I felt a sudden urge to tell him about how I’d used recycled cloth to emphasise the notion of embedded multiple stories; like the denim from an old pair of jeans, to tell a story of travelling. I wanted to emphasise how childhood nursery rhymes were used as inspiration; to let him know about the distressed, dyed and rusted cloth and how the intentionally singed, burnt and muddy marks made scars on otherwise conventional and contrived fabrics; how it seemed important to stitch with threads hand dyed by others who used natural plants and indigo vats.

Instead I plucked at the loose threads on the arm of the chair and was acutely aware that the overwhelming urgency to share such random thoughts came from my anxiety associated with another presence in the room.

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