Sewer

I am a crap seamstress. As I write this, I am trying to mend a rip in a dress. If we are being honest, half the reason I am writing this is to avoid mending the rip in the dress. I don't believe that you are going to be utterly fascinated by my tales of Stabbing Myself In The Finger With A Needle. If I didn't want to wear the dress tonight I'm pretty sure it would be ripped right up until the Rapture, at which point I would be eternally damned for fronting up to meet the Lord in a dress with a rip in the ass.

It took approximately one thingy of cotton, two needles (I put one down someplace and couldn't find it for so long that I thought "fuck it, I'll just get another needle," and now I'm probably going to find the first needle with my hand/foot/butt later), three millennia and four serious thumb injuries to get the ass rip sewn up. But oh, the sense of achievement! The pride! The sheer glee of having fixed my own dress!

And then I put it on and noticed that the zipper is completely bollocksed. Bolloxed? However you like to spell it, the zipper is mangled, munted, fucked. And leaving the zipper unfixed is simply not an option because I invested so much time in fixing the ass rip that now I absolutely have to wear the dress, even though I have no idea how to fix a zipper. I didn't think it was something I would ever need to know.

But I do know how to put lacing down the back: poke some holes on either side of the nonworking zipper, feed black ribbon through them, and tie the ribbon. Which would be a fantastic plan if I a) had some black ribbon and b) checked if I had any ribbon before I made the holes. What I do have, though is wool and dental floss.

If you should happen to run into me in town tonight, whatever you do, don't make me take off my jacket and turn around. I am held together with wool, and there is still a little bit where you can see my bum, and it is almost too late to go out now, and also I am a little bit drunk -

BUT I HAVE FIXED THE DRESS.