As some of you know, Thursdays are my cut-loose night. Eshewing a proper 'knit-night', I have instead taken up belly dancing and whiskey. A fair trade, one leaving me both more flexible and relaxed where concerns of commerce are concerned. In my stead, and again addressing issues of commerce in this era of a democratically elected(?) recession, Clementine's hours have been extended to 8 p.m. on Thursday evenings. The addition of Robin L., crafty chica extraordinaire, has made this possible.
Some evenings she has a stack of stuff to stay occupied with. There's always fat qwattahs waiting cutting, and her eye for detail and color is a much appreciated jewel in Clem's tiara. Last night, as I dashed from the building, I dumped the four-patch doll quilt blocks in her lap. Hey. Back off. She asked what I needed help with, and this is a pressing matter of some import. I came in this morning to find this letter laying atop the cutting table, along with a partially assembled quilt:
It is now 10:15 p.m. and Robin is preparing to leave the building. Her religion left about 90 minutes ago.
Having discovered that she did not have her reading glasses, she felt sure her major difficulty in piecing a doll quilt would be her inability to see clearly while sewing. That was not the case. Apparently, Robin was dropped on her head as a baby and the damage done has been very slowly taking away her ability to put together colors in a random fashion, for, try as she might, she cannot produce a pleasing composition without having two of the same fabrics next to one another. Not normally a quitter, she is throwing in the towel on this one. Perhaps after consuming a sufficient amount of gingerbread lattes from Starbucks (or rum from her own cupboard)-possibly, nay, likely, both, she will recover her dignity along with the ability to construct a sentence with more skill than an ESL student. She holds hope in her heart that she will cease referring to herself in the third person, too. She hopes you have a lovely day. Feel free to leave the quilt top to be finished next week. Robin feels that consuming the Bacardi before she begins sewing may well do the trick. Thank you and goodnight.
p.s. there's water in the iron.
So there you have it. I have driven another soul to the demon liquor. Of course, I cannot in good conscience leave the quilt top to her ministrations now, without appearing both callous and spiteful...
unless I leave a fresh bottle of rum next to it.