#168 Every patch has a story

What’s new?

Very little, I hope.

When my sister and I were growing up, our mum sewed all our clothes. Right up until we were 15 or so. We had party and church and everyday clothes. We shopped at stores for jeans and shorts and tees and chuddies. But everything else, pretty much everything we wore, was made with her trusty Singer sewing machine. Quirky, singular clothes that had that unmistakable homemade stamp on them. I had this hot Fuschia pink number that I loved with all my being and cried buckets over its eventual demise. When our party and church clothes became less sparkly or saintly or too small for us, they either became home wear or were lovingly refreshed and sent to someone else.

#163 Auld lang syne

I’m one of those people who dislikes the hysteria around the new year. Or even birthdays. There’s something awfully stupid about celebrating your long march to the empty void. The frantic joviality and glee that often feels prescriptive. Like a toddler forced to smile for a photo. Terrible analogy but you know what I mean.

But at the same time, there’s also something wonderful about new beginnings. About looking back on a year gone by. Being grateful for what the year gave you.

#135 Fancy van Gogh

If you’ve been reading Just One Thing for any length of time, you know I have a thing for Vincent.

Because I love him so much, I’m always on the lookout for all things van Gogh. Or stan van Goghs. You know, the ones who acknowledge Vincent’s true genius wasn’t driven by severe mental illness but crippled by it. That he painted inspite of his illness. Kindred spirits.