Tatting and Decoupage

The genealogy of my Dad's family is littered with maiden aunts and eccentric bachelors: empty husks drying in chambers behind the kitchens of their fathers' houses or in rooms taken above actuaries and druggists at the end of High Street. A handful of concerned individuals who want only the best for me can't fathom why I am becoming one, and sincerely wish that it was not my lot. They counsel adjustments to that end: away with the dorky glasses, the garish vintage shirts, flip flops and pull-on boots; stop having so many OPINIONS; smile(!) more (but not too much); and especially - Lighten Up! Get back to the gym. In the guise of contacts, A&F, Timberlands and defined abs, I would fare better, they say. True, I'm sure, and sometimes the failure is packaging, but a time is reached when marketing can't be blamed, and the team must acknowledge that consumers just aren't interested in the product. So then. Where is my knitting?

Heh.