Wednesday, November 25, 2009
There was, up until last year, a skeleton* in my closet. He belonged to the Mr and migrated all the way to Australia from the UK only to be given up for some paltry sum to a worthier cause. I miss reaching past him to find my clothes and sharing a moment of closet irony, although the fallen-off fibula was wearing thin – always rolling out the opened door.
There are other body bits around the house. The collection of dolls eyes bought by my father-in-law...
Macabre and beautiful.
Or just plain weirdy.
There is also a pair of right legs. During an eighteen month stint freelance designer-ing for The Body Shop in London, there was an attic clear out. How could I resist body parts from The Body Shop? The Tube ride home was memorable. Many will understand that Oxford Circus station is slap bang in the middle of things and somewhat bizzy at rush hour. There we were, squished like stand-up sardines, all winter coats and damp Evening Standard newspapers. Me holding my legs in the air. There was much carriage bewilderment. In true middle-of-winter, London style, no one said a thing.
We’ve yet to unearth their destiny. At the moment they make excellent swords for playing Knights and look alarming when stuck to the ceiling. Mostly I like ’em because they remind me of a time a long way away.
Thanks to the lovely Theme Queen Kate – and pop on over to Pip’s to find a veritable collector’s paradise...
* Not a real skeleton. A medical model, to clarify.