But if I don't, what if Jeff's "The One"? What if he's the man I left John for, the man that I'd lose the chance to be with forever if I don't ACT NOW? But my brain is fighting me with all that it has. The note is like a little beacon. I can't believe I did it. I wonder when he'll see it. I wonder if I should take it down before he does. As soon as the meditation session is over, I bundle up and head out into the wintery woods, following a vague path. Fresh snow blankets the ground, but there's less than an inch. I move fast, trying to get away from myself. A shy smile lingers on her lips as she looks away. And I want to scream. Because I can see what is about to unfold. I love fashion, sewing and the V&A - so I was delighted to read this book. What I wasn't expecting from the author was the exceptionally beautiful writing. I do hope Claire goes onto write more as she is very talented.

When I'm anxious about a decision, I tell myself: 'I'm going to make a mistake!' Then, I'm less caught up in the consequences, and things are lighter. Does that make sense?" At our first interview, she asked me about my intentions for the retreat. I had told her I was working too hard in the wake of recovering from a divorce. I wanted a change. I get some food and sit down to taste the Indian-spiced lentils over brown rice and the kale salad, and I wonder how they make even the most basic of food so delectable here. I try to be mindful of my eating - noting every detail, its smell, how it feels in my mouth being chewed or in my throat being swallowed - and my associated emotions and thoughts. That's the assignment. Always.Wilcox began thinking about Patch Work at a difficult time in her life. “My parents had died within six months of each other and I was about to start working on the McQueen show,” she says. “So I was being buffeted by grief just as I was about to embark on the most challenging exhibition of my life, one that would deal with anger and loss as expressed through clothing – something that hadn’t really been explored in an exhibition before [Alexander McQueen, having long suffered from depression, killed himself in 2010; the V&A’s show was staged five years later]. This triggered an opening up of memory for me and it turned out to be an incredible liberation.” Then he cheated on me, with the waitress who worked in our favorite restaurant, Elizabeth. I used to call her "his other girlfriend" when John and I were alone, teasing him, because she blushed when he spoke. One evening, she pulled me aside, and confessed that she actually was. In summary, a patchwork book which I enjoyed in pieces. I might have enjoyed it more if I was expecting a personal memoir rather than an account of a working life. I don't want him to know. Not yet. But I also don't want him to not know. Maybe he, too, is recovering from a failed disastrous relationship and finally has the courage to give it a go again. We could help each other. If that were true, and I didn't do something, well, what a loss that would be. For us both.

If you are going to tell him who you are, it's now or never. Because he seems to be falling for the blonde, if I'm reading things right. Unfortunately after the first chapter, I felt somewhat let down. The book is a miscellany of stories but the stories about the authors life were not actually very interesting, they were very superficial, there was little detail, they weren’t presented chronologically and any attempt at thematic grouping didn’t really flow. As so much is made of the fact that she works at the V&A, I expected so much more.

It's been two days since I left the note for Jeff, but it feels like months, here, at this place, nestled in the Taos Ski Valley, encapsulated in the silent routine of it all. We exchange smiles. There are things about him I hadn't seen before - his nose and chin are strong and confident, his nerdy wire glasses a good fit for his face. His cheeks look ruddy with the outdoor air. His eyes shine intelligent and bright.

I am hiking up the steep trail, hard. The air is thin and cold, and my lungs hurt. But a transformation is happening: the more I breathe, the better I feel. Movement is good, action is good. It hides what's there, but it's helping me find a solid center again. I start to see how adolescent my emotions are, right now. Claire Wilcox was born July 2, 1955, in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She is 65 years old as of 2020. How tall is Claire Wilcox? Ha! It shouldn't surprise me that this is the topic - we are at a silent Vipassana meditation retreat, and craving is the root of suffering, and all that. But it feels like Kate's words are directed at me. I am based in the V&A’s Research Department, working on a major exhibition of one of the most significant British designers of the 20th century and editing the accompanying publication. I am developing a programme of college-based events and projects associated with this exhibition, in collaboration with LCF colleagues.” Claire Wilcox Books An expert and intimate exploration of a life in clothes: their memories and stories, enchantments and spells.Unfortunately, I found the book quite frustrating to read as I wanted the author to return to textiles, curation and preservation of garments and these parts felt like very brief interludes in amongst the family stories.

He's oblivious to the clamor he's creating, and it goes on for several seconds, maybe half a minute. When he finally looks up and notices all the stares, and then realizes why everyone is watching him, his eyes broaden in embarrassment, his hands tremble slightly, his face reddens, he spills a few drops of his drink on his open-toed feet, and he flinches (apparently the liquid is hot). But the pain is forcing me to contend with it. The thoughts hit me like darts. Who am I to see myself a sexual object, at my age? At 47. With dumb crushes and imagining I'm still in the game. I'm an embarrassment. Nothing will change things or me. Not meditation. Not therapy. Not getting in shape. I should give up on love. Focus elsewhere. Where though? Where? Lovely and frustrating read. Wilcox is terribly clever and also touching in her careful construction of her life's garments - made up of memories of her seamstress mother, her haberdasher father, her encounters with fabric and artifice that becomes a lifelong obsession. She is good at showing how key encounters and acquisitions of clothing and accessories throughout her childhood, adolescence and young womanhood come to symbolize her development as both human and historian - most touchingly in her relationships with her parents and her children. The synecdoche of baby shoes, homemade dresses, a walking cane, a clutch bag represent not a linear timeline of Wilcox's life but a collection of the moments that took her from a London council flat and made her the woman she is today (and the Senior Curator of Fashion at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.) The book is a love letter to the V&A, even as Wilcox is deliberately humble about the enormous influence she wields in both the academic and commercial world of fashion, particularly after Savage Beauty, her groundbreaking show on Alexander McQueen. Wilcox is willing to be opaque about the identities - even the names - of those who figure in her autobiographical sketches, though really her tact seems a bit precious when we might divine she is talking about McQueen or Vivienne Westwood or annoying when she does not identify the curator who gave her the big chance at working for the V&A. What's with the secrecy, especially if Wilcox is not attempting a celebrity-ridden piece? Patch Work by Claire Wilcox is an unusual memoir. The title is perfect, the book is made up of a series of vignettes stitched together to make a beautiful whole, much like the pieces that make up a patch work quilt, and since the author has worked as a curator in the Victoria and Albert Museum for most of her working life, dealing with everything from top hats to medieval felt caps , fragile silks and yellowing linens, it seems wonderfully suited as a way to tell her story. We learn about how she grew up surrounded by the trappings of a seamstress, and how her mother made most of the family's clothes, from her own wedding suit to Claire's girlhood dresses , we follow her on her travels along the hippy trail to India , and even into her own journey into motherhood. These stories are woven into descriptions of her work as a curator and what that involves.Andrew is still and expressionless, and I wonder how he will take it. Suddenly, his face lights up and he blurts out, "That's crazy enough that it's worth a go." The left side of my body - the side closest to him - sparkles, as if my fine arm hairs are raised. My upper torso tightens and burns, and my throat is parched. Perhaps if his skin touched mine, he'd feel the electricity, too, and be weak in the face of it. Oh God, his skin. So close. If I just moved my hand there, just a bit, just a smidge. A wide smile graces his face, and I feel good that I did something - useful - for the first time in days. A kind deed for an insecure man. I've done it to myself - I've gotten in a rut, peri-divorce. That's why I'm here, to figure a way out of this. But what could have possibly inspired me to choose a week of sitting rigidly on a cushion? I wonder if I have a self-destructive yen for discomfort.