LONDON June 5th.

There has been blood sweat and tears, and a few Tourette like outbursts, but this is it. My work has been handed in and the doors are locked and sealed.

I was asked on the evaluation sheet we were given what I would have done different if I was to do it again, nothing I wrote, but everything I meant.
The creative mind is an erratic one, constantly ahead of the rest of the body. She is already developing the next idea before the hand has had a chance to start the first. My latest collection has already changed mood, cut, colours and name.

Maybe creating a collection is a little bit like giving birth, except that instead of nurturing my child over the coming years I have simply abandoned her, chucked her in some black boxes and sealed them with some homemade Letraset tape, and am already planning for the next one. If it is, then maybe what I am feeling is a bit of a postnatal depression? Like a smoker who has just decided to quit I am uncertain what to do with my hands.

For four years I have been working towards this very moment called hand in day. 8 months, if not actually a life times, worth of work has been crammed in on a 50x80cm white wooden shelf and 1/10th of a portable rail, ready to be scrutinized from every angle. Finished. Done. But what is next? Sleep one could suggest? See the friends you have ignored for so long? Enjoy a bottle of crisp Sauvignon Blanc on a roof top bar? But I did all that yesterday! Do the laundry? Nah, I still have some clean pants. Do it all again? Yes, please!