... a cup of tea with me? That's what I'd say if you knocked on my door, delighted that you'd taken me up on my invitation. I'd take your wet coat and offer to hang it over the radiator for you, so it was warm and dry when you were ready to go, for our winds are still very cool. I'd ask if you'd mind sitting at the table in the corner of the kitchen - Himself is deep in the middle of a work teleconference on the half-landing with his headphones on and for some reason it makes him speak louder, I'd teasingly say. And I'd explain that my Dad has a carer with him right now for an hour so we might not see him, but that if the district nurse calls to visit him, I'd have to leave you for a few moments. And then we'd go through ...
On the way past, we'd stop so I could introduce you to Gladys, just on your left. You might have glimpsed her before on my blog, but you might not have seen her in all her, ermm, fullness :). You might ask me where she came from, and while we are pulling out the chairs to sit down, I'd explain about seeing her at a Flower Show ten or more years ago, and being smitten by her lovely wide-eyed expression. I'd tell you what a wonderful therapist she is: that I can just sit and tell her all about my day, and she'll unfailingly supply all the "Well, I never(s)!", or "He said what(s)?" that are needed. We might laugh together, you and me, and - being the creative people we are - come up with a string of ideas for other things she might say, especially if we'd just had a crafting disaster at the table beside her ...
And while I was lifting things off the tray for us, I'd explain how, in my part of the world, we were all trained to lay a tray for visitors with a proper linen cloth from as soon as we were big enough to carry a cup, and that this was one of my Mum's quick-crocheted-edge ones. While filling the teapot and bringing it over, I'd be hoping you'd tell me a bit about your childhood: who sewed or embroidered, glued or painted in your family, where your own crafting inspiration comes from ...
There'd be the offer of biscuits, of course, and some gluten-free ones too, nestling inside the lovely tin sent to us by our German family-in-law in December, full of wonderful traditional Advent lebkuchen, a cross between delicately spiced biscuits and gingerbread. There's still a little box left, especially for favoured visitors like you :). And as you nibbled one, we'd comment on how appropriate for a scrapbooker this tin was, and ponder the serendipity of English title, for they don't know about my scrapbooking ...
We'd turn it round and round, oohing and ahhing at its vintage feel and thinking of uses for it when the edibles are all gone. Fill it with mini-books? Make a thick journal for it? Photograph the sides and make digital cards? And I'd enjoy hearing your thoughts and ideas ...
We might keep talking about scrapping and what we each like and enjoy about memory-keeping. I'd explain how I wasn't really a digital scrapbooker: I just like to use what the computer offers to produce something I can hold and touch, and turn the pages of. I'd rest my elbows on the table and cradle my cup in my hands and would be keen to know what is exciting you in the scrapbook world right now or what leaves you cold, and how you manage to weave your creative pursuits into your days ... As we paused companionably to look out of the window at the rain, I'd tell you how glad I
am to see the budding leaves on the little maple, and how anxious I have
been that in the long and searing cold it would not survive. And how that speaks to me ...
And as we poured some more tea, I might - if I knew you were following along with Ali Edwards' One Little Word - ask you how you were finding it, what it was meaning for you. And I might, in turn, tell you a little about how mine, 'Sail', is helping me navigate my own life. I might even share with you how much I am enjoying my 'log-book', with its pockets and flaps, fold-out pages and hidden bits,
receipts, tickets, photos of texts, copies of emails, and slivers of
doodles, drawing and painting. And what a surprise it has been to find myself at
this point, for the injunction from my primary school days of never starting a
sentence with "I" still rings loud in my ears. I (!) might say something about my
iPad and how it is
enriching the way I work, but there'd be a hesitancy in my voice and a tentativeness in my observing in case it really
wasn't your thing. And I'd wonder aloud: if I popped into your home, what I might see on your own work desk? Would it be like mine, or very different? Do tell me more ...
Suddenly we might catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realise you needed to go. There'd be a flurry of coat-putting-on and bag-and-phone finding. I would tell you how pleased I am that you came, how much being able to connect like this has meant to me, and we'd smile and hope to arrange to meet up again as we stepped over the threshold onto the paving stones outside the front door. Your eye might catch the box of daffodils and yes, I'd say, they're the ones I found a few weeks ago in the lean-to and planted out, and aren't they lasting well?
We'd wave goodbye out on the road, as you set off again in the damp sunshine. I'd turn again to look, just as you went, and raise my hand and smile, full of gladness that we'd met and been together for a little while ...
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With many grateful thanks to Abi, at Creating Paper Dreams, for her lovely invitation to share a cup of tea with her once a month, and for her own delicious writing and sharing. Do pop in and see her if you'd like another cup!
