It’s always been odd writing on a platform for me, it is as if the scariest things that lie in deep within cannot be expressed out.

A small voice, seeking validity, could it ever find it out here in the open?

Lace

Sarah Ditum

lace

I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”

Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…

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Empty Room

She stumbles upon room namely the ‘Empty Room’ oh curious that she was, she walks in, and takes a sit. Around, looms in the darkness. And she takes a sit at the big empty table. 

And she waits.