clay date

My daughters are my greatest motivators. Even when I’m running on empty, they ignite the spark that keeps me going. My dear friend Hue is pure inspiration. Creative, thoughtful, generous, and optimistic, she lifts everyone around her. With their encouragement and enthusiasm, I find myself capable of more than I ever imagined.

We threw together a clay date for the girls and their school friends. I didn’t think I had the energy, but their excitement made it easy to rally. Hue led the pottery workshop with her usual calm magic, patiently guiding the kids as they shaped pieces worth keeping.

Lunch was a tea party spread, served on elegant three-tiered stands with avocado maki sushi, salmon aburi, spring rolls, and egg sandwiches. I loved that these young ones are now old enough to use proper dainty porcelain tea sets.

The afternoon was a mix of quiet concentration and cheerful chaos. Our guests were kind, respectful, bright, well-mannered, and mature, exactly the sort of company I wish for my daughters. I’m so grateful my little ladies have made such genuine friends.

soft spot

Labubus have been getting a fair bit of hate lately. I’m not personally invested, but I see no reason to mock what others enjoy. Collecting thrives on rarity, the chase, and the reward. It triggers dopamine: a spark when you spot one, a bigger hit when you score it, and a warm afterglow each time you see it. That “maybe this is the secret edition” keeps the loop going and hooks people.

My version of Labubus was a group of quirky plush toys. They weren’t popular or expensive, just small-eyed, big-smiled figurines that I found completely charming. One or two became a little family without me really planning it. Most people didn’t notice their appeal, yet a couple of friends still gifted me some without judgement. I held onto them for years because they made me happy.

In my mid-twenties I redecorated my room, decided I’d moved past toys, and donated the lot.

After becoming a mum, those funny little faces came rushing back in a wave of nostalgia. I searched online and found them still floating around, some even new with tags. One in particular caught my eye: the hippy chick, soft and familiar, with a black stain on her dress like the one I remembered. She turned up in a house only ten minutes from where I grew up. She looked exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t the original, but that didn’t matter. It felt like she had come home.