A post with no name

On Sunday I made a collage of my vagina.

Not for fun. No. No no. No no no.

This was the final task set on the Art Therapy workshop I attended for 'Women who love women'. Or probably 'Wimmin who love womyn', as we seem to have been transported back to 1973.

Over Friday evening and Saturday daytime I had faced a fair few 'I would rather eat my own head, thanks' moments. I am shy. I am not remotely disinhibited on the vomit-free side of half a litre of tequila. You may be wondering why this didn't occur to me before I enrolled, but hey, it came highly recommended by someone I respect ... though she says the whole 'vagina collage' thing wasn't a feature of the course when she attended. Really, she missed out.

So, having spent my birthday weekend engaged in what I can only describe as a rare and exquisite form of torture, for the sake of brevity, let's call it 'Hackney Glitter Torture', we were set our last and most ridiculous challenge. Some of the other members were, understandably, confused. The therapist reassured us that anatomical accuracy was not the goal, and groped for analogies, settling on "If you were a box, what kind of box would you be?". I don't think she meant it quite so literally. (Sorry mum).

I sat, despairing, midst feathers, cardboard, tissue paper and copydex, living my very own Worst Nightmare, and the one and only positive thing I could think was "I am so gonna blog about this!".