and said - pick it up, Sian. Don't you want to see what happens if you tie a worm in a bow?

Yes, yes, I did want to see. It would be an experiment. So I reached out my hand, I picked up that worm. I grabbed hold of each end, just like Grandpa had showed me with shoelaces, and I knotted. The worm wriggled. It was dirty. I threw it away.

And then the guilt took over. I was a worm knotter, a torturer, a murderer: everybody would know and I'd go to some kind of animal prison and live there for the rest of my life branded as a monster. I panicked. I can remember turning over the soil, the stones. I needed to find that worm and put things right. But the worm was gone.

Funny the little things that stay with you, isn't it? I still have worm regret, even though now I understand that the worm was probably fine. I bet my bows weren't have as accomplished as I thought they were (Grandpa had said keep practising). Quick somersault and that worm would have been good. Maybe it's time to stop looking over my shoulder? You know, for the worm police?

I made this page for Get It Scrapped's Ideas for Storytelling With Photos of Bugs and Critters. Of course I didn't have a photo of the event, so I used a favourite Little Me, telling a story.

So, you've heard mine. What's yours? A childhood transgression? An awful secret? Do tell...

Storytelling Sunday Three: Pick Your Precious

Storytelling Sunday Three? There is no excuse for not joining in with this one! Everyone can do it. Pick Your Precious is about celebrating the little things you love: those souvenirs, bits and pieces, things from your past you can't bear to throw out. You know, the special little something you have tucked away in a drawer or up on a shelf? Or the thing you love most in a room? Or the object you would save if you knew you had to leave the country? Your favourite things.

Ready to begin?

The Postcard Album

..and we're into July! Mmm..that usually means a trip here. The schools finish at the end of June and we like to skip town as soon as we can; so I'm thinking about travel this month. And souvenirs of journeys taken and reminders of friends who returned. 

I've used a postcard before as a Precious, but I guess that's the way it is with the things we love: we keep wanting to go back: a sure sign of a treasure, something to revisit. Because the card I showed you in February doesn't rest on its own. I pulled it from what, at the age of nine, I grandly called my album (album? my first? Little did I know how many more there were to be in my future). A simple scrapbook (scrapbook? a good word even at that age), bought with my pocket money to house a precious collection.

I loved postcards then, as I love them now. They were cheap and easy to find because of course, lots of us sent them, way back then. A good papery interest. I', paging through right now, impressed with the photo corners. They're still holding on there: a retro romp through that seventies sunshine. because the sun really did shine in the seventies and Auntie Rose went to Exmoor and wrote to say she was sending on my birthday present and cousin Anne went to Ayr and "bought a pair of baggy jeans for £4.50!!" and Caroline stayed in a caravan in Portrush and Hilary made it all the way to Spain ans swam every day. It's all there.

I cherish the cards I was sent, but I also get a smile from the cards I sent: saved by the family so that I could stick them into my book when I got back. From a school trip to London. Look!

1976 and that's how I wrote (spelling doesn't matter in postcards, right?); that's how I signed myself. SG. The girl who loved paper then as she loves it now.

Paper: where would we be without it? Emails, texts, facebook updates: they aren't safely tucked away in a book I can pull out whenever I want. The colours, the feel, the spirit..I need that. Paper is precious. But i think you know that already..

And that's my story for this month. I've kept it short in the hope that it will encourage anyone who doesn't like long to join us! Every month I think - there isn't really anything I can offer all you great storytellers. You get it, you know what you are doing, I have no advice. And then, often, I spot someone saying - I'd like to join in, but I haven't. Yet. And I think to myself - what can I say to persuade you? Is there something else I could have said? Try it! Short is perfect. A few sentences work just fine. Pick the first thing you trip over when you go into the attic, or the last thing you took back out of the charity box (or is that just me?). Start with a who, a what, a why; and if more comes - yes. If it doesn't, maybe that means you have told the whole story. But tell it! Because we're all here to listen.

Write your post, introduce it as a Storytelling Sunday story and then come back and link us up. You have a full week to add your story. No big rush! have a think, take your time. And then? Sit back and enjoy the rest.

Take My Challenge!

I was going to ask today if you've caught up with Jot magazine: but I don't think I need to! Lots of you have been in touch to say that you have been enjoying the first issue. Kim has done a wonderful job of pulling it all together and she's already planning to do it all over again with a new issue out at the beginning of September.

But before we get to that, there is plenty to keep us busy in issue one. Have you checked out the challenges? Jot would love you to have a go!. There are five to choose from (but, hey, why stop at one?) and I'm offering you..Challenge 3 What to Scrapbook When There's Nothing to Scrapbook About.

Make a page based around one of the prompts in my article and add it to the linky (thanks Mitra for being the first!). This is my page:

"The first books I can remember reading by myself. It was the drawings which pulled me in. Shift dresses, cloche hats in a 1920's English country idyll. I loved it when my Grandparents came to visit and was very envious of Milly Molly Mandy and her big live in extended family. Plus, who wouldn't want a red and white striped dress? It was like my school uniform..only better.

I saved up my pocket money to buy the books in the only bookshop in town and while I was browsing I discovered Paddington. That series was next on my list.

They all sit on the pink painted shelves in my daughter's bedroom now. I cut her hair in a bob when she was little. I think she knows why.."

Or, of course, choose one of the others they're all tempting..):

- Challenge 1 The Cafe Challenge

- Challenge 2 Mardi's 365 Mini Book

- Challenge 4 Photo Booth Layout

- Challenge 5 Janelle's Upcycled Vintage Instagram Book

but do choose. Jot is about joining in!

Our Turf

Sometimes I scrapbook because I want to record; often it's simply because I want to cut up paper; but very occasionally it's because I wanted to be soothed. I went to a funeral on Saturday. For the Dad of one of my oldest friends. I travelled back home and we clung to each other outside the church we've known since we were little girls. He was a much loved father: one of those men who do big things, but also have a hand in the little things which often go unnoticed.

Recently, since I pulled my Guide shirt out of the wardrobe for Storytelling Sunday, I've been thinking Guiding thoughts. Take the time our Captain carefully explained that we would be taking part in a Campfire Competition..

...which would have been exciting if any of us had actually known how to get a fire going. (Or maybe that was a good thing? Who knows?). We had to learn. We had to teach ourselves how to select exactly the right patch of fresh green turf, how to carve out a square with a knife, light, cook, eat, and then put the square of grass back without leaving a mark.

And it's funny: as I sat in that church at the weekend, listening to stories about a man who loved his garden, I remembered a man who loved his daughter more, so much more that he let her cut up his lawn. He stood there and watched us keep going until we could cut the perfect sod. A Girl Guide doesn't forget a thing like that in a hurry. So this one's for you, Mr. H. With thanks.

Girl Guide clippings from a Plundered Pages pack by Julie Kirk on Etsy

Storytelling Sunday Three: Pick Your Precious

Storytelling Sunday Three? There is no excuse for not joining in with this one - everyone can do it! Pick Your Precious is about celebrating the little things you love: those souvenirs, bits and pieces, things from your past you can't bear to throw out. You know, the special little something you have tucked away in a drawer or up on a shelf? Or the thing you  love most in a room? Or the object you would save if you knew you had to leave the country? Your favourite things.

Ready to begin?

The Girl Guide Shirt

It's Storytelling Sunday! The fifth month of the year and already we have enjoyed a captivating collection of precious items and the memories they help us to hold on to. When I started out in January I had a rough idea of the stories I wanted to tell, for the first few months at least; but what I'm enjoying now is the way your picks are helping me with my picks. maybe that's happening to you too?

Two things led me to my choice for this month: the departure of The (Not So) Small One for her very first Guide Camp; and the thought that, in the end, the remembering is more important than the thing itself.

See, I still have my Girl Guide shirt. It wouldn't be one of the first things I'd grab if I had to leave in a hurry: in fact it took me a while to find it; but it has more memories bundled up inside it than many of the others things here I might count as precious. It's genuine vintage now: "antique" said the girl who slipped on her blue rugby shirt and a fleece before she left. I wore it with a hand knit for warmth, and my school uniform navy skirt, and my yellow scarf.

I relished every minute of Girl Guides. we weren't, as a family, especially fond of the outdoors, so camping and hill walking and orienteering were new delights. at school I didn't like sport, but at Guides I didn't mind getting hit with a ball or pushed off a bench. Guides was different. I slogged my way steadily through a slew of badges, stitching each one to my shirt with pride. I can chart my progress through the size of the stitches: by the time I was ready to leave they were finally as small and neat as I wanted them to be.

Each badge tells its own story: 

Camping? "Shut up Sian, we want to go to sleep."

Camp cooking? "Sian, if you eat that raw sausage, your insides will die."

Laundress (laundress? surely not any more..) "Now remember girls, if you stick chewing gum to your skirt, you can pop it in the freezer and let it harden. then it will be easily removed."

Reader? Nailed that one.

At the end I was awarded the Queen's Guide badge - that was as high as you could go - and a group of us all squeezed into our shirts (which were getting just a little bit tight) for one more ceremony, a presentation of awards by the local Duchess.

And then it was time to leave. The Leader of the Swallow Patrol had to learn to fly. Endings and beginnings, hanging up uniforms and moving on: they've been on my mind this week as The Tall One fitted himself into his school blazer for the very last time. When he isn't looking, I think I'll take the blazer and hang it beside the Guide shirt, let it hold onto its stories too. Maybe there'll be a smoky smelling blue fleece come back from camp to join them. How about it?

My story is done. How's yours coming? Show us some pictures, tell us the story behind whatever you choose: it's all good. Write your post, with an introduction linking back to Storytelling Sunday (so your readers get the idea, the more the merrier!) and come link us up. I'm looking forward to reading about your treasures..

..More information can be found on the Storytelling Sunday page. And, don't forget, any story will be welcomed. It doesn't have to be precious in any way at all! Whatever you have in your head will be just fine: small or tall, we'll read them all. And if you are reading in a Reader, click through now to join in...

They've Always Been Our Friend

Do you ever get a completely unexpected flashback to a daft little moment you thought you had completely forgotten?

Happened to me the other night. I was flipping round the channels and arrived at something about the singer Glen Campbell. I caught a snatch of Rhinestone Cowboy and instantly I was about eight again. My friend Claire and I were lying on the floor in her living room, listening to selections from her Dad's record collection. The sun was in the sky, the Cremola Foam was waiting for us in the kitchen and I was marvelling at the grooviness of parents who didn't just like Julie Andrews. Life was good.

Suddenly, Claire jumped. "There's a bee, she said. "I don't like bees. I'm going to stamp on it and throw it out the window."

I looked up. There was a bee, but it seemed to be minding its own business, so I shook my head. "Nah, just leave it alone. It's not doing any harm." And we lay back down again to hear more about the star spangled rodeo, until it was time for me to go home.

About an hour after I left I remembered something vitally important I had to tell her. As you do. I begged to use the phone. As you did (way back then) and I dialled. Her brother answered.

"I'd like to speak to Claire, please," I said in my best telephone voice.

"You can't." he said. "Mum had to take her to hospital. She got stung by a bee and her arm blew up like a balloon, and we don't know when they'll be back..."

Oh.

....funny how things come back to you like that, in a flash. I made a page to remind me, taking as my title a quote from that old Michael Caine film about killer bees Swarm. I had no photo to go with it; and I guess I could have googled for a cowboy, maybe; but that wouldn't have made a layout my style, so I found a garden bee photo instead. An Echo Park journaling card, some Crate Paper and a bit of tone on tone stitching finished it up. Oh, and that little bird print, which came in a Quirky Kit.

So, next Sunday, then..it's the first in the month so psst! remember it's Storytelling Sunday! For March I'm thinking of an Irish themed "precious" maybe. How about you? 

Mary, the Pirate and Me

My page today is kind of a prequel

I was looking out a couple of photos for June's Storytelling Sunday and I found their companion. A picture of my little brother and sister in the dressing up outfits they decided on while I was getting ready for - no, sorry, you'll have to wait for that bit.

My little sister became Mary Mary Quite Contrary in her 1970's long party dress of the prettiest blue I have ever seen. And our little brother? He was a swashbuckling pirate in a pair of very large wellingtons.

That's the first story, recorded right on the back of my page. The second story is the tree. The willow, there in the background. It had to be cut down some weeks later and our garden lost its magic for me for ever after.

I marked its passing with some branches cut with my Slice. Lots of Crate Paper Pretty Party on this one and an older sheet of Bazzill Basics as a background. I'm loving white as a starting point right now - but that little bit of added pattern feels more me!

Have a great Thursday!

Run, Sian, Run

if you're a regular round here you'll probably already know that I'm not a runner. I don't mind a good walk. Running? Not so much.

But there was a time, many years ago, when I pulled on a pair of shorts and I persuaded my little sister to join me. We were world class Olympic athletes. We were the best of the best. Of course we were. We had numbers pinned to our vests.

This is the second of my pages this month for Gotta Craft.

Stars, circles, rosettes and banners cut with the Slice and rub-ons added from my stash.

Any Olympic memories going right back in your family?



The Storytelling Sunday Page

Last week I told the story of the Teddy who wasn't there. I had a lot of fun reading the comments; and I was especially intrigued by the thought behind the one asking - when did your parents own up? I made this page in reply.



My parents were probably slightly older and slightly stricter than most of the others I knew, but they did recognise the value of a furry frined. When I threw a toy out of y pram, they walked for miles looking for it. When I started Nursery School, my Mum made sure I had a tiny pink Teddy in my pocket for company. And when I was taken into hospital, she made a special trip home not just for Ted Fred, but for my favourite doll too.

I am absolutely sure Fred's escape had nothing to do with my Mum or Dad.

Happy Sunday!

Storytelling Sunday 2: The Words The Pictures

It's Storytelling Sunday! And after last month's record breaking 52 entries I'm looking forward to seeing what you've got for us this time round. Words? Pictures? A bit of both? Let's hear it!

 By last Wednesday I had decided on my story for today. I had even promised a couple of you a story about a car. But,when I thought really hard, I realised that there was another story which needed to come first. And here it is:

Fred, Ned and an Aunt Called Ed

Once upon a time I had an Auntie Ed. We all loved Auntie Ed, though she lived far away and we didn't see her very often. To visit Auntie Ed you had to go on an aeroplane; and the first time we did this I was five years old.

I packed carefully. I knew the score. I'd studied the sunshine-filled brochures snaffled from the Travel Agents. Though everyone had been keen to impress upon me the fact that there weren't a lot of wild koalas in the greater Keynsham area. Shame, I'd liked the look of them in the poster. I watched my Mum load up the suitcase with my new t shirts and shorts and then I placed my trusty Teddy Bear gently on the top. Auntie Ed herself had brought me Ted Fred when I was only a baby and I never went anywhere without him.



Here I am with my Mum, my bear (in his cardigan) and my big hair bows



We had a good flight; and at the other end Auntie Ed's Spare Room looked like the kind of place I might be persuaded to stay, so I thought I'd settle in. I opened my case. I stared. I screamed. You know what I'm going to say, don't you? Ted Fred. Wasn't. There.

I was distraught. I was overcome. This was outrageous. This was epic-ally, Titanic-ally bad. I couldn't go to bed without Fred! It was impossible! My parents eyed each other nervously. They'd never had to deal with a no-Fred situation before. They weren't sure they knew what to do.

Ed knew. Because Ed had a dog. A Pekinese with a fierce bark and a red bow on the top of her head. I hadn't been impressed the first time I'd met Bonnie. She was too loud. But I did admire her red bow. I had a bit of a thing for hair bows myself. I was a hair bow aficionado. Anyway, more importantly, Bonnie was the owner of a  Teddy Bear. When Ed had bought my bear, she had bought one for Bonnie too.

Ed in her triumph was a wonderful sight. She produced the second bear with a flourish and I eyed him from the bed, where I had arranged myself as a small, tragic heroine.

"This is - aah, um, Ned," she said. "That's right - Ted Ned. Ted Fred's twin."

"I think he might be his brother," I sniffed. "Not actually his twin." Because it was clear to me that he hadn't been showered with love, affection and cardigans as a bear should. But the deal was done when my poor Mum offered to sit up into the night, knitting the cardigan Ned so obviously needed.

And Ned kept me company all week. I'd got to know him so well by the end it was agreed that he really needed to be reunited with his brother and so he flew home with us. Fred was waiting, though he seemed unable to explain his last minute bail out. Maybe he didn't like Bonnie either. The boys got along famously and they still enjoy each other's company today: they are living out their long and happy retirement in my t-shirt drawer. If you look very closely, you might find a couple of faded hair ribbons tucked away safely in there too..

And that is my story for today. If you'd like to join Storytelling Sunday, create your post with an introduction (so your readers know what's going on - simply "linking to" isn't going to cut it!) and a link back here and come on over! A short story, a longer story, just words, mainly pictures - we love them all. One photo and a few words is all you need to get started...

The small print - which I'm not making small because I would like you to read it. I firmly believe we are telling stories in the round here. One person starts and then turns to the next. You can't do it in isolation.So I'm asking everyone who adds a link to say hello to at least a couple of the other storytellers. To make this even easier, how about turning off word verification just for today? Please think about it! Now, let's read..

Oh, Paris

The (Not So) Small One is in Paris this weekend. For a school trip which has involved at least twenty packings and repackings of the pink suitcase; along with a Parents Information Evening, a barrage of emails and more form filling than any sane mother needs. It wasn't like that when I went to Paris.

When I went to Paris, at the age of fourteen, I set out with one school friend to join up with a party of teenagers we didn't know; and a teacher none of us had ever met. I had only the name and address of the French family I was to be staying with, a phrase book and enough French Francs to (just about) last me the fortnight. It could have been hell; but it turned out to be closer to heaven.

We stayed In Chartres and our base was a cloistered school right next to the cathedral. I leaned how to love Brie and how to enjoy dressing on my salad. How to fry frites in goose fat and how to snack on chocolate wrapped in bread. I spent an afternoon sitting in on classes at a Lycee and an evening swapping stories with the Girl Guides. We took grammar lessons in the mornings and outings in the afternoons; and every night we went home to our "families" and tried to make ourselves understood.

It frightens me a bit to think of it now, if I'm honest. How did I dare? With the support, I suppose, of a mother who gave me a push and trusted me to get on and make as much as I could out of the opportunity I'd been given. We had no form filling, no safety analysis, no waivers, no handholding. Was that a good thing? I don't know. I guess there must be a happy middle ground. Somewhere in between. But I hope The (Not So) Small One, with all those forms filled in, gets a chance to stretch herself and discover just how much she really does know.

And that seems like a good place to end for today and remind you that it's Storytelling Sunday next week. I think I'll be trying a photo and a story-in-a-couple-of-sentences this time round. You could use a 365 photo if you like; but all kinds of stories are, as always, very welcome.

Oh Bugsy

Everyone remembers the first couple of times they went to the cinema. Don't they? The very first film I saw was Disney's The Apple Dumpling Gang, with a friend, for her birthday. The next year we queued up for Bugsy Malone.

How much did I love that film? As soon as I saw the big old car sticker on the Times & Seasons sticker sheet from Gotta Craft that's what I thought of.

I wanted to drive one of those cars. I wanted Mary Jane shoes and a cloche hat and a handbag that shut with a snap. I even thought about finding myself a gangster boyfriend. Though I was only ten at the time. Instead I used to lie in bed at night and sing myself to sleep. "I could have been anything that I wanted to be.."

Everything on the page (apart from the October Afternoon buttons) is from Glitz and Echo Park, from Gotta Craft. Sandra will be open again on Monday 9th January. She is busy adding lots of new American Crafts stock and I can't wait to have a look..



Journal Your Christmas - I'm Making a List

That's a full week's worth of December pages we're up to now and my album is filling up nicely. Preparing the base pages last month has definitely helped.

For the 6th I did this one:

That's me on the left with my hand in my mouth

about the amazing cardboard "Super Shop" Christmas. No, it doesn't look like a shop here on my pull-out photo page. It also turned into a house! If you are thinking that toddler on my Mum's knee looks like Little E, you'd be right. That's his Mum. I really should do a page about that, too. He looks so very much like she did at the same age. And he'll be getting a cardboard house of his own this year. I hope he likes it.

For the 7th I did this one:

I had printed out a photo of the Keep Calm poster for something else, but I thougt it would look good here, as a pullout.

They are getting big now, our two. Dolls houses and train sets have been replaced by teenage hopes and dreams - an easily passed driving test for one, world domination for the other. The best I can do is shop for a few bits and pieces I hope they'll enjoy. Maybe a set of "L" plates; and, I'm thinking, world domination probably comes easier with a labeller machine (pink, limited edition). For making your mark. What do you reckon?

Storytelling Sunday news - we reached 300! Actually, with the addition of Fiona's, we are now at 301 stories for the year. Gail asked if I had any idea how many storytellers we had had - I thought that was a great question, so I had a look and I think we reached 48. That's 48 bloggers all telling their tales and linking them up. What can I say? Thank you!

Storytelling Sunday: Memories Managed

It's the first Sunday of the last month of the year. Know what that means? Course you do! We've been telling stories here every first Sunday all year - think what we have achieved! In the past eleven months you have posted 252 tales (with another 11 from me). That's amazing, isn't it? We've gone from 7 in January to 37 in November. We could manage 300 memories before the year is out!

We've laughed, we've cried, we've connected. And that's a very good feeling. I've met some lovely new bloggers, I've learned a thing or three; and I hope you have too. I thought maybe you'd all be ready to let go and try something new next year. But it seems not. Let's tweak it a little, though, keep things fresh. Let's see who else we can persuade to join us.

But enough of moving on for now. Look at me - half way through a post and no hint of a story yet. Let's fix that. I have a short, simple Christmas one for you today. It could be sad, if I let it. But I'm determined it won't be.

It's about two little girls, and their even littler brother. The same three who appeared in the first page of my Christmas album this year. Here they are:

Now, these three were lucky enough to have a Father and a Mother who believed very strongly in the power of Christmas. And never was that belief tested more sorely than in that last Christmas they were all together. For the grownups knew that one of them had only a few months left to live.

But Christmas was still Christmas, and there was magic to be made, and they knew how to do that.

It started, really, with a letter from Father Christmas. Every year those three wrote their letters and put them under the tree and waited for them to disappear. Every year they knew that the letters had been read and filed away by the man in the red suit, for they always got exactly what they had asked for. But only this year, only the once, did Santa have the time to reply. And this is what he wrote:

What a thrill it was! It was passed round and round, even taken into school I think, envied by friends and enjoyed by adults. And when, finally, it had been read and reread, and held up to the light to check it was genuine, it was tucked safely away by the biggest of the three. She already believed in the power of Christmas; but maybe, just maybe, that's when she started to believe in the power of scrapbooking too.

And that's why she'd like to thank each and every one of you for joining Storytelling Sunday this year. Every time you wrote something down, posted it on your blog, you left it right there to be found when it was needed. You should be proud. You should all be very proud. Tell your story - because one day someone will come looking for it. And you want it to be there. Don't you?

So, for the last time this year, leave your link below. Write your story, with a sentence explaining what Storytelling Sunday is all about, then come back here and link us up. One rule this time round - you must wish the two linkers above you (more if you have time!) a Very Merry Christmas. Leave them a comment. Spread a bit of good cheer. Happy Christmas.

Storytelling Sunday - Sew Sindy

Welcome to Storytelling Sunday! Come on in, did you bring a story with you?

This is the story of a girl, a book and a doll called Sindy.

Once upon a time, when men walked on the moon and everything we ate was plastic, I asked for a Sindy doll for my birthday. I loved my Sindy; and I longed for the days when I too would own yellow boots zipped to my knee and a micro skirt which barely covered my behind. She had a small wardrobe to choose from, my doll. My Mum didn't believe in shop bought clothes. They were a waste of money. So Sindy stuck to her check mini until the glorious day I went to the library and found this:

Top Outfits for Teenage Dolls by Nesta Hollis

For the next year it was my favourite book in the whole wide world. I thought it had been written just for me. As soon as I handed it back into the library I put my name down to take it out again. On a loop.

The ones I made then

And then I sewed. Oh, I sewed. Any scrap I could save, any ribbon I could gather. Annette-next-door joined in; and we had grand plans for a Sindy Boutique, lovingly crafted from old cereal packets. We worked through the eight weeks of our Summer holiday, piling up lots of skirts (easy); dresses (a bit harder); to tailored jackets (pretty darn tricky, since you ask). I have them still though we never did finish up that shop. Teenage life got in the way eventually. All that work? No, I'd never let them go.

The ones I make now. Felt coat and a dress from a sock

And that might have been the end of the story, if I hadn't got chatting to a scrapbooking friend one day. (Julie, thank you - this one's for you!). I described my book. She said, quick as you like, "Here's an Amazon link for a second hand copy. Buy it. You know you want to." Or something like that. So I did. I ordered it and it arrived and I opened it and I gasped. Because inside that pink cover I knew so well were some tracing paper patterns, lovingly folded into the right pages, all marked with the details in a pencil hand I had seen somewhere before. Were these the very patterns I had traced all those years before? The paper was the same, the writing very very similar..I can't say for sure because I couldn't find any library marks on my book (and you know that's the first thing I'd look for). So let's just dream; and believe that my book came back to me and that my patterns were waiting.

So that's my story for today. If you have one of your own to share you are very welcome to add a link and we'll come round for a read. Don't forget to tell your readers it's a Storytelling Sunday post so that they can join in too. The more the merrier!

Sindy in the nurses uniform I finally sewed thirty years after she first asked for it