Once upon a time there were two sisters. One was an unbearably smug, pun-loving, reformed groupie with aspirations to win the Apprentice and one was a grumpy cake-baking, tortoise owner.
Not long after the birth of her first child, sister #1 had a total nervous breakdown.
“I am never going to leave the house again. I will never, ever get to drink wine and eat crisps with my friends. I am going to be one of those dreadful mum-bores that says ‘Oh my child is my hobby’ and means it. All those things I said I would learn to do, I will now never do. And I can’t even swear in case my womb-fruit repeats it. Oh SHIT.”
She looked around to see what everyone else was doing. She asked a lot of her friends and also a lot of people she had never met before who she bumped into in Tesco . She quickly spotted a trend.
Post-27 years of age, a lot of women seemed to be so busy with working long hours or trying to keep a romance alive or raising children or looking for a ride on Tinder that really all they were doing outside of this was lying on the sofa eating crisps and pinning projects they would never ever attempt on their Pinterest. Their hangovers had also made that dreadful leap from being manageable to feeling a lot like cholera. It was going to take something really special and, dare we say it, useful to make them get off their arses.
What if we started a Women’s Institute for degenerates?
What if it was like Pinterest except it actually happened?
What if it was like the masons but with mammaries?
Sister #2 was quickly recruited to lend her sick design skills, level-headedness and knack for making things look lovely to the process. And Hobbywhores was born.