Loretta began, as many of my projects do, with me wandering through the woods and arriving at the completely reasonable conclusion that I needed to make an entire dress out of scale maille — despite having never made scale maille before. I still can't fully explain it.

The project followed me for years; something I'd obsess over in intense bursts before setting aside, only to inevitably be pulled back. When I finally committed to finishing it in 2023, I was surprised to find myself grateful for the slow timeline. My skills had evolved so much that the final piece became far more intricate and refined than anything I could have imagined at the start.

Loretta also sparked a full-blown love affair with chain and scale maille fashion — my aim being pieces designed equally for a nightclub, a renaissance fair, or whatever strange and wonderful space exists between the two.

The dress consists of approximately 1,500 aluminium scales and countless handmade steel rings — rings I made myself, and very quickly understood why most people simply buy them instead. The ring-making process alone nearly defeated me before the dress ever had the chance to.

When my best friend told me she was getting married — followed immediately by the revelation that it was happening within three months because she had somehow fallen pregnant almost instantly after they started trying — I'm fairly certain I was more excited than she was.

The wedding was intentionally modest; practical priorities had shifted quickly, and she was keeping costs low wherever possible. When I asked about flowers, she casually mentioned she'd skip them altogether. An unnecessary expense, she said.

Absolutely not.

There was no universe in which my best friend walked into her wedding without flowers. Not on my watch. What followed was equal parts labour of love and self-inflicted torment: 72 handmade papier-mâché clay flowers, each painted with pigment and sealed in varnish — fully weatherproof, because details matter even when no one expects them to. Small iridescent butterflies are nestled amongst the blooms, because sometimes the finishing touch is just a tiny creature minding its own business in a rose.

The arrangements doubled as table centrepieces, turning the entire space into something deeply personal and entirely handmade, giving the guests a chance to see them up close. By the end I was spiritually broken, physically defeated, and still completely convinced it was worth every second.

During the ceremony, I held it together really well….

Some places quietly become part of your life before you realise it's happened. This local café became exactly that for me. Over the course of two years, they tolerated — and occasionally encouraged — my constant presence while I sat writing, reading, planning creative projects, and trying to convince myself I had everything figured out.

They also became one of the rare places safe enough to completely fall apart in when life demanded it. Which it did, periodically. They were very gracious about it.

At some point, the café mentioned wanting a small physical mascot based on their logo. My brain, as it tends to do, translated this into: I absolutely have to make this real.

The result was this little fat fuck — sculpted from air-dry clay, hand painted with acrylics, sealed in satin varnish, and spiritually powered by what I can only assume was pure caffeine. The glossy finish gives him the appearance of being cast from chocolate, which feels entirely fitting for a mascot born out of long hours, comfort, creativity, and an alarming quantity of coffee.

The tiny cup is moveable, placing it keeping the magic alive. They will definitely lose it. I will make another.

She isn't my mother by blood, but she may as well be — and for someone who has loved dragons her entire life, it felt only right that Mother's Day come with a nest of her own.

Three eggs, one for each of her children. Each one distinct, because they are.

The eldest: purple and gold — elegant, regal, quietly caring in the way only an oldest child can be. The middle: brown and gold — muted, minimalistic, straight to the point, but gentle all the way through. The youngest: silver and black — sharp as his wit, bold as his sense of style, very much a statement.

The process behind them is something I'll keep to myself. Some things are better left a little mysterious, and these deserved to feel like they'd always existed somewhere, just waiting to be found.

These bookmarks are, objectively speaking, completely unnecessary. A scrap of paper does the same job. A dog-eared page does the same job. And yet — Swarovski crystal, luxurious ribbon, and mixed medium beading, because my books deserve it and frankly so do yours.

There is no practical justification for them. They are purely and unapologetically beautiful.

These particular pieces aren't available for purchase, but they do exist as proof of concept for what happens when I'm left unsupervised near a bead collection.