Giving sorrow words (Shakespeare told me I could text you)

Darling Tiara Lady,

I can hear you telling me to get over myself and stop being maudlin. To not write about this anniversary, because I can’t change the past. But who am I to argue with Shakespeare?

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak,
Whispers in the overwrought heart and bids it break
                                Macbeth, William Shakespeare

So here I am, giving sorrow words.

Don’t worry, I won’t let you down this evening. Bubbles o’clock will be EPIC today.

A year has passed since you left. At first every day was like walking a tightrope. I was suspended high above a freezing cold, bottomless lake. Trying to function, knowing that the smallest thing could make me look down. Then I’d lose my balance, hurtle down into the depths of that lake. I plunged into that icy pool again and again. It always came unexpectedly, catching me off guard. It knocked the air out of my lungs, made my heart ache. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel that visceral, tearing pain.

Those plunges are rarer now. More often the funny, priceless memories help keep my head above the icy water. I think about you often. I say hello to your photo on my mantelpiece regularly. I'm pretty sure you're laughing at me (as usual).

I was searching using the term "dive" on Microsoft images.
Look what turned up in the bottom right corner. I shit you not.
(Image from here)

That decision I made, just over a year ago, to not come and see you one last time when I had the chance, was a mistake. It ranks right up there with my biggest fuckups of all time. That decision has weighed me down, pulling on my ankles as I fought to swim to the surface of that lake and take a gulp of precious air.

There are a handful of sensible reasons that stopped me from being there. All of them were utter crap. That guilt will stay with me forever. I wish, with every fibre, that I had come to see you one last time when you offered. I am poorer for not doing that, and I can’t ever forgive myself. I hope you can. I'll be coming to visit you in your garden soon, I promise.

As humans we all crave connection. We connected quickly, fiercely and without expectation. I’ll always be grateful to you. The wonderful gift of the circle of love you created continues.

I hope that wherever you are, it’s bubbly o’clock every hour. I bet you have Luther there keeping you furry company. We all miss you here, and wonder what the Field of Flowers is really like.

I came to grieve, but found comfort here in this garden of memory.
Perhaps our spirits live in perfect peace in the wonder of each
flower and bird and tree.

                                Nan Witcomb

Much love,

Your Happy Sisters Band mate,

Michaela Like Vuvuzela

PS Yes I know I still text you. Shhhhhh. Shakespeare told me I could.

 

Lose Your Shit Friday #20

Apparently poor Miss Cinders’ family has lost their shit. Well, they’re all poorly. This is no more clear than in her decision to ask me to baby sit Lose Your Shit Friday this week. She must be crazy ill.

So, in the spirit of What the Fuck Wednesday – which was in the spirit of Lose Your Shit Friday – I’m looking after Lose Your Shit Friday. On Saturday.

Lost?

Australia, you really made me lose my shit this week.

In the spirit of the release of arbitrary bullshit scoring system NAPLAN results this week, let’s take a moment to review how Australia has performed this week.

We sent more traumatised people to a tiny under-resourced island so that other people (who were invited) won’t try to come here in dangerous, ill-equipped, over-crowded boats. And WORSE! We FORGOT TO SEND TONY AND JULIA WITH THEM. Shit. Our bad.

Tony, Julia, here’s a one way ticket to Nauru, a tent and a bucket. See you when you’ve grown a heart between you. (A feckin brain wouldn’t hurt too).

You put off the referendum on indigenous recognition in the constitution. Because apparently the community didn’t see it as a priority. Actually nobody asked us whether we were still interested in being asked about how interested we are in indigenous acknowledgement in the constitution.

I guess the government lost interest.

You guys voted on same-sex marriage. How about we have a referendum on that too (so you can delay it)? Because you seem to think you know what we want. Personally, I don’t know why anyone would WANT to get married. But I think everyone should have the right to.

“Civilisation” won’t crumble if we allow same sex people to marry each other, or if we allow women to wear the burqa, or if taxpayers pay for the funerals for asylum seekers. (Did I cover everything, Mr Bernardi? Hope you’re enjoying the UK. Don’t hurry home, OK?)

Let’s see if I’ve got this one right. In Australia we don’t protest over the murder of innocent children in various civil unrest conflicts around the world.

Instead we shove violent placards into our children’s hands and protest because some shit someone uploaded on YouTube mocked an intellectual construct that's tightly linked to our cultural identity. Hey are there any spots available on that boat to Nauru? I can live in a tent… just not the same one as Tony and Julia. (Just how big IS Nauru?)

The press think the average Aussie is passionate about private school principals and talent show contestants. Yep, those are just the arsehat headlines I look for to remind me of what’s important. Hey look! The principal is a headline for the FOURTH DAY IN A ROW. Good thing nothing of note is happening in Syria, Afghanistan or Africa right now. Phew.

Australia, I’m sending a note home to your mum:

MUST DO BETTER

WHAT MADE YOU LOSE YOUR SHIT THIS WEEK?
LINK UP BELOW!

Lose Your Shit Friday: (aka: LYSF) (meaning) A day when lots of people lose their shit. Sometimes it's unavoidable because, well, everything from the week kind of piles up and one has to let it go! I bet you know someone who has lost their shit come Friday, maybe even YOU!

Here's the deal LYSF meme:

• On any given Friday, let the crap escape your brain from the week via a post on your blog. Swearing, bold, use of CAPS, and even RED BOLD CAPS allow you to express just how shit your day/week has been.
• Grab the button from below this post, and stick it on your sidebar or in your Lose Your Shit Friday post.
• Come back here and use MrLinky to link up to your LYSF post - not just a link to your blog homepage.
• Visit whomever else has linked up that week, and share the "I totally understand why you're losing your shit" comment love!
• The LYSF meme is open all week from Fridays, so feel free to jump in with your post through the week!

It's that simple! And man does it feel good to let go of all the crap that has occupied your Friday/week!

<a href="http://www.saturdaymorningogremum.com/lysf-meme/" target="_blank"><img src="http://www.saturdaymorningogremum.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/smom_lysf_button.gif" alt="Lose Your Shit Friday" width="150" height="150" /></a>

WtFW - What the Fuck Wednesday - No 1

In the spirit of Wordless Wednesday and Thankful Thursday, I’m starting a linky thingummyjig.

OK not in the spirit of those because THOSE linky memes are sweet and nice and wholesome and don’t include swearing.

Let’s try that again.

In the spirit of Lose Your Shit Friday (thank you Miss Cinders for that wonderful chance to rant and generally SWEAR AT EVERYTHING THAT’S SHITTING YOU RIGHT NOW let your hair down), I’m starting a linkfest of epically snazbig proportions.

It’s called What the Fuck Wednesday (WtFW) and it’s your chance to share moments from the week that have made you:

 

Or

 

Or generally throw your head back and cry out in a desperate plea to the universe – WHYYY??????

Here’s my first What the Fuck Wednesday post.*

What the fuck was I thinking?

This week I may or may not have risen from my bed without first inserting my brain. Yes, I am the winningest at putting half a face full of blusher on before I realised. I thought I was putting on mineral foundation. Further proof that I’m not a beauty blogger, and that I shouldn’t be allowed out. Of bed.

What the fuck were they thinking?

 Hedge trimming; you’re doing it wrong.

What the fuck colour was I supposed to wear this week?

This week saw several extremely worthy causes request our participation in a variety of colour-themed clothing days. Actually that should be day, because three happened at once.

There was white for survivors of child abuse, purple for LGBT youth and green for bilbies. All these causes are meaningful to me (I love those long-nosed furry little fuckers**) but if I wear all these at once I'm going to end up wearing the colour "vomit".

I can't see any cause wanting to claim that one.

Cause organisers: please check what else is happening on your colour day, or choose something else.

Like "wear blusher as foundation" day to support adults with ADD. (Cough). Problem solved.

What the fuck is he holding?

This photo appeared on my screen a couple of weeks ago. I have a small screen, and the photo is clearly designed for a larger screen. I think it's an ad for furniture. Is it just me, or does it look like he’s cheerfully holding a gun to her head?


Let me know if you own this image.
Note to ad agency: FAIL

Just me?

Alrighty then.

Here are the rules for What the Fuck Wednesday:

1.       THERE ARE NO RULES***

2.       On Wednesdays****, blog about what’s made you go What the Everloving FUCK???? discombobulated you that week.

3.       Steal the What the Fuck Wednesday button from my sidebar, and stick it on your sidebar or in your post.

4.       Use the link below to link up to your What the Fuck Wednesday post (not just a link to your homepage).

5.       Pop over to everyone else who’s linked up, read, and go WTF! with them in their comments.*****

 

* Yes I KNOW it’s Monday today. What part of Rule 1 above did you not get?! Oh wait, you haven’t read that far yet. As you were.

** Bilbies. I’m referring to the bilbies. WTF were YOU thinking I meant?

*** Actually there are 5 rules. Maybe 4. WTF?

**** For Wednesdays, read “whatever day of the week it lands on the blog”. See Rule 1 above.

***** Have I finally managed to make the footnotes longer than the post? WIN! 

 

How Twitter created an emotionally available car as candidate for Prime Minister

Language is a funny thing.

Don’t believe me?

Did you know that “To Guide” translates to “Rectum” in Latin? I didn’t know either until I was looking for a wanky Latin name for my training business.

Rectum Consulting; training everyone, one arsehole at a time.

Technology has made language even funnier.

I'm very prone to typing issyoooos. 

For example, “doe snot” really doesn’t belong in a letter to a client. (Depending on the client).

I wasn’t the only one who typed that, because these days Word helpfully autocorrects this to “does not”.

Thank dog there are no more letters containing this example of ruminant sinus infection escaping the world of word processing. Not by accident, anyway.

The lesson? Don’t ever, ever trust your spell checker.

It’ll let you invent a whole new type of superannuation fund, given half a chance. Just ask a fellow trainer who was victim of this very behaviour in a PowerPoint slide.

I don’t think I want to know the type of growth Pubic Sector Funds have had over the last ten years.

Ewww.

Instant messaging brings its own dangers. Like the day I typed “rubs his hands” because the person I was messaging said they were cold.

Except that the internetz stole the h and cruelly switched the order of the n and a.

“Rubs his nads” took that relationship to hysterical embarrassment a WHOLE NEW LEVEL.

Twitter has created some new words of its own.

Ah Twitter. I remember tweeting “I dream of suck a day”.

LeSigh.

Snazbig, which should have been amazing. I think snazbig IS amazing and have been using it regularly. I encourage you to join me.

It’s also given me words like Fuckpants. That’s an awesome word. Always to be used as an expletive. Never a noun. Never. Ever. Ewww.

Last but not least is a wonderful example of autocorrect creating an entirely new direction of conversation THAT MAY CHANGE THE WORLD.

Mrs Woog had written about how devastated she was that her car was on its last legs. I told her she would learn to love again, but autocorrect on my phone changed it to learn to love Shaun again.

This took us on a lovely random wander through how great Shaun was, and how he would heal Mrs Woog’s emotional wounds. I said that Shaun should be Prime Minister.

Someone who follows Woogsy then chimed in asking who this Shaun guy was, and would he be better at it than the current people in charge of the government?

Thank you, Twitter and bad typing, for giving us the opportunity to CREATE AN EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE  CAR THAT SHOULD BE PRIME MINISTER.

Fuckpants, I dream of suck a snazbig day!

What funny typos have you seen?

A revelation that will change human history (AKA you and your spermatophore are going home alone)

Hold onto your hats everyone. This is a biggy.

I’ve just worked out the answer to one of the great questions of human existence.

I’m going to take a wild guess and say that most of you don’t know how a starfish eats. Or how cuttlefish mate.

Right?

So the marine biologists in my vast (cough) audience are yawning right now. But hang on! That’s not the big revelation.

You see, starfish are at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to eating. They do have mouths, and they have stomachs (handy really). No that’s not the revelation either.

Starfish have mouths basically on their tummies. You know, the underside of their bodies. Where a lot of us mammals have a navel.

To eat, a starfish has to get on top of its food, extend its stomach out of its mouth, envelope its prey, wait for it to start to digest and then draw stomach back in, food included.

A vicious starfish waiting for a diver to mistake it for a stylish Fascinator

Which I think explains why, while there are many deep-sea creatures who like to put homo-sapiens on the menu, there are no man-eating starfish. I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I’m standing still, wearing a starfish as a hat, long enough for the little fucker to digest me.

I know, right? That’s a pretty BIG conclusion to come to. But that’s not the revelation either.

Now to cuttlefish. These deep-sea cephalopods are fairly smart*, but you could never call them romantic. To mate, the male inserts a packet of sperm into an opening near the female’s mouth. She then leisurely fertilises her eggs and hangs them from a suitable object and waits for them to mature.

Hey honey, why don’t you come back to my place where we can turn the lights down low… put on some jazz… and I can place my sack of sperm in the opening near your mouth so you can fertilise them and hang them from the clothes airer… yeah…

I’m busy tonight washing my mantle… you and your spermatophore are going home alone tonight.

Keep those sperm packets away from me, fella...

Interesting as it is, even the lack of romantic frisson in the sex life of a cuttlefish isn’t the revelation.

Between male cuttlefish aggressively displaying to their own reflections, (hey dude, keep your egg sacks away from my laydee…), female cuttlefish eyeing off the fixtures for a good place to hang an egg, and starfish chucking their stomachs all over the place…

THIS IS WHY YOU NEVER SEE DEEP-SEA MARINE LIFE ON DATES IN NICE RESTAURANTS.

It also proves that old adage that some things are best done in private.

* Google “cross-dressing cuttlefish” if you don’t believe me. Goes to show that smart wins over pretty even in marine biology.

What weird sea-life facts do you know?

My top ten dumb-arse moments of all time

I am astoundingly stupid. No, hear me out. Oh, no-one was arguing? Oh. Right. Moving along then…

I’m a frog who manages her own successful lily pad business. I’ve managed to raise a tadpole who can just about dress himself (OK yes that’s where the analogy-or-metaphor-or-whatever falls down. Bear with me). In most areas I have boringness adult frogdom down pat*.

Nevertheless, I do some amazingly, stupendously dumb shit on an astonishingly regular basis.

Since I seem to be an expert at humiliating myself, I thought I should share some of my experiences. For the greater good. (The things I do for you, so that you don’t have to. I deserve some kind of public service medal. Someone needs to get onto that).

And so, here, in no particular order, are my top ten** dumb-arse moments of all time***:

One – the butterfly incident (or how not to admire nature)

Last weekend I was saying bye to my good friend Karen after waking her up at an ungodly hour to pick up her boot. (See here for the reason for the boot).

Picture the moment: A beautiful clear sunny winter morning, with a light breeze blowing. I’m enjoying this short peek into the gorgeousness that spring will soon bring, once winter throws off its icy mantle.

Movement beyond Karen’s shoulder catches my eye. Be still, my heart – is it? Could it be? Yes it is! Spring’s first butterfly is over there near her garden tap, fluttering in brilliant black and scarlet majesty. I excitedly grab Karen’s elbow.

“Oh my god!” I cry, “Look at that butterfly!” My heart fills with wonder that such a large butterfly has come out so early in the season. The excitement is tinged with worry that it’s come out too soon, that Melbourne’s wintery conditions will kill it. Poor butterfly!

This is not the butterfly in question.
It doesn't have a piece of wire sticking out its arse for a start.



Then it’s tinged with something else as it occurs to me that the butterfly has been hovering around that tap for an awfully long time. Then it’s tinged with “oh good grief what a fuckwit I am” as I look at Karen’s face and realise IT’S A FAKE SOLAR POWERED BUTTERFLY ON A WIRE.

I swear I don’t need glasses. I was just a dickhead caught up in the majesty of the coming spring.

Two - Don’t throw your GPS out the window (or how not to wave goodbye)

After the Butterfly Incident, I attempted to drive away. I pulled out, and saw Karen waving to me. “Quick, wind down the window a bit so you can wave!” I thought.

I hit the down button on the electric window. The window started to open, and I popped my hand out to wave. The window, knowing I’m an all-or-nothing-kind-of-gal, decided not to stop with a couple of inches; it was going all the way.

No problem.

Except that the GPS was suction-cupped to the inside of the window. The window that was now going down and pushing the GPS inch-by-inch towards its ever-widening gap.

I spotted that the GPS was mounting a slow-motion bid for freedom and panicked. I hit the up button.

Which was fine.

Except that the window was determined to keep the “this chick never does anything in half-measures” motif going, and tried to close completely.

With my hand still out the window.

So this up-down-ouch-shit-there-goes-the-GPS-don’t-forget-to-wave-and-steer-the-car dance went on for several more seconds, as I drove at 2 kilometres an hour with tears of hysterical laughter rolling down my face. Thankfully there were no witnesses other cars on the road.

Three – the ultimate mouthwash (or how not to eat fish and chips)

I was sitting there happily scoffing fish and chips, being a slob. Eating in the lounge room, on the couch. Happy as a… well, frog on a lily pad. Assuming it’s a large lily pad with access to fish and chips. And lemonade. I digress.

There was I was, eating fish and chips. I had a bottle of lemonade on the floor next to me, for the occasional swig.

I like a bit of vinegar on my fish and chips, so I had a bottle of vinegar on the floor too.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Yes, I did, while distracted by the television, take an almighty swig of white vinegar instead of lemonade.

Bet you didn’t know that it takes four days to get the taste of vinegar out of your mouth after you drink a mouthful of it. See? Now you do. I do these things for YOU, you know.

Four – the lost phone moment (or how not to make notes)

This has happened to me a number of times now, and just proves that old adage that you can’t teach an old frog new tricks.

I’m on a phone call. I have an iPhone. I love my iPhone. I’m very attached to it. If frogs and phones could mate I’d be tapping that phone EVERY NIGHT.

While on the phone, I realise I need to grab my phone and make some notes in the Notes app. I love that app. If frog and apps could mate… you get the picture.

Right. Find the app.

Oh my DOG! Where’s my phone? (Frantic searching through Tardis handbag). I’ve lost my PHONE!!! (Palpitations, gnashing of teeth, wailing…)

Oh.

It’s here. In my hand. Because I’m talking to someone and now I have to take notes and… where’s my phone… (RINSE AND REPEAT).

Yes I am.

I’ll build on this list of life’s potholes to avoid over the coming months.

You’re welcome.

* This is a lie. I APPEAR to have it down pat. Fake it till you make it, baby! (But that’s another blog post).

** Well-spotted. There aren’t ten dumb-arse moments. Yes. Hang in there; some more are no doubt lurking just around the corner… you know you can rely on me.

*** All time = so far. Let’s just call this a “living document”.

WHAT HAVE BEEN SOME OF YOUR MOST HUMILIATING MOMENTS?
OVERSHARERS PLEASE APPLY…

Mental scarring, teleporting doctors and a two litre bottle of urine

I have a bone to pick with the medical profession. (Yes I know I seem to have a bone to pick with just about everyone and everything. I am the Queen of the Bone Pickers).

Why is it that, in this age of organ transplants, micro-surgery and robotic prosthetic limbs, we can’t design a pathology specimen bag that’s not transparent?

During the week I had to provide some blood and urine for the betterment of mankind analysis. In the process I met Melinda the gorgeous, efficient and hilarious pathology nurse. She took the blood in a flash with little pain and NO BRUISING. Thanks Melinda, you are the Queen of Vampire Nurses. She’s also a good sort who likes a chat and a laugh.

Next was the urine sample. Along came the plastic cup, saline wipes, and of course the pointlessly embarrassing transparent plastic zip lock specimen bag. Deep sigh.

Off I trotted to the bathroom. Said specimen was collected without fuss. I’ve done this so many times that I am the Queen of the Mid-Stream Urine Sample.

This is not the real sample.

I did not take a urine-sample-selfie.

Does this mean I'm not a real blogger?

image by voodoostock - stockarch.com

Naturally, the moment I stepped out of the toilet, the universe teleported a male doctor right in front of me.

There I was, a 44 year old, overweight, scruffily-dressed woman, holding my still-warm jar of wee, displayed for maximum visibility and effect in the PLASTIC BAG OF SHAME transparent plastic zip lock specimen bag. The doctor smiled at me, started to say hello, glanced at the bag, and swiftly disappeared. I can only assume that he was struck dumb by embarrassment the sheer weight of my sex appeal.

I handed my sample back to Melinda. I asked her why, the moment a woman steps out of the bathroom holding a jar of still-warm bodily fluid an embarrassing personal sample in a ZIPLOCK BAG OF HORROR thoughtfully transparent bag, someone of the opposite sex suddenly appears in front of them. Why does the universe insist on taking the indignity of the experience to a whole fresh level of humiliation?

I told her about the repeated Mondays that I had to carry a TWO LITRE BOTTLE OF WEE to the hospital on the crowded peak hour tram, desperately trying to hide it. Apple juice. I really, really like apple juice.

Then Melinda told me this story, and I felt a whole lot better:

“I had to have some samples taken. I had to have a needle inserted into my uterus. It was incredibly painful and difficult and in the end they gave up, and washed saline up there instead. This was collected in a jar and popped into a BAG OF HUMILIATION transparent, plastic zip lock specimen bag. On the outside of the bag was written, in big, clear black Sharpie:

MELINDA (SURNAME)
ENDOMETRIAL WASHINGS

So there I was, at the hospital, in the lift, exhausted, sweaty, in pain, carrying my trusty pathology sample.

Naturally, the HOTTEST DOCTOR IN THE WORLD got into the lift, and, flustered, I immediately dropped my sample. As you do.

Oh no, I thought, please don’t pick up the bag, please don’t pick up the bag…

He smiled and picked up the bag.

Please don’t read the bag, please don’t read the bag…

“Here you go Melinda”, he said, “Here are your… (reading the bag)… endometrial washings”.

That lift ride was more mentally scarring that having the damn washings collected in the first place.”

So what can we learn from Melinda’s story?

• That men have no idea how lucky they are. Any men reading this are probably wondering what the hell endometrial washings are. Google it, I dare you.
• That even in the world of medical miracles, nobody has yet worked out that you can make an opaque specimen bag. Really. Someone really needs to get onto that.
• That the universe has a bastard sense of humour.

So the next time I’m walking along with a random body fluid sample in public, I won’t feel so bad, because at least it isn’t endometrial washings.*

* Unless it IS endometrial washings, in which case I’ll remember that, in Melinda’s words, it could be worse, it could be poo.**

** Unless it IS poo, in which case I’ll just DIE. And then blog about it.  

Have you ever had an embarrassing moment involving a pathology specimen?

It's not the size of the baguette that matters...

(Please feel free to read this with an outrageously bad French accent, as it was intended).

Thank you all for coming today. As father of the bride I’ll try to keep this short because I know you all want to get your beaks into those bowls of expensive seeds I paid for...

Today we saw two paper cut-out birds loving people join together in the bonds of feathered matrimony.

As we sit here, in this beautiful French aviary on this momentous occasion, let me first share some remembrances I have of my daughter, the bride.

It was a cold and wintery day in Bayswater a tiny French town far, far away, when friends and family gathered close to witness the creation birth of my little Bryn Eggleston.

Bryn’s story is a complete lie fairy tale of die-cut romance, a story about a young chick from a poor nest. She grew up on telephone lines on the wrong side of the tracks. Her chances of moving up to a higher perch in life were slim.

Her mother and I were worried when we heard she was working as a stripper dancer at La Cage Aux Folles. What kind of people would she meet? I was worried the day she brought home that emu – surely they had no future? And the peacock was a disaster – all tail feathers and no brain.

But then she met Marcel. Marcel looked into her metallic blue brad eyes and fell in love with her in an instant.



My, what a big baguette you have.
The bride and groom - note the matching berets.
Marcel has promised Bryn to give up smoking and lose the
70’s porn star moustache once they’re married.



Marcel looked beyond how badly glued she was her miss-matched wings, beyond the fact that she had a bulldog clip for feet the meagre scratchings of her past, and saw her inner beauty.

A year later, here we are. Bryn doesn’t have to work at Le Cage Aux Folles anymore (which is probably for the best, apparently bulldog clips aren’t very conducive to dancing. Who knew?).

Marcel’s baguette business is flourishing and we’re hoping to hear the sound of little paper clips running around the nest very soon.

So everyone, please raise your glasses in a toast, to the bridesmaids…

The bridesmaids, Adele and Anais.

Finding shoes to match the outfits for these gals was a NIGHTMARE.

All the above works of art bits of fun were created using equipment and materials provided by my good friend Karen at Viva La Stamping. This isn’t a sponsored post, but I was inspired to write about the fun I had as a complete idiot untalented newbie at paper craft last weekend.

The bridesmaids were made by Karen, Marcel was made by her husband Michael and I claim responsibility for the lack of quality in beautiful Bryn.

What I learned:  

• The French work for pigeon is… pigeon
• It takes a lot of work to remove glue and glitter from your hair
• It’s easier to make a baguette than you'd think
• None of us can do a decent French accent
• Karen is the shiz at this paper craft lark.

Karen is an incredibly patient and talented lady. You can use her stuff to make greeting cards, decorations, and – yes – wedding invitations, among many other exciting papery things. She is available for paper craft parties, sales, cups of tea and pigeon weddings. Don't worry if you're not a talented crafter - she made even me look good! Here are some more samples of her work:

Gorgeous Christmas card, made by Karen

Bryn and Marcel will be sending these this year...

The rosette I got for being the only best
Mother of the Bride

You can contact Karen  on Twitter: @VivaLaStamping or via her website: http://vivalastamping.blogspot.com.au/ 

Bryn and Marcel will be sending out thank you cards via courier pigeon later this month...