I am cutting and pinning and stitching and panicking. Tomorrow I need to draw and research and knit and stitch some more. It is now two days until deadline day. Fron is off battling this weekend, so you'd imagine that I'd be using my time even more productively. Alas, this is not the case, there has been much dallying. Not least of which being the fact that I am, at the moment, very preoccupied with moustaches.
Moustaches are everywhere at the moment; on the catwalk, on indie fingers and faces, even in my dreams. Yes, it's true. The other night I dreamt that Tom Selleck gave me a spare moustache that he had grown himself. Oh dear.
I don't know what it is about them, but I believe that they are good. I once convinced Dad to shave his moustache off. He looked wrong without it, and Mother found it very unnerving. I guess he'll continue to be, in his own words, "a refugee from the Seventies".
I think that a lot of people could benefit from moustaches, women included. During a recent trip to the guildhall, we discovered that a moustache is precisely what is missing from Ros' face. There was an older American gent at work today, and he had a splendid upper lip 'do. The 'taches were a plenty at the summer ball last night too - they are officially THE THING.