Walking lightly as a fairy, Though her shoes were number nine

Walking lightly as a fairy, Though her shoes were number nine

And this how she died:

Drove she ducklings to the water
E'vry morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine.

Ruby lips above the water,
Blowing bubbles soft and fine,
But alas, I was no swimmer,
Neither was my Clementine.

Guitars and ukuleles are curious instruments. A voice with chords in the background, strummed to a rhythm, is strange to me. But I believe in my jumping flea (ukulele).

'Sweet dreams', once you get over how overused it was when you were a silly secondary school teenager, is actually a lovely thing to say, though it's so rare to come by. The only sweet dream I can really remember ever having is one where me and 2 people were in a magical forest with fairy lights, and one of them (both were males) suggesting that we take off all our clothes and dance in a circle, and we did, with flowers and lush leaves and magic lights around, and it was crazy, but not in that dangerous maenad way, but with a glowing, cosy, ecstatic peace.

I just signed up for a 'dressmaking' class at a cc!!!! It says dressmaking but it's clothes making. It starts next week and soon I'll know how to use a sewing machine and can make clothes for the rest of my life! I can buy flower prints or paisley prints and make simple dresses and blouses for the rest of my life, and make clothes for my grandmother, mother, sister, cousins, desiree, everyone. I'll take their bust measurements and make them flower blouses that reveal their flat bellies and belly hair if any (well not for the plump adults, this idea). My grandmother is going to buy a sewing machine this weekend! Not the new electronic kind but the old kind where the soles of your feet rest on a panel that moves back and forth. She said she used to take apart old clothes to look at how the pieces began and made new clothes by tracing the cloth part configurations of the old ones. And they sewed school uniforms then, and -hold your breath- BRAS. Imagine the mothers taking the measurements of their daughters breasts and all. Ick.

Tomorrow we are going to choose the tiles for my old-new house. So far it seems like my mother only wants us to choose the following colours: white, grey, beige. I really hope the house which was our cosy beloved corner on earth does not turn into a $800, 000 modern monstrosity, one of those that look like asylums from the outside, with the inside I imagine being all modern-looking and clean and sleek or whatever it's described as, with huge rectangular plasma tvs and the floor with super clean marbled tiles and everything being displayed with purpose and order. Save us from this twisted unfeeling modern idea of a home. Well whatever it is for us my mother will decide since it's her big project, and my room will be my own haven that will have all the reds and oranges and blues and greens that the rest of the house will be thirsty for.

Hey Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me. I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to......