I have a lamb. Sadly, not real, but lifesize and very pretty nevertheless. She stands in front of the television at present exuding benign vibes - the sort of smiley lamb you can't pass without wanting to stroke. We've also amassed a once scruffy (and therefore very cheap) oak trolley that I've Nitromor'd, waxed and buffed back to beauty, and various disparate items that might or might not look good in a small shop aiming for the Scandinavia meets English country cottage look. I've bought my spotty bunting from dotcomgiftshop and my baskets. I'm on course.
Amongst various disasters of the not-knowing-what-I'm-doing variety last week, whilst on a jaunt seeking out said items, I managed to embarrass myself in the local joiner's shop. This isn't any old joiner's shop; this is two floors of old England, reclaimed pine at its finest, rustic cupboards, wardrobes, thick-topped tables, children's school desks complete with inkwells and childish carvings, old trunks. I love it. We bought a few baskets, a towel rail, a chair. Not unique things, but not mass-produced modern, either. So I think the owner was a bit surprised when he asked for payment and I tried to fit my Ikea Family card into his machine. I love Ikea, but his look was one of amused disgust. Ah well, room for all sorts. Next week I'm going back to ask him to make me some shelves and, just in case, I'm leaving the Ikea card at home.
What I don't have yet is yarn. A nice man's coming to see me on Tuesday morning about that and what he'll say is something about needing proof I'm a bona fide trader. I think. And I don't have any proof because the tax office moves very slowly. They actually say you shouldn't register as self employed until you're trading, but if you want to buy wholesale, you can't start trading till you're registered. Chickens. Eggs.