Conversations with myself.

Rain or Shine, by Cathy Cullis

Ugh, what am I doing with my life?

Right now? You're walking the dog.

No, not right now. Overall, with my life. What am I for? What's is the point of me? What do I doooooo?

Well you walk the dog, you take care of your family, this morning you did some laundry and hoovered the hall and sometimes you get paid to answer other people's emails...'

Uh huh. That's not really helping.

What do you want to do with your life?

Write. And take pictures.

And what did you spend this morning doing?

Writing. And taking pictures.

Interesting...

But there was no point to it, no one paid me to do it, it didn't make any money...

Oh. So money is the point. You want to get paid?

It would be nice, yeah.

Do you need to get paid?

I don't understand the question. 

I mean do you need to get paid? Do you need more money?

It would be nice.

Yes, but do you, right now, need money? Are there things missing in your life that you need that you can only have if you get paid for what you do? 

Um.... Well... No, not really.

Interesting. 

But if I'm not getting paid then what's the point? 

Are you happy? Are you getting better at what you do?

Yes. 

Maybe that's the point?

Oh shut up. What do you know. 

I know that you want to write and take pictures. I know that you do write and take pictures. I know that you want to get paid but you don't financially need to get paid. Maybe you would like to get paid, maybe emotionally and mentally you need to get paid but right now, this week, you are not getting paid.Yet there is the potential, that in the future, once you have scrubbed your step, you might be in the position to get paid. Is that correct?

Yes. 

Okay good, glad we sorted that out. Now maybe we can get on with doing what we do and worry about getting paid later? When we need to?

Maybe. 

You know we're very lucky that we don't need to worry about getting paid right now?

I do. I also know you added that bit so the Internet wouldn't hate us and think we're a whiny ungrateful bitch. 

I did. 

Thanks for looking out for us. 

You're welcome. 

Stupid Thoughts That End With 'maybe we should have another baby?'

'I have exercised regularly for a year yet my stomach still always looks 3-4 months pregnant. One of these days someone is going to ask me when I'm due. If I were actually pregnant when this happens then it wouldn't be quite so awful.'

'My belly is so wobbly and nothing makes it go away. If I was pregnant and didn't eat much then the baby might use it up and afterwards I would be thin again.'

'I don't love my body. I've never loved my stupid body. Wait, that's not true. I loved my body when I was pregnant. . . ' 

'I miss crafting. It would be nice to make something again. A human something.' 

'W&P are total bastards to each other. Having another sibling might unite them. Or alternatively give them someone else to be horrible to. Either way, they might lay off each other for five damn minutes.'

'I still want to be Mrs Weasley. If I'm ever going to have seven children then I need to up production.'

'I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, if I spent another few years solely dedicated to keeping a person alive then I wouldn't need a plan for a bit longer.'

'My sister-in-law is having a baby any day now. I'm jealous because a) I liked being pregnant and b) she's going to have a cute baby that everyone will adore and I want one too.'

'IVF sucked. It would be nice to get pregnant naturally. It would also be nice to carry just one baby, and give birth just once of a morning, and have just one newborn.'

And then, every single time, as if maybe some part of my subconscious is trying to tell me something...

"YOU DON'T WANT ANOTHER FUCKING BABY. And oh, by the way, YOU'RE INFERTILE*. REMEMBER?"

___________________________________

*I know, I know. I had twins, I'm not infertile. But it took four years and IVF and my inner voice has a flair for the dramatic, okay?

** And then I looked through pictures of W&P's first year for one to go with this post and my ovaries exploded all over my seat and I had to have MORE BABIES RIGHT THIS MINUTE. (remember how cute they were? Before they learned to throw punches.)

On really needing to pull oneself together.

Brooks Salzwedel

You know when someone asks you to do something that you don't normally do and you say 'okay' because Why Not? (and you need the money) and then it gets to the day before and you are on the verge of vomiting and you cry actual tears and wonder if there is any way you can get out of this because YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING AND WHY DID YOU AGREE TO THIS AND OHMYGOD IT'S TERRIBLE AND YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE and then on the day you leave super early and you walk very very slowly like a dog on the way to the vet or a seven year old due at the head teacher's office and you feel physically sick all of the way and the rain is dripping on you and your phone dies so you can't actually be sure where you are going and you get hungry and the only thing that you can find to eat is a £12 sandwich which turns out to be half a sandwich and so now you're still scared and still hungry but you also want to punch whoever came up with stupid fucking Le Pain Quotidien and their stupid fucking half sandwiches and then you finally get there and you have to start doing what you're so scared of doing and you're still a little bit shaking and kicking yourself for ever agreeing to it in the first place and wait, what is this? You're enjoying yourself? And you're having a good time? And you're actually quite good at what you do?

Yeah. That.

monkeys, babies, creative blocks.

Everywhere around me people are having or are about to have babies and I had this lovely idea that I was going to knit something for them all. HA! The one that came first was the lucky one, he got all of my knitting mojo and then I decided that if I was going to put that much time into making something then it was going to be for me. I'm giving like that. So now I'm making myself a scarf, at the rate I'm knitting it should be finished by winter 2016.

I made the kid a monkey. Everyone I showed it to was surprised, the people who had seen my hot water bottle cover were the most so. "It looks like a monkey," they said. "An actual monkey." I took the opportunity to practise my modesty by quietly smiling and offering a demure shrug but inside I was shouting 'DAMN RIGHT it looks like a monkey motherfuckers.'

I really wanted to keep him, I'm not going to lie. But then I also really wanted to show off a) how much I care about the new baby and b) what a genius I am, so I packaged him up with a bottle of whiskey, some books, a set of ear plugs and some mini eggs and posted him off to be puked on and thrown in puddles.

We met the baby for the first time last week and he's kind of adorable. I spotted the monkey sitting on a shelf and I briefly considered stuffing it in my bag and taking it home but then I looked at the kid and I looked at the monkey and I looked at the kid again and he gave me this ridiculous, gummy, whole-face-creasing-up smile and I thought 'Fine, I suppose you can keep him. For now.' Then later, when he schnuzzled his nose into that gap between my boob and my armpit and fell fast asleep, I briefly considered sticking him in my bag instead; the kid for the monkey seemed like a fair swap. Then I remembered that I'm done with babies. They're nice and all that, but I'm done.

Sometimes when I'm feeling creatively stuck (all the time at the moment), when my photographs don't look right and my words come in the wrong order, if at all, I have this urge to make another baby. If you like making stuff, objects, then babies are pretty fulfilling. While it can be a pain in the ass getting the project off the ground, once it's ticking away you don't need to put much work in. The end product is, from a technical point of view, likely the most impressive thing you will ever make from two ingredients. Spending time with an actual baby helps to add a little perspective to that genius idea though, helps to remind you that while you might end up with a very nicely constructed craft project, the end result is a bit more of a commitment than the photos your struggling with or the words that just won't come.

I think that maybe I need to learnt to sew. Clothes seem like the next most impressing thing you can make, after people. Then again, maybe I should just stick with the photos and the words, as infuriating as they both are. I stuck the kids out from two and a half through to three and a half and they seem to have come out the other side of that shit-fest (literally) of a year so maybe the words and photos will too.

grumble, arse.

hi.

That's about all I've got at the moment. It's hot and my arse is sweaty and Nye broke his collarbone and we have spent two weeks riding the gastric flu train and did I mention that my arse is sweaty and I'm grumpy?

I want so hard to be cheerful and summery and nice but fuck, I'm tried. Guys, two and eight months is hard. Two and eight months x 2 is really hard. If one more person tells me how the twins must be getting easier all the time I'm going to punch them. There was a time when they were getting easier, but it's past. I don't feel like detailing the ways in which they are driving me to exhaustion but let's just say I keep swearing off alcohol because I think it makes me fat and anxious, then it gets to 4pm and I think maybe I'll quit tomorrow. I never quit tomorrow. Oh and I heard that a young, happy, successful friend who get's to spend time with her husband is pregnant and although I assume that this was happy news for them my first thought was one of sympathy. That's not cool.

I don't regret having kids but Christ, sometimes I miss the rabbits.

Another day I'll tell you all the good things that are happening and how hilarious and sweet my kids are can be, but today: GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMPY SWEATY ARSE.

Innocuous questions that make me crazy (# 1)

.

'Is your husband babysitting?' 

IT'S CALLED PARENTING.  

Seriously. In two years no one has asked Nye if his wife is 'babysitting'. Because when I look after the kids it's just being a parent, when he does it it's a fucking novelty*. It drives me nuts.


*To them, not Nye. Hour for hour he probably looks after W&P more than I do.

*image by Jamie Street, aka Desert Fete.

The end.

Let's leave aside illness and bereavement for a moment and focus on what else this first month of the year has had to offer. January 2013 has been the month that:

• I fell down the stairs. Top to bottom. I've always liked to imagine that I am the sort of person who if I had a proper injury I would remain calm about it, telling whoever was nearby that I was in a lot of pain and needed an ambulance please. I'm not. I fell down some carpeted stairs, bruising my coccyx and cutting my elbow, and I screamed. Then I sobbed like a baby, pressing my face into Nye's chest and gasping 'I fell. I fell. I fell.' Self-image: shattered. I was fine, I just couldn't sit down very easily for a couple of weeks. My bum still hurts actually. I also really freaked out Ella who is still urging me: 'carefoo mama, faw down stairs. Ouchie' three weeks later. For additional points: I was carrying the bathroom bin when I slipped. As I bumped down the stairs on my arse then collided with the bikes at the bottom, a shower of damp smelly nappies rained down on my head, some of them containing day-old shit.

• (Speaking of shit.) Ammie discovered her own poo, and what fun it is to dig it out of her nappy at nap time and throw it around. Then she pushed her explorations further and dabbled in a little smeering, on her own head. And tasting. Now she takes naps in a romper suit with the buttons done up the back. Beat that kiddo. She also discovered wallpaper stripping, although to be fair she had some help from her sister with that endeavour. There is precisely one room in the house that didn't need repainted when we moved in. Now it needs wallpapered.

• my ankles got so badly bitten by fleas and I scratched those bites so hard that they now look like they have chickenpox and probably will do for the foreseeable future. ( DON'T SCRATCH YOUR BITES CHILDREN.)

• After a couple of years of deliberation I invested in a pair of waterproof, felt-lined Sorel snow boots, aware of the fact that having just left the Scottish Highlands for London, the window in my life where I needed snow boots was probably over. Three days later it started snowing, heavily. The snow lay and lay and lay until it compressed into sheet ice (WHY DON'T THEY HAVE GRITTERS IN LONDON?) and then melted into sloppy slush. The snow boots didn't arrive. My feet got very very cold. I'm still waiting for them to show up.

On the upside:

• it was my birthday, I was 28 and I almost exclusively got booze, chocolate and booze-flavoured chocolate. And when Nye asked me what I wanted to do I said 'take me to the garden centre and buy me a plant..' Middle age is delightful.

As good as my birthday was this year it's really not going to make up for the (literal) shit storm that was the rest of the month. So let's all join together in wishing January 

GOOD FUCKING RIDDANCE. (And why don't you take this time out to a good long think about your behaviour. I want to see a total change in your attitude by the time you come back, OKAY?) 

*image Bruno Ripoche, via Hybrid Hunter. 

Observations from parenting:

When the girls call Nye 'Big dada' he thinks they're calling him 'THE dada'. When the girls call me 'Big mama' I think they're calling me fat.

*collage by Anahata Katkin

does not compute.

"I don't cook." I hear this so often and it always totally baffles me. It's usually from women about my age and it seems to be said with a subtext: 'I have better things to do'. (Of course, often it's said by men and then the subtext is usually 'don't be stupid, someone else does it for me.'  That's another blog post.)

It's not 'I don't like cooking' or 'I'm not good at cooking', it's 'I choose not to cook.' I'm not stupid, I understand that a generation of women are railing against the notion that they have to cook for their families simply because they're women and that's what women do, but the majority of the people who tell me that they don't cook are single women or women who are part of a couple. 

The decision not to do something that is so essential to one's existence seems perverse to me. Putting aside the option of eating food that doesn't need to be prepared at all (gag), there are two options, either you cook for yourself or someone else does it for you, and if someone else does it for you, what happens when they're not around? It's like not being able to wash or dress yourself, of course there are other options (wet wipes and staying in your pyjamas), but they suck! 


I love cooking and I'm not terrible at it. I love the creativity of putting together ingredients, the alchemy of doing things to them to make them taste different, but mostly, I love the ability to feed myself good food, to nourish my body and look after myself and it's that that I can't understand people choosing to opt out of. Whether you enjoy it or are good at it, surely being able to feed yourself is motivation enough to at least have a go at cooking?  That's why it doesn't compute when people tell me they don't cook. I just don't understand. 

lessons in humility, acceptance and not being a moron

Yesterday at dinner time we decided to go camping. Spontaneously! With twins!  Never mind our carefully constructed routine or the fact that the girls had already had a wildly exciting day and hadn't napped or that it was dinner time or that we have 18 month old toddlers who have never been camping or that the campsite was an hour's drive away and it was rush hour or that it was just a stupid idea, we were being spontaneous!

Summer arrived in the UK yesterday. More dramatically still, summer arrived in Glasgow. I can't tell you how long it's been since we had summer, roughly 3 years maybe? And I can't tell you how much we have missed camping, it's something that we love and that we couldn't wait to do with the girls. Never mind people's raised eyebrows, we were going to be Cool Family That Doesn't Bat An Eyelid at Camping With Toddlers. Spontaneously. 

Well we hadn't reckoned on Amelia. Which was silly, as we've had 18 months to come to terms with Amelia, 18 months which has mostly been spent figuring out what she needs to happen for her to go to sleep at night. What she needs does not include a spontaneous camping trip that starts at dinner time. Girl LOVED the campsite, LOVED the tent, LOVED the food and the wild and the trees and the horses and the wigwams at the campsite. Girl loved them so much that there was no way in hell she was ever ever going to go to sleep despite the fact that she was falling flat on her face with tiredness. We thought that eventually, when she was tired enough, she would join the rest of us in our cosy pile of limbs and sleeping bags (Ella, after ten minutes of trying out different corners of the tent, settled happily in her daddy's armpit and started nodding off to sleep.) But an hour later she was not only ricocheting off the sides of the tent, she was screaming too. Which kind of sucked for the other campers who had travelled from Belgium and America to walk the West Highland Way and were getting up in the morning to continue their 96 mile trek. 

So we packed up and came home. Which was embarrassing. I'd thought that we were so damn cool, camping with our kiddos, we were one of those families who other families admire and think 'wow, they're so carefree, they haven't let having kids stop them from having adventures'. In other words I was a smug, self-congratulating  moron. 

The thing is, I've never once felt like we have let having kids stop us from having adventures, I had just become fixated on the idea that camping had to be one of them. Camping was my status adventure, the one I would take beautiful pictures of and blog about and bask in the congratulations of my readers for being So Cool (I know, I know, I hate myself too).

Despite the embarrassment of packing up and coming home I'm actually really glad that we went, for a few reasons. One, until we tried to go to sleep we had so much fun, in fact I don't think that the girls have ever had more fun in their lives. Watching them rampaging and exploring was one of my happiest moments as a parent. Oh and Ella called out for Ammie when she couldn't see her around the side of the tent, 'Me Moo? Meeee Moo?' and my heart exploded with love. Two, we realllllllly needed to break out of our routine, do something that was neither work or agonising over selling our house, which is pretty much all we've done for a month. But thirdly, and most importantly, I learnt some lessons in humility (see above) and acceptance.  Accepting that one of our children just doesn't deal with huge amounts of change and excitement as well as I might like and that it's our responsibility to look out for her and not to throw her things she can't deal with just because we think that if they worked out they would be really fun. I've always thought that we had accepted that Amelia is just slightly harder work than Ella (most of the time, Ella has her moments, her 'exorcist moments' as I like to think of them) but I feel like yesterday was one of those eye-opening moments when you realise that you still had a little way to go before you were quite the person/parent/whatever that you wanted to be and that you might have just made it a step closer. Which is kind of cool. 

(our camping bible - maybe this face should have been a warning - rocking the neon trend - exploring - the builder - "hullo, buh bye" - 10pm, an escapee - Going Home.) 

you know that thing I said about "maybe it's not so bad if I'm not certain about everything"? It was a pile of arse.

that's all. 

source .soma gallery

two years ago today.

Looking back at the photos all I can remember about this day two years ago is that Nye and I had a huge fight about turtle sex in the middle of Central Park. And that I felt so sick. I was 10 weeks pregnant. 

great mysteries.

Marks and Spencer. They can create a foam pig that is more addictive than crack cocaine but they can't design a plastic bag that doesn't spew edamame beans everywhere. 

A cream cake...

I hated the long version of this dress when it appeared in that movie, it was awful, unflattering, over the top and badly badly fitting. But this version on Net a Porter proves what I have always thought about puffy wedding dresses - most of them can be entirely redeemed by having 20 inches hacked off the bottom.

(Oh god, I've just seen the back. Why Vivienne? Why would you do that to a perfectly lovely dress?)

Image courtesy of Net a Porter.

Because...

...I want a dog (any dog, even a stupid one) and it's nice to be reminded of a day when my head wasn't full of snot nor were my boobs inexplicably damp.

A little something from the day after the wedding, when The Boy and I got all dressed up and went to play in the gardens.

Photo by The Boy

I can't decide...

I can't decide if this is gorgeous or if it looks like an unfortunate incident in a feather and glue factory...

Bijou by Elizabeth Filmore.

Conversation in the pet shop...

A boy and a girl are in the pet shop, Boy had taken Girl to the pet shop to show her their new 'rescue' animal corner, populated with (you'll never guess...) animals that need re-homed.

Boy: Look, there's Max, the rabbit I was telling you about. Isn't he lovely?

Girl: Oh my goodness! Look at the rat! He's a rex! Oh isn't he lovely? He likes me! (she squeals as an adorable rat rushes over to the front of his tank and starts sniffing at her fingers through the edge of the door)

Boy; That's not a rex (unsaid: you idiot). That's a bald rat.

Girl; No it's not, it's a rex, look his head's fluffy...

Boy; Yeah, but the rest of him is bald...

Girl; Oh dear lord, it's a bald rat! Can we have the bald rat? Pleeeeease? I lovvvvvve him. Love him love him love him! Who else is going to want a bald rat? How much does a rat house cost?

Now I know that you get fancy, intentionally bald rats but I'm pretty sure that this was a special needs rat. He did not look nearly as chipper as this fella, in fact he looked downright dreadful. I'm in love. After musing that I really do have a thing for the completely buggered ones, The Boy is wondering if I only took him home because I knew no one else would have him.

Unfortunately we didn't come home with a bald rat. Our vets bills for the rabbits are already exorbitant, we just can't afford another critter. But damn did I love that rat. I'm thinking of going back with my camera just for you East Side.


(image source)

it's all been too much...

...the late nights, the unreasonable demands, the incessant changes to projects previously deemed OK, the constant verbal (and threats of physical) abuse. They've taken their toll on my darling computer and it is no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet its maker. It's a stiff. Bereft of life, rests in peace. Its metabolic processes are now history. It's off the twig, it's kicked the bucket, shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible. It is in short, an ex-computer.

I am sitting here on The Boy's computer, bottom lip a-quivering, while he tries to revive mine. It's very kind of him to let me use it but it feels all wrong, like borrowing someone else's false teeth, it just doesn't fit.

There is no good time for that extension of your being to pack in, but the week before your wedding? Fucking great. There are countless things to be printed, countless images to use while arranging hair, flowers and decorations all stashed away on it. Emails to be answered, wedding elves to correspond with, sanity-restoring blog buddies to be connected to....

Dear computer, I know I've been pushing you a little hard, trust me I feel it too and if I could give up I would be sorely tempted, but I need you, I love you, please come back to me.... please.....

The inner dialogue...

I think I'm losing my mind. A week ago I went for a dress fitting. From the moment the over-familair seamstress helped me into my dress (hello, I'm in my pants and wearing stick on boobs, I do not want help) and I looked in the mirror, something became unhinged.....

Something's not right. I'm too skinny. I look too long.


You are long. And skinny. You always have been.


I know, but I look longer. It's the dress, the long white dress. It makes me look... long.


Hmmm, you're right.


I don't like it. I think I need a veil.


You don't want to wear a veil. One of the very first things you decided when you went dress shopping was that you feel ridiculous in a veil. And they remind The Boy of scary things from horror films.


I know, but I think I should wear one. Or maybe a hat? A really wide hat. That would balance out the skinniness....


Ok, a hat then.


No, a veil. I would feel silly in a hat. And I think my shoes look dirty.


What? They're not dirty, you've never worn them.


I know that, but they look dirty. Against the dress. The dress is white and the shoes are grey and they look minging.


You're being ridiculous.


Hmmm. Maybe. So, the veil.... I really think it will make me look less long. I need to look less long. Also, it would hide my hair. My hair's not good.


You're right, your hair is bad. Let's try and order a veil when we get home.

Ok. Then I'll look less weird. Don't you think I look weird?


I'm not answering that.

The next day, after more of the same through the night....

So, a veil. I think maybe I should wear one.


Ok. But don't you remember saying your didn't want one?


No. Ok, maybe I remember. But now I think I should wear one. Or at least buy one to see if it makes me look less weird.


Fine. Silk tulle would be best. You can make one yourself.


Hell yes, I'm not paying £200 for a bit of net stuck to a comb. I can stick a bit of net to a comb myself. Where do I get silk tulle?

The Internet.


Oh yes. Ok, here we go - £25 a meter. I think I need three meters.

That's a lot of money for a veil you might not wear.


Hmmmm. It doesn't matter. I need a veil. Look, they can send it to me by tomorrow and then I can make it and see what it looks like.

You don't need a veil. You don't want a veil. You haven't wanted a veil since you tried one on and realised you felt like Miss Havisham. You can't pay £75 for a veil just to see if you like it.


I can.


Ok, you can, but just because you can doesn't mean you should.


But, but......but...... I look weird. I don't want to look weird.

It's all in your head. Ask The Boy what he thinks

"Boy" I say tentatively, in the voice that usually accompanies tales of something silly being bought on the internet or a question that is impossible to answer.


"Yes?" he asks, equally tentatively.


"I've been thinking I should wear a veil. To the wedding."


"But you don't like veils, they make you feel silly."


"I know. But..... I'm too skinny. In the dress I mean, I look too skinny. "


Silence. And a look that means I know you think that what you just said makes sense, but it doesn't.


"A veil would make me look less skinny. Or a large hat, a large hat would work."


He has a funny look on his face. I can't tell if it's pity or if he thinks I'm insane. Probably a bit of both.


"Peonies, that's silly. You are skinny, and you look beautiful in the dress. You don't need a veil."


Hmmm. Is he telling me the truth or does he just know that I was thinking of spending £75 of veil material? Or would he say anything so I don't look like a scary, horror film, veiled zombie woman? Probably, but I think he means it.

"Ok. If you think so" I say.

I'm unconvinced. But I don't really want to spend 75 quid on a veil so I'm fairly easily persuaded. If people think I look too long it will be his fault. Because I wanted to try a veil, or a big hat and he said I didn't need to. His fault, I think to myself. And that reassures me.


"So, about the shoes. Do you think they look dirty?".....

Crazy, uh?

I have had similar internal conversations about earrings, shoes, seating charts, false eyelashes, lipstick, bracelets, welcome drinks and elopement. All in the space of the last week.


I think that when you hit the 4 week mark you go crazy and doubt every single decision you have made. At least, I hope you do and it's not just me.....

I just wonder when it stops?

Comes in Ice White, Snow White, Diamond White, Soft Ivory, Dark Ivory, Blush and Champagne. Matching veil also available. Shoes can be dyed to match.


(image from Legal Juice)

The unmentionable invites, continued....

I thought these buggers would never be finished. I thought they existed merely to torture me, to drive me insane and render me incapable of any speech other than the constant and continuous muttering under my breath of swear words and sentiments like "If we call off the wedding we won't need invitations...'

But they are done and the have flown the nest (and not via the living room window), well most of them have, there are a few stubborn ones that just won't leave but I will deliver them by hand if I have to...

They are 5x5inch squares of recycled watercolour paper backed with Cabbages and Roses Cerise Hately fabric, which I am indecently in love with. I want to cover our house in it. The Boy isn't too keen on my penchant for floral fabric, but he likes this one. It's the perfect blend of romantic and modern.




We got silk ribbon dyed to match the fabric (anal much?) by Cam Creations who are based in the US and were unbelievably helpful. Even with postage this was a sixth of the price of any in the UK. I love the internet. And ribbon.




The print on the fabric was spaced out so much that it was impossible to get the same amount of print on each invite without wasting a tonne of fabric, so some have very little at all, but I like the variety.

The fabric is expensive so I bought it on ebay. And was sent a really bad fake. Which Cabbages and Roses replaced for me free of charge. Nice people, Cabbages and Roses.




The little cards give the details of our wedding website where all of the usual 'invitation' information is. They were printed on recycled card and backed with white linen. Like our save the date cards.



The RSVP cards were finally, finally finished....

So there you are, the finished article. For all of you who are making your own invitations, keep the faith - you will finish them one day. Even if you think you will go mad trying. You might, but that's a small price to pay for the overwhelming satisfaction of putting them in the post box. And saying goodbye to them and hoping upon hope that you will never have to do it again. Even though you now know you can.


Oh and I still don't like glue.