There's something really weird about writing on a blog; you're convinced someone is or is going to read your posts, while you are also sure nobody is reading them. Told you. Weird. But you still write for an audience. It's hard for it to be a diary sort of thing that way. But it still is. But obvs isn't at the same time.

The other funny thing is how you can never really fully understand what is being said. So I can say 'I spent my afternoon drawing out different dress ideas that I will hopefully take to my sewing machine later this week after I go out to buy some new patterns' which sounds like, 'I am such a talented creative who is deeply in touch with current fashion trends but also quirky and unique and hugely productive, and will later go fondle soft silks and talk gently with fabric vendors' when in fact you're a rubbish seamstress and buying fabric includes sweat, persistent haggling, and the smell of cigarettes  and you doodle lots of pretty dresses that you are better off giving to an experienced tailor.

Somehow the second one actually sounds a lot more fun and interesting. Maybe the first is forever a lie but always a dream. Or is it one? I dunno. Just fictional I guess.

Sure we all want to write about dreams of cycling through Europe and chugging down skinny lattes and eating peppermint bark and sleeping over at our childhood friend's house and talking about boys and rocking Mac lipsticks but that's really old now and always was fictional. I feel I need to give the word 'fictional' a new definition now. Fictional as in not real but undeniably beautiful in a way that we wish was real but know cannot be and would rather stayed that way.

Today as I sat trying to figure out how I was going to sew a version of this H&M dress I saw in Pinterest I looked out the window and the corner of the window frame and the drop of the curtains managed to close off the whole landscape and leave me with this little pocket that consisted of a lot of high trees and a roofed house with its facade drenched in the afternoon sunlight. It was cool. I knew that if I had moved the curtain or gotten up to look down I'd have seen the manic roundabout and the bushes wilting and crisping away in the heat and feel the 50 degree flare and the dust and smell the gasoline and the damp and hear the screeching of tires and even the sweat I would begin to feel on my clothes had I been out there. But because I didn't see any of that and only saw one little square of prettiness that was so unlike Kuwait and more similar to a house on a beach in Cornwall or on the. Side of a mountain in rural Germany or something it was so, so beautiful.