It has been very quiet around here of late. The secret thingy I may or may not be working on is taking every spare moment of my waking life which is not already taken up with the hullabaloo that having four kids involves. Then last night my sister (who despite having no interest in quilting whatsoever has been my biggest blog supporter right from day one) emailed me this lovely guest post entitled "Before she quilted": As winter draws in and the snow makes its presence felt, as the logs crackle in the fire (in someone else's house as I only have electric radiators), and as we snuggle up under Lily's quilts, I'm trying to remember what life was like before she quilted.
For starters, life was boring as when she didn't quilt, she didn't blog. What on earth did I read? Can't remember but it didn't make me laugh half as much as she does when she writes.
Secondly, life was darn cold before she quilted. I slept in multiple, Bibendum like layers of tyres, I mean pyjamas. I bought shares in hot water bottle firms my bed was so cold. Now I lie under my personalised Penguin quilt, a t-shirt is enough to keep me warm.
My children didn't sleep so well. When young children say they are warm enough they invariably aren't. It's a boring parent question, not worthy of an honest answer. So they used to say yes, when they meant 'don't know, don't care' and I now know the real answer was no. Now that they sleep under their Batman and Swoon quilts respectively, they sleep all night without waking me up having nightmares, falling out of bed sneezing and coughing.
Life wasn't so colourful. We inherited a family heirloom from Mr Rolleiflexes family, a ruddy great big Breton chest carved in the darkest oak ever. It wouldn't look out of place in a cathedral. It looks distinctly out of place in our small flat. We even call it the spare bedroom as someone could (un)comfortably sleep in it. Then I inherited theyoutubequilt with it's bright tv squares and 70s colours and now it decorates the top of the chest and makes everyone's life a little less dull, a little less French farmhouse.
This is not to mention the more comfortable chairs with quilted Paris map cushion covers, the have-fab-baby-weekender-bag-will-travel means I now look Brit chic instead of back packer. My large union jack in washed out colours means no French person will ever wonder what nationality I am again. So my butt, self-confidence and sense of identity are all better off since she quilted.
So thank you Lily for generally improving my quality of life in weird and wonderful ways. I owe you.