We’re packing up in preparation for the move from Glasgow to Sheffield, interspersed with showing prospective tenants around the flat and obsessive readings of the IKEA catalogue. Also, on Friday evening, we went to see the film ARGO, which I enjoyed very much. (And the setting inspired me to read a particular short story on Saturday - #54 in the list.)
The story-reading goes on, of course, despite all the distractions.
Story #49: ‘Pornography’ by Ian McEwan (1978)
Story #50: ‘Starring Gary Cooper’ by William Gay (2013)
Story #51: ‘Angel Baby Blues’ by Wanda Coleman (1987)
Story #52: ‘Only the Dead Know Brooklyn’ by Thomas Wolfe (1935)
Story #53: ‘The Pedestrian’ by Ray Bradbury (1953)
Story #54: ‘Tehran Calling’ by Nam Le (2008)
Story #55: “Grand Froid’ by Paul Emond (2011)
Today we were sorting through tubs and boxes, and packing things to take down to Sheffield this week when I go down for work. Of course, while TMiddy laboured and cleaned and packed, I was concerned with the most important things.
There was a short interruption so I could do some remedial hair-brushing (of dolls’ hair, not my own), and a bout of dressing-up.
These dresses were made for my dolls by my great-aunt, Auntie Violet, sometime in 1980, when I was fourteen. The white dress was made with scraps from my sister’s wedding dress; the pink dress was made with leftover pieces from my own bridesmaid dress.
Those dresses that Auntie made, and the clothes my grandmother made seven or so years earlier for my then-new Barbie, are among my most treasured things. I was so delighted to get these, and conscious – even then – of how much time and care had gone into them. What I didn’t realize, I think, was the love that went into them as well.
If you’re wondering why I was still playing with dolls when I was fourteen, you should know that I continued for some years after that. I should never have given them up.