Now that our darling Mec is big enough to appreciate boundaries, or so we like to fool ourselves, he’s entitled to some privacy inside our tiny house as well, read – we’d like our couch back! – so I’ve made him a sofa fit for a prince, a fun DIY project I finished only recently by making dignitary use of the seductive fabrics I acquired years ago, strolling through an always awe-inspiring Venice.
Back in the days when the sky of my abilities seemed to reach limitless, I used to own a sewing machine, but that era has well passed. When I was indisputably rejected as a productive member of modern society, the lady responsible for the final verdict given about what I would still be remunerative for completely ignored my by rheumatism diminished fine mobility and forever marked me suitable for ‘light sewing’, an honorable title I since wear, scorned but with pride.
My handiwork pleases my boy which pleases me, watching him ascend his tinselled throne more and more often. At the same time I identify with his perception of ‘more is more’, because why settle any ascertainment when one deserves all? I suppose we must have taught our boy well: in life a Trip to Jerusalem is the name of the game.
