Craft fail

Fucking hedgehogs.

Janet George, my primary school teacher, was obsessed with craft. I disliked her a lot. The woman would arrive at school with hot glue guns, crepe paper and sequins that would get stuck in your hair, cardigan and other highly inappropriate places. My peers loved Janet George, she was a craft crusader bringing fun and frivolity into our lives.

My problem was simple. I was craft challenged. I loved a funky kitten collage as much as the next person but my apparent lack of skills resulted in collage visual massacres that left even my parents appalled.

One day Janet George brought pine cones, fabric, needles, thread and hot glue guns to school. Her red button nose was particularly red that day, she was flushed with excitement.

"Today children, we are going to going to make pine cone hedgehog figurines!"

The class room erupted into applause, the enthusiam was overwhelming. Janet George outlined the steps on the blackboard. It looked so simple. It seemed so simple. First I spilt hot glue on my palms, then I pricked my finger with a needle, then fabric strips found there way to the glue on my palms. Janet George looked at me in frustration.

The finishing product was a cute sylvanian-esque hedgehog with headbonnet and dress or trousers and waist coat. My 11 year old heart leapt as I looked on at the collection big enough for a tiny town. The classroom basked in the success of their efforts. The hedgehogs were named, befriended, married off and paraded one by one.

Sadly my efforts were not as grand. Two pine cones stuck together, with miscellanious pieces of glue and fabric attached in random parts were a far cry from the success stories of my talented crafty friends. The following day I jammed four sewing machines in a row while attempting to make a pillow case. This was the day I renounced craft forever.

These day I look on wistfully as friends produce fabric stuffed owls, crocheted cardigans and crosswork masterpieces. Although the envy is still palpable I have realised that somethings are best left untouched. The memory of searing hot glue on my palms also helps.