Down to the Soapmaking Shed (fiction)

I wake up with the sun and slowly, and gently, potter around my kitchen, stretching, daydreaming and soaking up a sense of gratitude.

I pour my instant coffee into my oversized, chipped mug and add a dash of milk. I love my morning coffee, it sets the tone for my day.

I am happy. I am living my quiet dream. Slow mornings and then some creating. To me that sounds perfect. Joyous.

I take a sip of my coffee, still too hot, and pick up my pen and tatty notebook.

Time to plan my work for the day.


10 batches of castille soap

cut 10 batches of soap

check orders and package for posting

I don’t like long detailed lists, but I will often sketch up my soap ideas, then label or colour code as I desire.

I love my job.

I pick my coffee and notebook up and exit my back door located at the end of the kitchen. As I wander down the worn and crooked little path to my “soap shed”,  I get a little pang of excitement swim over me.

I am grateful I can work from here.

This is perfect.

My soap shed is down the end of the pathway towards to bottom corner of my backyard and is more like a raggedy old granny flat in that it is a room with a kitchen bench and sink installed along one side with a big window looking out onto the garden.

If I am standing at my sink I can see my veggie patch and my outdoor table setting to the left of it. I like to eat my lunch and have cup of tea breaks out there.

Behind me, parallel to the sink, is an old, sturdy, oversized timber dining table. That’s where the soap magic happens.