So I was looking thorugh the yet-to-be-unpacked boxes in my basement, and lo and behold: a big box of scultpures. From like, seven to two years ago. They are pure crap.

My room is now littered with colourful miniatures. I have a little lady whose whole body probably used less clay than her head. About forty assorted dragons, unicorns, butterflies and flying rabbits. A weird kissing couple with faces that are smooshed flat together. Food that would make you sick. A surprising number of birds. And the beads! My God, the beads. Horrible disgraces of the millefore technique (I tried taking a class in that, but I was the only one who showed up ).

It makes me laugh though, because I remember thinking I was the greatest sculpture in the world (at the ripe age of eight), and that I'd be famous for it. Even funnier still was that people PAID for some of this stuff.

But there's one piece, a little orange haired girl in overalls. This was my first ever sculpture (ignoring those made of sticky tack before I was introduced to the miracle of polymer clay). I sat in front of the oven the whole time it was baking, checking the instructions repeatedly to make sure I hadn't messed it up. And when it finally came out, I burned my finger on it. But really, this is better than some stuff I made after it.

I'm setting up a cabinet to put all the crap in. They really reflect my style from back then. And that scares me.