Smocking for pleasure

For the record, I can barely move right now. I filled up Golden Boy™ no less than 16 times yesterday with all my mothers worldy goods and lugged them to her new house. After hauling the third set of 20 year old World Book encyclopedias, I thought there must be an easier way. So I brought the recycling bin into the house, tossed pile after pile of books in, ignoring the seedy smell and ancient Woolies catalogues stuck on the bottom of it, the wheeled the books to their new locale by the binload. Much easier on my huffing puffing unfittest of physiques.

For all my lung-bursting toil, I barely made a dent in my mothers vast empire of junk. Among the crap was the hilariously titled tome, Smocking For Pleasure. The diva on the cover wore a hot pink smock which reflected nicely on her already over-roughed 1982 cheeks. I don't know why Mum bought such a publication. I've never seen her smock in her life. Or needlepoint. Or decopage. Or do wacky paint finishes with potatoes. She just collects the how-to books.

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