a h’aon:

Cindy’s gift, cunningly displayed at Tuatha with a “sold” tag on it.  My spies say she showed it to  her daughter during the festival and said she wanted me to make her one.  You can’t quite tell from here, but it’s lined with the rest of the material I used to make umm . . . this.

a dó:

One Uffington pot-holder, hanging out with the amber.  Fitting, no?  In my hand is my new felt camera bag.  Schweeet.

a trí:

One felt-napping victim.  Sadly, I have no recent photographic evidence of this poor puppy:  this is its baby picture.  It is now smaller, fuzzier, and in the hands of a felt-obsessed leather worker from Virginia.  Named Virginia.  Or maybe her husband Bill has it.  Still, I want pictures of it done, ya hear?

a ceathair:

One possible patchwork-napping victim.  I’m starting to sense a trend.  Mary doesn’t want to give up the Brigid’s Cross.  She priced it so high not even my Mom would buy it.

a cúig:

Felt hanging in the sun.  And oddly covering Mary’s face.

a sé:

Look how felt wilts in the hot June weather.  This was crisp crisp crisp very recently.

agus a seacht:

Um, Bran wanted me to take this.  We will call it “still life mit beer und shadows” and sell it for a miiiiiillllllion dollars.  Need I say we took the photo Sunday morning, after more than 48 hours on site under burny-the-sun, but before the tourists came to living-history-land? Oh, and the label on that beer says “Old Heathen: Stout”.  It adds to the mystique, and the provenance.    As we’re taking this, Chip o’the cropped feet is yelling at Bran to get in the damn car if she wants to go to his house and shower.  Bran got in the car.

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