The first day of the weekend, the first day of freedom at the end of every week at school. Saturday was always a day of great anticipation for me during my younger years. It signified not only the beginning of a weekend away from the rigours of Primary school and learning my times tables, but also my first real social experiences. Saturday was ‘Club Day’.At around the age of 8 or 9, my Mum decided that I needed to get out into the real world and get a taste of ‘Saturday life’, and all it had to offer. So, on the advice of my much older and wiser 10 year old cousin, I chose to join the local craft club. Each Saturday morning from that day onwards, I would join the 6 or 7 other girls in the hot, cramped ‘Cathy’s Crafts’ store in Montmorency. For $7 a week I could paint pieces of wood shaped as teddies, or perhaps even stick some glitter on a nice picture for Mother’s Day. Either way it served as a warning for the rest of my life that craft was definitely not my scene.Project after project, week in, week out, I came home bearing one more useless, awful testament to bad taste and craftsmanship. Mum would be gently supportive – with kind words such as “why don’t you give this to Nana for Christmas?” Or in other words “I never want that hideous toilet roll cover in my house again.” Dad wad not quite so understanding. My skills with the paintbrush were often criticised, as I had not used a ‘polyglaze’ or a ‘neutral undercoat’ or a ‘size 12 brush’. Although the $7 a week had produced some memories of gluing too many sequins on my photo frame, or never being able to paint flowers quite right, the time had come for me to give my craft club days away. Forever.And so it was that I found myself, hand glued to Mum’s, at the Little Athletics sign-up day. And so it was that I found myself being talked into being...
