Read There Should Be More Dancing for Free Online

of the small weatherboard cottage shuddered, black dust fell like a curtain from the eaves, then Mrs Bist’s short, snub-nosed verandah roof fell with a clang. More dust billowed. The excavator flattened the pile of twisted metal and splintered wood with its tracks, scooped it all up and dumped it in the bin. The whole thing took less than ten minutes.
    â€˜Good grief,’ said Margery. She was reaching for her dressing gown when a tidy woman wearing a pink suit and carrying a clipboard picked her way up Margery’s short footpath and knocked cheerily on the door. Then she peered through the front window straight at Margery. She smiled, waved and called, ‘Morning,’ pointing at the front door. Behind her the excavator swung its arm and the walls of Mrs Bist’s front bedroom crashed to the ground.
    Her name tag read ‘Charmaine’.
    Margery said, ‘I thought you were coming Tuesday, and Cheryl never got here until at least eleven, but since you’re here you can start by emptying my pot.’
    Charmaine stepped past Margery into the house. ‘How lovely your geranium bush is. I just love pink!’ She walked down Margery’s narrow hall, leaned into the tiny second bedroom and glanced about, smiling at the patchwork quilt and the cross-stitched wall hangings, frowning at the box of wooden embroidery frames, bunches of thread and cloth offcuts. She sidestepped the small telephone stand and stopped dead in the lounge room, overwhelmed by Margery’s craftwork. Every wall was hung with cross-stitch proverbs: I grow old ever learning many things ; A CROSS-STITCH in time saves lives ; Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful ; All things good to know are difficult to learn. The lampshade read, The unexamined life is not worth living .
    There were cross-stitched landscapes as well: Uluru at sunset, seascapes, snow-capped mountains, horses’ heads, rural scenes. Also Tom Roberts’ Shearing the Rams , Rodin’s The Thinker , and a huge depiction of Michelangelo’s Pietà above the fireplace. The flat surfaces were covered with doilies, their edges embroidered with cross-stitched flowers. The antimacassars were trimmed with orderly coloured fabric patterns, as were the curtains, and the floor mat was a cross-stitched depiction of Mount Kosciusko. The cushionsfeatured a series of bushscapes, and a calendar was illustrated with cross-stitched proverbs for each month.
    â€˜I just love embroidery,’ she said. ‘It’s like being in a craft shop.’ Charmaine went to the kitchen.
    â€˜It’s not embroidery,’ Margery said. ‘It’s cross-stitch. There’s a difference.’
    â€˜Oh?’ She wiped down a kitchen chair with a tissue and settled at the table, chatting very loudly about the weather. ‘Don’t you just love summer?’
    â€˜Embroidery patterns are a bit limiting, I find. You can’t always get a nice landscape pattern, but with cross-stitch I can just count out any old picture I decide I want to do – landscapes, seascapes, proverbs. I’m not one for flowers so much. They’re more for the embroiderers, though I’ve never seen one yet that’s been able to get a snapdragon right – you know, the gaping dragon’s mouth?’
    â€˜Sit down,’ Charmaine said, pointing to Mrs Parsons’ Sunday chair.
    â€˜That said, cross-stitch is actually quite a unique skill.’
    â€˜Interesting,’ though it was clear Charmaine wasn’t interested at all.
    Mrs Bist’s second bedroom cracked and shattered and fell into a heap next door. Margery put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. She needed one herself and Charmaine didn’t look like she’d be leaving any time soon.
    â€˜You can use any old fabric as well,’ she continued, ‘as long as it’s evenweave. And that, along with the pattern of course, influences the