Ali folded her dried washing and dropped it into the basket. The kids were watching a movie in the other room while their mothers hid in the kitchen, and for a while, no-one was screaming. Lee filled the kettle from the tap and started,
“I went into the loft today and came down with some ideas. I came down with the glass bits of that desk, which was actually what I went up there for in the first place, but I gotta go back for the legs when I can find a torch.”
“What desk?”
“That desk that Patrick had in the spare room, his office desk. I want to sell it at a boot fair or something. I should sell this stuff on ebay but I don’t want the hassle of posting anything. I want people to just come up to me and take my junk away, and give me some money for the privilege.”
“What junk? I might want some of it. But not if it’s junk junk, just good junk. What’s the idea?”
“Well, you know how I’m slightly obsessed with being evicted. Or having to move. That’s partly why I had the camper van.”
“Nutter.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought I’d get the desk bits down now while I was putting a suitcase back up there, so that at least it could be ready to go to the next boot fair on the cricket pitch. But there was just so much stuff up there. Just so much stuff. What on earth am I going to do with it if I have to move?”
“You’re doing your usual thing and going nuts over something that hasn’t happened and probably won’t for a long time. Just tell me what the idea was. Was it my jam and bread on the horse’s head?”
“No, but I’m still pinching that. Where would I get a horse though?”
“I want credit for that! You see? I could have been an artist too. And don’t forget the rose petal idea I gave you.”
“Oh yes! Anyway. I’ve got these two sheds and a loft full of detritus from my past life, and no money to buy materials. So instantly I was like, “I need to use this fabric somehow,” but the problem is, I keep thinking about the things I used to make, and the leftovers from that time kinda spoils it for me. For one thing, I think the patterns are going to be too obvious. And I don’t really know if I want to bury all of that time or talk about it with the new artwork.”
“Why would you want to bury it? You’re just turning into a snobby artist. It’s too ‘crafty’ for you now?”
“Gimme a break. I was always a snobby artist inside. But seriously, I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to that; since I stopped, I haven’t had the time or inclination to sew anything. Katrina, one of the girls on my course, said it was like I’d come full circle too soon. The circle is still too small, that’s all. It’s all in my head. Like the knitting! I was knitting like crazy for months, then I remember the morning Patrick said he wanted a divorce, and I was knitting a jumper for T; I put it down and haven’t knitted a stitch since. Thing is, I’m not traumatised by knitting, but it’s such a cool story, with the “I haven’t touched it since!” that I can’t be bothered to break it up by knitting again. It’s been six years and I might be able to drag it out forever if I’m careful. Such a waste of all that wool though. And all those needles I bought.”
“Well, you can always crochet if you feel the urge. Get the milk out of the fridge. Have you ever been dumped mid-macramé?”
“Har, har. What I was going to tell you about was when I went to Basingstoke to do a site visit for this commission. It’s a craft commission. And I was thinking, aha, I can do that! But I didn’t know what I wanted to do exactly. But then the same night I went up to Goldsmiths and looked at some feminist crochet.”
“As you do.”
“Of course. So like I said, I have some ideas…”
