...you find yourself surrounded by cats, covered in cats, cats blocking the heat emanating from the fire in the living room and cats appearing from behind sofas with their heads boiling because they've been squashed up against radiators.
'I've never had a cat sit on me,' says Mrs Miggins. 'And if I did, I'd get it with my beak pronto.'
'I'm sure you would,' I say.
'I'd like to see you try,' says Pandora Kitten.
'Don't tempt me,' says Miggins.
'Girls, girls,' I say, because I am ploughing on earnestly with my 'JUST DO IT!' list and, having completed my homework and finished the final, final, FINAL draft of NKJ, am now trying to push on with the preparation of a cunning chart that will show the sequence of a reflexology treatment in the right order in such a way that I shall remember it and not get my elbow mixed up with my a*se. We're up to 'shoulders and axillary lymphatics' at the moment. I have the loudest shoulder reflexes in the class - they sound like a heffalump tromping over gravel when my foot buddy squeezes them, and I'm not surprised given how much time I've spent writing these last few weeks. We're only up to part 13; there's another 27 parts to go. I need a chart. I need peace and quiet in which to contruct said chart.
'So, did you see Jupiter last night?' says Mrs Miggins.
'I didn't,' I say, 'but Andy assures me it was most lovely. Very close to Earth at the moment, so I believe.'
'Indeed,' says Miggins. 'And you can see Uranus to the left if you look closely.'
This is true, and not, as some might believe an attempt at a silly school-boy joke. Last night was very cold, which was good because it meant the sky was extremely clear which meant that Andy went to the loft to bring out his telescope for a spot of star-gazing.
You also know it's getting cold when the bees stop flying. I've discovered that if the temperature outside is less than about 10 degrees celsius, then it's unlikely the bees will come out to play. They came out a couple of times at the weekend, but only when the sun was full on the top of the hive. Occasionally I squat down next to the hive and press my ear to the wood just so I can re-assure myself I can hear gentle humming coming from within. It's a good sound to hear, especially after all the aggravation we've had this year vis a vis bee-keeping. And the plan this weekend is that, provided the forecast is for dry and warmish, we'll nip into the hive for a final visit, attach the mouseguard, pop on a feed and leave them to it for the Winter.
And you know it's getting cold when you buy some lovely soft fluffy wool with which to knit a bunny for your grand-daughter, you knit the bunny parts and then, you don't know why, you slide your toes into the empty bunny shell and think 'Hmmmm...this would make good socks.' And you suddenly become very keen on having a go at making proper socks - not the practical, outdoorsy type, but the ones you'd save for wearing indoors on a cold, chilly day when your frozen toes deserve nothing less than to sink into something really warm and soft...
'Like chicken feathers,' says Pandora Kitten.
'Or cat fur,' says Mrs Miggins.
But one of the best things about it getting cold is having toasted sandwiches for lunch! Over the warmer months, you tend to forget about toasted sandwiches. But then a time happens in October when you make yourself a sandwich and you look at it, and the Toasted Sandwich Fairy (who has been in hibernation since April) whispers in your ear, 'Pop it into the sandwich press,' and you say, 'That's a jolly good idea,' and you do and you're glad you can hear the voices of the Fairies in your poor, frozen little head.
Showing posts with label Knitting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Knitting. Show all posts
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Monday, 11 October 2010
Woolly Minded
This week is National Wool Week. I celebrated the start of it by completing the first creation in my 'Millinery for Kayleigh' hat collection. It is purple. It has a ribbon. It is funky. However, not everyone in the room appreciated the cutting edge fashion statement it was making. Phoebe was trying to sit on it.
'Should it look like that?' said Heather.
Andy, wisely, kept his lips pressed closed.
'Like what?' I said.
'Like that,' said Heather. 'With that big bit sticking from the top. Shouldn't you sew it up rather than leaving it open like a giant egg cosy?'
'It looks exactly like the picture in the pattern,' I said, showing her the pattern. Good grief, I thought, it is half past eight in the evening and I've just cooked this person dinner. If I were her, I'd back down now.
But she is her mother's daughter and she persisted.
'And you're going to make Kayleigh wear it, are you?' she said.
'I'm not going to make her wear it,' I said. 'But I shall expect her to try it on at least once, if only so I can take an amusing photo to put on the blog.'
'I suppose it's not the weirdest hat she's got,' said Heather.
Andy chips in at this point.
'She could keep things in the top,' he said. 'Like a potato, maybe.'
'More like a melon,' said Heather. 'It's HUGE! She won't be able to see where she's going.'
'I'm not liking the turn this conversation is taking,' I said.
'I expect she'll love it,' said Andy. 'And in years to come she'll remember it fondly as 'the best hat Gran ever knitted for me.'
You have to understand that all this disrespectful chit-chat between two people who AREN'T KNITTERS was punctuated by much laughing and hilarity. I was doing my best to ignore them and was rooting through my wool bag, selecting wool for 'Millinery for Kayleigh' Hat Two. I chose a pale blue and mid-pink. I was thinking 'stripes 'n' tassles.'
'I might knit another like this,' I said, holding my purple and ribboned egg cosy confection up and inspecting it. 'To fit me. And when we next go shopping together, daughter dear, I shall wear it. In public.'
'You could knit one for Andy,' said Heather.
'She could knit one for you,' said Andy.
'Yes,' said Heather. 'Then we could go out looking like a bunch of weirdos together.'
Anyway, National Wool Week. My Country Living magazine for November has much to say about National Wool Week and in the middle is a pull-out poster of sheep. I am thrilled with this poster and it is now stuck to the wall in the kitchen. There are twelve sheep featured. My favourites are the Greyface Dartmoor, the Southdown and the Herdwick, because they are round and fuzzy and have cute faces. This, I appreciate, is the response of a vegetarian, but I make no apologies. The Manx Loghtan looks scary with its mass of horns, the Lincoln Longwool looks like it would be forever walking into walls and the Welsh Mountain Badger Face is bizarre because it has the appearance of a badger's head attached to a sheep which looks vaguely wrong and rather deceitful.
Andy inspected the poster.
I said,' When we get our smallholding, we could keep sheep for wool.'
'Yes,' he said. 'I'm quite happy to manage sheep. I have delivered lambs through the proper channel and by caesarean. I have trimmed feet. I have dipped. I can even turn one over.'
'Can you shear?' I said.
'No,' said Andy. 'But we can learn. But let's not get Wensleydales. They look like too much aggravation.'
I agreed. Wensleydales look like a cross between a small pony and Dougal from the Magic Roundabout. I was already having nightmares about the mud and poo that would cling to them in the Winter.
'You do know that even if we keep sheep for wool only, they would have to go to the abattoir eventually, don't you?' said Andy.
'I thought we could let them die of old age,' I said, in my role as the hopeful vegetarian.
And then Andy spoke great sense about the quality of fleece deteriorating with age, problems with teeth, the fiscal realities of feeding an animal for little return etc etc and I felt my heart sink a little, because I knew what he said to be true.
'Can't you just euthanase them?' I said.
'No,' said Andy. 'Not even in your little vegetarian world is that going to be realistic.'
Ah well, I'm sure it will all turn out okay in the end. I mean, I squished Queen Stella for the good of the hive (although the rose-coloured spectacle wearing romantic in me wishes I'd put her in a matchbox, travelled miles away from home and released her into the forest a la the Huntsman and Snow White). I am keen to learn spinning and weaving sometime in the future. I am keen to make a wool rug, nay let's go crazy and make it a whole carpet, for the cosy country living room I am determined we are going to live in eventually.
But for now I shall stick to developing my knitting skills. I might have a go at socks. Come to think of it, most of my scarves started out as socks, only I was never quite sure how to start turning the heel.
'Should it look like that?' said Heather.
Andy, wisely, kept his lips pressed closed.
'Like what?' I said.
'Like that,' said Heather. 'With that big bit sticking from the top. Shouldn't you sew it up rather than leaving it open like a giant egg cosy?'
'It looks exactly like the picture in the pattern,' I said, showing her the pattern. Good grief, I thought, it is half past eight in the evening and I've just cooked this person dinner. If I were her, I'd back down now.
But she is her mother's daughter and she persisted.
'And you're going to make Kayleigh wear it, are you?' she said.
'I'm not going to make her wear it,' I said. 'But I shall expect her to try it on at least once, if only so I can take an amusing photo to put on the blog.'
'I suppose it's not the weirdest hat she's got,' said Heather.
Andy chips in at this point.
'She could keep things in the top,' he said. 'Like a potato, maybe.'
'More like a melon,' said Heather. 'It's HUGE! She won't be able to see where she's going.'
'I'm not liking the turn this conversation is taking,' I said.
'I expect she'll love it,' said Andy. 'And in years to come she'll remember it fondly as 'the best hat Gran ever knitted for me.'
You have to understand that all this disrespectful chit-chat between two people who AREN'T KNITTERS was punctuated by much laughing and hilarity. I was doing my best to ignore them and was rooting through my wool bag, selecting wool for 'Millinery for Kayleigh' Hat Two. I chose a pale blue and mid-pink. I was thinking 'stripes 'n' tassles.'
'I might knit another like this,' I said, holding my purple and ribboned egg cosy confection up and inspecting it. 'To fit me. And when we next go shopping together, daughter dear, I shall wear it. In public.'
'You could knit one for Andy,' said Heather.
'She could knit one for you,' said Andy.
'Yes,' said Heather. 'Then we could go out looking like a bunch of weirdos together.'
Anyway, National Wool Week. My Country Living magazine for November has much to say about National Wool Week and in the middle is a pull-out poster of sheep. I am thrilled with this poster and it is now stuck to the wall in the kitchen. There are twelve sheep featured. My favourites are the Greyface Dartmoor, the Southdown and the Herdwick, because they are round and fuzzy and have cute faces. This, I appreciate, is the response of a vegetarian, but I make no apologies. The Manx Loghtan looks scary with its mass of horns, the Lincoln Longwool looks like it would be forever walking into walls and the Welsh Mountain Badger Face is bizarre because it has the appearance of a badger's head attached to a sheep which looks vaguely wrong and rather deceitful.
Andy inspected the poster.
I said,' When we get our smallholding, we could keep sheep for wool.'
'Yes,' he said. 'I'm quite happy to manage sheep. I have delivered lambs through the proper channel and by caesarean. I have trimmed feet. I have dipped. I can even turn one over.'
'Can you shear?' I said.
'No,' said Andy. 'But we can learn. But let's not get Wensleydales. They look like too much aggravation.'
I agreed. Wensleydales look like a cross between a small pony and Dougal from the Magic Roundabout. I was already having nightmares about the mud and poo that would cling to them in the Winter.
'You do know that even if we keep sheep for wool only, they would have to go to the abattoir eventually, don't you?' said Andy.
'I thought we could let them die of old age,' I said, in my role as the hopeful vegetarian.
And then Andy spoke great sense about the quality of fleece deteriorating with age, problems with teeth, the fiscal realities of feeding an animal for little return etc etc and I felt my heart sink a little, because I knew what he said to be true.
'Can't you just euthanase them?' I said.
'No,' said Andy. 'Not even in your little vegetarian world is that going to be realistic.'
Ah well, I'm sure it will all turn out okay in the end. I mean, I squished Queen Stella for the good of the hive (although the rose-coloured spectacle wearing romantic in me wishes I'd put her in a matchbox, travelled miles away from home and released her into the forest a la the Huntsman and Snow White). I am keen to learn spinning and weaving sometime in the future. I am keen to make a wool rug, nay let's go crazy and make it a whole carpet, for the cosy country living room I am determined we are going to live in eventually.
But for now I shall stick to developing my knitting skills. I might have a go at socks. Come to think of it, most of my scarves started out as socks, only I was never quite sure how to start turning the heel.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Hats Off!
Here is Kayleigh in her latest hat.
She is beginning to amass an interesting collection of head gear for one so young and with limited buying power. And because my attempts to provide her with assorted hand-crafted knitwear have been met by the family with either woeful apathy or wild hilarity at the patterns I have suggested, I have decided to limit my efforts to hats. I have decided as a knitting granny one can get away with all sorts of creative malarkey when it comes to hats. Some may even double up as tea cosies.
Therefore, I begin my 'Millinery For Kayleigh' project with a purple number for winter which shall be adorned with various ribbons and flowers, possibly a butterfly or two. And a massive chin strap in case she decides she wants to remove it. I can't think that she would want to; I mean, it's not going to be in any way, shape or form embarrassing.
And in years to come, I can imagine Kayleigh's delight when I present her with yet another little carefully wrapped parcel, and she'll look at me with excitement glowing in her eyes and say,'Is this another of your lovely hand-crafted hats, Gran?' and I'll say, 'Yes!' and she'll be so thrilled. In fact, I might pre-plan hats for each of her birthdays, from age one through to eighteen. But I suppose I ought to wait, take into account the changing fashions. I mean, I can't even begin to guess what will be a la mode when she is 14 for example.
I shall photo and publish the results when they come in, and you, the hat jury, can give your verdict as you see fit. Which I am hoping is exactly what the hat will do.
She is beginning to amass an interesting collection of head gear for one so young and with limited buying power. And because my attempts to provide her with assorted hand-crafted knitwear have been met by the family with either woeful apathy or wild hilarity at the patterns I have suggested, I have decided to limit my efforts to hats. I have decided as a knitting granny one can get away with all sorts of creative malarkey when it comes to hats. Some may even double up as tea cosies.Therefore, I begin my 'Millinery For Kayleigh' project with a purple number for winter which shall be adorned with various ribbons and flowers, possibly a butterfly or two. And a massive chin strap in case she decides she wants to remove it. I can't think that she would want to; I mean, it's not going to be in any way, shape or form embarrassing.
And in years to come, I can imagine Kayleigh's delight when I present her with yet another little carefully wrapped parcel, and she'll look at me with excitement glowing in her eyes and say,'Is this another of your lovely hand-crafted hats, Gran?' and I'll say, 'Yes!' and she'll be so thrilled. In fact, I might pre-plan hats for each of her birthdays, from age one through to eighteen. But I suppose I ought to wait, take into account the changing fashions. I mean, I can't even begin to guess what will be a la mode when she is 14 for example.
I shall photo and publish the results when they come in, and you, the hat jury, can give your verdict as you see fit. Which I am hoping is exactly what the hat will do.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Arty-crafty
I have, in recent weeks, purchased various craft books including one about knitting fairytale characters, one about fabric painting in various guises (batik, silk screen, marbling...oh, do you remember marbling? One of those magical primary school experiences where you get to blob oil paints in water, add a dash of washing up liquid and then, after a gentle swirl, swoop a sheet of blotting paper across the surface and get all excited, turning the paper over to see what pattern you've ended up with), one about tea cosies and one about quilting. And now, because the Year 11's have left school, and I'm back in the swing of teaching (just in time to leave, oh the irony!), I've got a bit of evening time back again to indulge in doing some arty-crafty stuff.
The thing is, where to start? And what to do with my arty-crafty creations? I thought, I could make Christmas presents. There's a lovely idea for padded silk photo frames in one of the books. But do people like, nay appreciate, home-crafted Christmas pressies? My friend, Sarah, always pitches up at Christmas time with some sort of cakey creation. Always well-received. And we made our own Christmas cards last year which were also well-received; either that, or we've got some very polite friends and family who know how sensitive Andy and I are, and that rejection of our hand-crafted stationery would cause huge emotional distress. (And just in case anyone who received one of our chicken Chrsitmas cards feels like now would be a good time to complain about the shoddy workmanship, be warned - Andy is already drafting out Much Malarkey Manor Christmas 2010 cards, this time with a bee theme - 'Stingle Bells' and 'Ding Dong Merrily on Hive' amongst the current favourites.)
I could book up a stall at a Christmas Craft Fayre. When my sister was in remission from her cancer, just a few months before she died, we had a craft stall at a fayre where we sold toys and other arty-crafty stuff we had made (she was a talented artist with a gift for ceramics) to raise money for the hospital unit in London where she was being treated. We had a great time! We also sold out. And raised a nice bit of cash, too.
And given that I am going to be officially unemployed (again!) at the end of August, utilising my craft talent mightn't be a bad idea.
You see, I've come to the conclusion that teaching, for all its aggravations and annoyances, and stressiness and angst, is relatively easy money. From a personal point of view, because it hasn't been my vocation since I left school, it's made me lazy and complacent and because of the current state of the education system in Kent where I am no longer a teacher but a 'learning facilitator', it has stopped me from caring about the art of teaching because you are no longer allowed to be creative. It's knocked the instinct for survival from me, too. The instinct for survival I had to employ when I became a single parent, and EVERY single penny DID count, and I gained a certain pride for being able to budget, and make do and mend and be creative with what I had to make it go further.
There's nothing like sailing close to the wind financially to make you more alive to living.
So, knitting needles out, sewing machine at the ready. I can feel a craft surge coming on!
The thing is, where to start? And what to do with my arty-crafty creations? I thought, I could make Christmas presents. There's a lovely idea for padded silk photo frames in one of the books. But do people like, nay appreciate, home-crafted Christmas pressies? My friend, Sarah, always pitches up at Christmas time with some sort of cakey creation. Always well-received. And we made our own Christmas cards last year which were also well-received; either that, or we've got some very polite friends and family who know how sensitive Andy and I are, and that rejection of our hand-crafted stationery would cause huge emotional distress. (And just in case anyone who received one of our chicken Chrsitmas cards feels like now would be a good time to complain about the shoddy workmanship, be warned - Andy is already drafting out Much Malarkey Manor Christmas 2010 cards, this time with a bee theme - 'Stingle Bells' and 'Ding Dong Merrily on Hive' amongst the current favourites.)
I could book up a stall at a Christmas Craft Fayre. When my sister was in remission from her cancer, just a few months before she died, we had a craft stall at a fayre where we sold toys and other arty-crafty stuff we had made (she was a talented artist with a gift for ceramics) to raise money for the hospital unit in London where she was being treated. We had a great time! We also sold out. And raised a nice bit of cash, too.
And given that I am going to be officially unemployed (again!) at the end of August, utilising my craft talent mightn't be a bad idea.
You see, I've come to the conclusion that teaching, for all its aggravations and annoyances, and stressiness and angst, is relatively easy money. From a personal point of view, because it hasn't been my vocation since I left school, it's made me lazy and complacent and because of the current state of the education system in Kent where I am no longer a teacher but a 'learning facilitator', it has stopped me from caring about the art of teaching because you are no longer allowed to be creative. It's knocked the instinct for survival from me, too. The instinct for survival I had to employ when I became a single parent, and EVERY single penny DID count, and I gained a certain pride for being able to budget, and make do and mend and be creative with what I had to make it go further.
There's nothing like sailing close to the wind financially to make you more alive to living.
So, knitting needles out, sewing machine at the ready. I can feel a craft surge coming on!
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
From my death bed
Reader, I write this evening from my death bed...well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but flippin' heck, do I feel ill or what?
I knew it would happen. I said to Andy, 'I bet you that within 3 weeks I'll have picked up every bug going in that school and be as sick as a pig.'
And I was right! Aha!!
But the satisfaction of being right is far outweighed by the sense of all round crappiness I am feeling right now. Starting with a bout of tonsillitis 2 weeks ago, I have now amassed the following - a sore throat, a rattly chest, a deaf right ear, a lost voice, a cough, the inability to taste anything, non-stop sneezing, a runny nostril, a blocked up nostril, feeling so tired I can't sleep, occasional dizziness, a strange little lump in the side of my neck (glands? The embryo of my twin??) and an overwhelming feeling when I am standing in the classroom of 'what on earth do I think I'm doing?'
My Head of Department said to me, 'Stay at home tomorrow. You are too ill to be here. Do not come back until you are feeling better.'
And normally, because I don't do 'ill', I would battle on. But actually, I am going to stay home tomorrow. Because the thought of battling on is making me want to cry.
So, today I walked home through the freezing rain, which probably didn't do me much good, and found a delivery note saying a parcel had been left for me - 'Back.' I took this to mean the parcel had been left at the back of the house so I went to the back garden, and found the parcel. It was a cardboard parcel. Containing a couple of books I'd ordered from Amazon. Books made from paper. Wrapped in cardboard. And left out in the rain.
I thought, 'If I unwrap this soggy cardboard parcel and find my new books are all wet, I don't care how close to death's door I feel, I am STRAIGHT onto the parcel delivery company to tell them EXACTLY how stupid I think their delivery drivers are. (See, there's life in the old girl yet! Will I be beaten by an army of germs? Not if I can help it.)
Luckily for the delivery company, although the outside cardboard was sodden, the books therein were dry.
Both books are about knitting. One is about how to knit fairy stories. Apparently, you get a frog and a bear and spin them into yarn. Then, using a beanstalk and Jack Spratt as knitting needles, you...no,no.no! Stop it, Denise!
And the second book is about knitting tea cosies. I never knew tea cosies could knit, so I'm looking forward to that read immensely.
So tomorrow, so long as I make it through the night, the plan is this - get up, eat toast, take medication, slump on sofa, drink tea, sleep. Read a bit of knitting book, drink more tea. Give chickens half a cabbage (Mrs Pumphrey now in possession of complete bottom fluffage),take medication. If I can stand up for about an hour, I'll make some marmalade. Drink more tea. Slump. Sleep. Slump. Sleep.
Slump.
That'll do.
I knew it would happen. I said to Andy, 'I bet you that within 3 weeks I'll have picked up every bug going in that school and be as sick as a pig.'
And I was right! Aha!!
But the satisfaction of being right is far outweighed by the sense of all round crappiness I am feeling right now. Starting with a bout of tonsillitis 2 weeks ago, I have now amassed the following - a sore throat, a rattly chest, a deaf right ear, a lost voice, a cough, the inability to taste anything, non-stop sneezing, a runny nostril, a blocked up nostril, feeling so tired I can't sleep, occasional dizziness, a strange little lump in the side of my neck (glands? The embryo of my twin??) and an overwhelming feeling when I am standing in the classroom of 'what on earth do I think I'm doing?'
My Head of Department said to me, 'Stay at home tomorrow. You are too ill to be here. Do not come back until you are feeling better.'
And normally, because I don't do 'ill', I would battle on. But actually, I am going to stay home tomorrow. Because the thought of battling on is making me want to cry.
So, today I walked home through the freezing rain, which probably didn't do me much good, and found a delivery note saying a parcel had been left for me - 'Back.' I took this to mean the parcel had been left at the back of the house so I went to the back garden, and found the parcel. It was a cardboard parcel. Containing a couple of books I'd ordered from Amazon. Books made from paper. Wrapped in cardboard. And left out in the rain.
I thought, 'If I unwrap this soggy cardboard parcel and find my new books are all wet, I don't care how close to death's door I feel, I am STRAIGHT onto the parcel delivery company to tell them EXACTLY how stupid I think their delivery drivers are. (See, there's life in the old girl yet! Will I be beaten by an army of germs? Not if I can help it.)
Luckily for the delivery company, although the outside cardboard was sodden, the books therein were dry.
Both books are about knitting. One is about how to knit fairy stories. Apparently, you get a frog and a bear and spin them into yarn. Then, using a beanstalk and Jack Spratt as knitting needles, you...no,no.no! Stop it, Denise!
And the second book is about knitting tea cosies. I never knew tea cosies could knit, so I'm looking forward to that read immensely.
So tomorrow, so long as I make it through the night, the plan is this - get up, eat toast, take medication, slump on sofa, drink tea, sleep. Read a bit of knitting book, drink more tea. Give chickens half a cabbage (Mrs Pumphrey now in possession of complete bottom fluffage),take medication. If I can stand up for about an hour, I'll make some marmalade. Drink more tea. Slump. Sleep. Slump. Sleep.
Slump.
That'll do.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Christmas Shopping
Now before I drown under a sea of protest, yes I know it's another three months until Christmas, yes I know the sun is shiny and warm like it's mid-July and yes I know any thoughts of Christmas should be banned until at least the middle of November.
BUT...
...yesterday I was out and about and I saw the perfect gift for my Mum so I bought it. And when I got home I made a list of EXACTLY what I am giving everyone else this year and with the exception of Andy's gift which always requires a lot of cunning planning and fore-thought, I reckon I could go out on Monday at 9 a.m and be back home by 11 a.m Christmas shopping done and dusted, bring on the Easter eggs.
When I was teaching I used to go Christmas shopping during the Autumn half-term. I'd write my list and set off with a fixed determination that I would get it all done by the time I went back to work. And 95% of the time I did. But this year I reckon I could break all records and get it done before October! Which leaves me two and a half months of angst trying to sort out what to get Andy.
On the subject of gifts, as a 'Congratulations! You Are No Longer a Temporary Senior Veterinary Surgeon' present I gave Andy the Wii Sports Resort game. I thought he deserved it after all the hassle he's had these last few months trying to keep everyone happy. He's playing on it now. Can you hear him? All that blipping and puffing? I went and had a go myself earlier and got beaten roundly at sword fighting and canoeing. But I won the table tennis, although I'm not sure that's anything to be shouting about.
'What are you playing now?' I shout.
'Frisbee!' he shouts back.
See - an endless source of quality entertainment!
The only problem with playing such games indoors is that you risk vitamin D deficiency by never venturing out of doors. So as the sun is glorious in Kent today I dragged Andy into town to buy some more wool and a jogging watch. The wool is because I need to work on a different Baby Bug Grandchild outfit as the initial woolly jacket plan in temporarily scuppered as I don't know if Baby Bug is a Boy Bug or a Girl Bug. (Although I am inkling towards Boy Bug.)
'Why do you need to know what it's going to be in order to knit a jacket?' said Andy.
'Button holes,' I said. 'Boys are one side, girls are the other.'
'Do you think a baby is going to be bothered by such etiquette?' said Andy.
'I would be bothered,' I said.
'You're so weird,' said Andy.
'You married me,' I said. I thought, this is rich coming from someone who wants Chris and Leane to call their child 'Doctor Who' so he'll have a chance of remembering its name!)
And the watch is in preparation for Monday when I start my running plan. When I had my pre-running plan run on Thursday I had to count out my 60 second intervals by muttering 'One elephant, two elephants, three elephants etc...' as I jogged along. Which is okay if no one else is in earshot and you can keep up with all the elephants. But it's not a wholly satisfactory or scientific method so we went into Argos to purchase a cheap watch.
Found one. Plastic. Purple. Big dial. Big hands. Perfect if a little unstylish (but then it was very cheap). Went to pay for it at the self-service till 'For quick and easy service' and for a receipt I was issued with a blank slip of blue paper 5cms wide by half a centimetre long.
So when the watch appeared at Collection Point B, I had to explain to the man who was serving that I wasn't issued with a proper receipt. He looked at me and sighed as if it was all too much bother to sort out. Off he wandered, without a word, to fiddle with the self-service machine, then to fetch someone else, then to fiddle with a computer, then to write out a HUGE receipt by hand before returning to hand over the watch.
This took an absolute AGE. I passed the time by muttering loudly about the appalling service in Argos these days.
'It's because Mercury in retrograde,' I said to Andy. 'If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong.'
Andy looked at me with his 'you barking mad woman' expression.
'But it's okay,' I said. 'The effect of a retrograde Mercury finishes tomorrow.'
'Good,' said Andy.
BUT...
...yesterday I was out and about and I saw the perfect gift for my Mum so I bought it. And when I got home I made a list of EXACTLY what I am giving everyone else this year and with the exception of Andy's gift which always requires a lot of cunning planning and fore-thought, I reckon I could go out on Monday at 9 a.m and be back home by 11 a.m Christmas shopping done and dusted, bring on the Easter eggs.
When I was teaching I used to go Christmas shopping during the Autumn half-term. I'd write my list and set off with a fixed determination that I would get it all done by the time I went back to work. And 95% of the time I did. But this year I reckon I could break all records and get it done before October! Which leaves me two and a half months of angst trying to sort out what to get Andy.
On the subject of gifts, as a 'Congratulations! You Are No Longer a Temporary Senior Veterinary Surgeon' present I gave Andy the Wii Sports Resort game. I thought he deserved it after all the hassle he's had these last few months trying to keep everyone happy. He's playing on it now. Can you hear him? All that blipping and puffing? I went and had a go myself earlier and got beaten roundly at sword fighting and canoeing. But I won the table tennis, although I'm not sure that's anything to be shouting about.
'What are you playing now?' I shout.
'Frisbee!' he shouts back.
See - an endless source of quality entertainment!
The only problem with playing such games indoors is that you risk vitamin D deficiency by never venturing out of doors. So as the sun is glorious in Kent today I dragged Andy into town to buy some more wool and a jogging watch. The wool is because I need to work on a different Baby Bug Grandchild outfit as the initial woolly jacket plan in temporarily scuppered as I don't know if Baby Bug is a Boy Bug or a Girl Bug. (Although I am inkling towards Boy Bug.)
'Why do you need to know what it's going to be in order to knit a jacket?' said Andy.
'Button holes,' I said. 'Boys are one side, girls are the other.'
'Do you think a baby is going to be bothered by such etiquette?' said Andy.
'I would be bothered,' I said.
'You're so weird,' said Andy.
'You married me,' I said. I thought, this is rich coming from someone who wants Chris and Leane to call their child 'Doctor Who' so he'll have a chance of remembering its name!)
And the watch is in preparation for Monday when I start my running plan. When I had my pre-running plan run on Thursday I had to count out my 60 second intervals by muttering 'One elephant, two elephants, three elephants etc...' as I jogged along. Which is okay if no one else is in earshot and you can keep up with all the elephants. But it's not a wholly satisfactory or scientific method so we went into Argos to purchase a cheap watch.
Found one. Plastic. Purple. Big dial. Big hands. Perfect if a little unstylish (but then it was very cheap). Went to pay for it at the self-service till 'For quick and easy service' and for a receipt I was issued with a blank slip of blue paper 5cms wide by half a centimetre long.
So when the watch appeared at Collection Point B, I had to explain to the man who was serving that I wasn't issued with a proper receipt. He looked at me and sighed as if it was all too much bother to sort out. Off he wandered, without a word, to fiddle with the self-service machine, then to fetch someone else, then to fiddle with a computer, then to write out a HUGE receipt by hand before returning to hand over the watch.
This took an absolute AGE. I passed the time by muttering loudly about the appalling service in Argos these days.
'It's because Mercury in retrograde,' I said to Andy. 'If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong.'
Andy looked at me with his 'you barking mad woman' expression.
'But it's okay,' I said. 'The effect of a retrograde Mercury finishes tomorrow.'
'Good,' said Andy.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Bum Bags and Knitting Patterns
I ventured out yesterday for a practise pre-run prior to beginning my running training properly on Monday (it has to be Monday; it says so in the running book and I'm not going to mess with the running book). What I wanted to do was to make sure my Achilles tendon was really okay and not merely pretending, and that my new running shoes weren't going to nip/ pinch/ chafe/ rub/ blister or any combination thereof.
All was well. The running shoes were good 'n' bouncy, the ShockAbsorber A+ ensured my bosoms remained good 'n' unbouncy, the jogging bottoms remained up, the jogging top remained down and the only problem encountered was getting hit in the face with my front door key. That's because I had no pockets upon my person so had to thread the key onto a chain around my neck. What I really need, I thought, is a bum bag for all my running accoutrements.
The book suggests taking the following with you when you go for a run : keys (obviously), mobile phone, cash for a bus or taxi in case you sustain an injury or go so far you can't run back (very unlikely at this early stage in my training), loo roll (again, in case you get caught short on a long run), spare pants (????), plasters and,if you are a lady, an alarm in case you are attacked. Although I guess if you are a male pacifist and don't fancy fending off an attacker you could carry an alarm too.
Well, it seems rather a lot of baggage to be carting around on a run, especially as in my case I'm not planning on being out for more than half an hour at a time, my modus operandii being to work myself up to spending more of that half an hour jogging than walking. Yesterday's effort yielded a 95:5 percentage ratio in favour of walking so I've still got some way to go. And as such I think all I require to take with me is a door key and a bottle of water and a tissue up my knicker leg in case I get a runny nose. So no bum-bag just yet.
I couldn't find a small water bottle to take with me yesterday so ended up emptying the remains of a one litre bottle of squash into a jug and refilling that bottle with water. It was a might cumbersome I have to say, carting a squash bottle around with me, so today I bought one of those natty bottles-with-a gripping-hole-in-the-middle. They came in two sizes - 500ml and 250 ml. 250 ml is no good to anyone. I'd polish off 250ml in two gulps. I went for the larger option.
And whilst in town I found I could no longer resist the urge to start knitting something cheerful and artisan for Baby Bug Grandchild. Personally, I was very pleased with my choice of pattern and colours of wool. However, when I showed Heather she stepped back and put on her sun glasses. 'Cor Blimey!' she said, or words to that effect, but I don't care. I like the pattern and I like the wool. They are bright and individual and, in the mind of this nearly 44 year old granny-in-waiting, very funky. And if other people react like Heather, then, well, I shall just take Baby Bug Grandchild out myself. We'll go for a jog. In the dark. So no-one can see us in our lovely handcrafted jumpers and bum bags.
Honestly, some people have no sense of style...
All was well. The running shoes were good 'n' bouncy, the ShockAbsorber A+ ensured my bosoms remained good 'n' unbouncy, the jogging bottoms remained up, the jogging top remained down and the only problem encountered was getting hit in the face with my front door key. That's because I had no pockets upon my person so had to thread the key onto a chain around my neck. What I really need, I thought, is a bum bag for all my running accoutrements.
The book suggests taking the following with you when you go for a run : keys (obviously), mobile phone, cash for a bus or taxi in case you sustain an injury or go so far you can't run back (very unlikely at this early stage in my training), loo roll (again, in case you get caught short on a long run), spare pants (????), plasters and,if you are a lady, an alarm in case you are attacked. Although I guess if you are a male pacifist and don't fancy fending off an attacker you could carry an alarm too.
Well, it seems rather a lot of baggage to be carting around on a run, especially as in my case I'm not planning on being out for more than half an hour at a time, my modus operandii being to work myself up to spending more of that half an hour jogging than walking. Yesterday's effort yielded a 95:5 percentage ratio in favour of walking so I've still got some way to go. And as such I think all I require to take with me is a door key and a bottle of water and a tissue up my knicker leg in case I get a runny nose. So no bum-bag just yet.
I couldn't find a small water bottle to take with me yesterday so ended up emptying the remains of a one litre bottle of squash into a jug and refilling that bottle with water. It was a might cumbersome I have to say, carting a squash bottle around with me, so today I bought one of those natty bottles-with-a gripping-hole-in-the-middle. They came in two sizes - 500ml and 250 ml. 250 ml is no good to anyone. I'd polish off 250ml in two gulps. I went for the larger option.
And whilst in town I found I could no longer resist the urge to start knitting something cheerful and artisan for Baby Bug Grandchild. Personally, I was very pleased with my choice of pattern and colours of wool. However, when I showed Heather she stepped back and put on her sun glasses. 'Cor Blimey!' she said, or words to that effect, but I don't care. I like the pattern and I like the wool. They are bright and individual and, in the mind of this nearly 44 year old granny-in-waiting, very funky. And if other people react like Heather, then, well, I shall just take Baby Bug Grandchild out myself. We'll go for a jog. In the dark. So no-one can see us in our lovely handcrafted jumpers and bum bags.
Honestly, some people have no sense of style...
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Stream of Knittingness and Tigers
A magazine I bought a few weeks ago contained a lovely pattern for a knitted jacket type cardigan thingy. The more I looked at the picture, the more I liked it. So I sent away for the pattern which arrived at the end of last week. I looked at the pattern again. I didn't like it any more - no, I loved it. I adored it. I was very keen to start knitting this jacket type cardigan thingy.
'I know,' I thought. 'Before I go into town and buy the wool I'll have a look on the Internet and see if I can get it cheaper from a stockist. So I typed in Rowan Scottish Tweed DK. Lots of links appeared for places that had 'discount', 'bulk', and 'saving' in their titles. I found out this wool comes in a delightful array of gorgeous colours and it is made in Britain and is very woolly. I also discovered it cost anywhere between £5.25 and £5.85 a ball.
Now this would be okay if I was planning to knit, for example, a pair of baby bootees, or some winter drawers for Mrs Pumphrey and would require only one ball. But I'm not. In order to knit my lovely jacket type cardigan thingy I would need 17 balls. I got a pen and paper to do the maths because an initial calculation in my head made me feel a bit dizzy and to the point that I thought I'd made a miscalculation because wool for a jacket type cardigan thingy couldn't possibly cost that much, surely?? But I was right. My brain maths co-incided with my paper maths and this jacket type cardigan thingy was going to cost me nearly £100.
Blimey, I thought. I could buy a whole sheep for that. I sat contemplating how I could get around this fiscal dilemma. If I lost another two stones I could knit a smaller size thereby requiring less wool. My jacket type cardigan thingy would look lovely but I'd look like a sour-faced, scraggy skinbag because I'd be bad-tempered and underweight through lack of eating which is one of my favourite things. I could use a different type of double knitting wool from the one recommended but then would it be the same lovely jacket type cardigan thingy as illustrated on the pattern? Would I love it as much? Or I could buy a sheep, feed it, shear it, learn the art of spinning and dyeing, make my own yarn and have a truly 'home-made' experience. Or, and this one really made me shudder, I could go back to teaching and money wouldn't be an issue but then I would no longer have the time to knit the jacket type cardigan thingy.
It's still a dilemma although I have reached the spiritual stage that this jacket type cardigan thingy is a want rather than a need and isn't really intrinsic to my overall happiness. I'm going into town today to post a batch of Nearly King Jimbo scripts to various agents so I'm going to compare and contrast various brands of wool to see what I can get away with. Perhaps I'll look at sock patterns whilst I'm there. I've never knitted a sock before. I hear the skill is in turning a heel. Sounds fun...
And just in case you are worried that all this working from home is turning me into some kind of recluse with a wool fixation, something very exciting maybe happening in a couple of weeks with some tigers! Oh yes! There is a big cat charity in Kent and I may be writing a fund-raising story for them about one of the cubs. So we are going to visit! Andy revealed this to me this morning (I don't think he realises how excited I am by the prospect of this visit or he would have told me last night). He said that we had been invited to go during his week off, but not on feeding day. 'I don't know why we can't go on feeding day,' he said. 'Wouldn't it be better to go the day AFTER feeding day?' I replied. And we had a little laugh.
So tigers and lions here I come! More news as and when it happens...
'I know,' I thought. 'Before I go into town and buy the wool I'll have a look on the Internet and see if I can get it cheaper from a stockist. So I typed in Rowan Scottish Tweed DK. Lots of links appeared for places that had 'discount', 'bulk', and 'saving' in their titles. I found out this wool comes in a delightful array of gorgeous colours and it is made in Britain and is very woolly. I also discovered it cost anywhere between £5.25 and £5.85 a ball.
Now this would be okay if I was planning to knit, for example, a pair of baby bootees, or some winter drawers for Mrs Pumphrey and would require only one ball. But I'm not. In order to knit my lovely jacket type cardigan thingy I would need 17 balls. I got a pen and paper to do the maths because an initial calculation in my head made me feel a bit dizzy and to the point that I thought I'd made a miscalculation because wool for a jacket type cardigan thingy couldn't possibly cost that much, surely?? But I was right. My brain maths co-incided with my paper maths and this jacket type cardigan thingy was going to cost me nearly £100.
Blimey, I thought. I could buy a whole sheep for that. I sat contemplating how I could get around this fiscal dilemma. If I lost another two stones I could knit a smaller size thereby requiring less wool. My jacket type cardigan thingy would look lovely but I'd look like a sour-faced, scraggy skinbag because I'd be bad-tempered and underweight through lack of eating which is one of my favourite things. I could use a different type of double knitting wool from the one recommended but then would it be the same lovely jacket type cardigan thingy as illustrated on the pattern? Would I love it as much? Or I could buy a sheep, feed it, shear it, learn the art of spinning and dyeing, make my own yarn and have a truly 'home-made' experience. Or, and this one really made me shudder, I could go back to teaching and money wouldn't be an issue but then I would no longer have the time to knit the jacket type cardigan thingy.
It's still a dilemma although I have reached the spiritual stage that this jacket type cardigan thingy is a want rather than a need and isn't really intrinsic to my overall happiness. I'm going into town today to post a batch of Nearly King Jimbo scripts to various agents so I'm going to compare and contrast various brands of wool to see what I can get away with. Perhaps I'll look at sock patterns whilst I'm there. I've never knitted a sock before. I hear the skill is in turning a heel. Sounds fun...
And just in case you are worried that all this working from home is turning me into some kind of recluse with a wool fixation, something very exciting maybe happening in a couple of weeks with some tigers! Oh yes! There is a big cat charity in Kent and I may be writing a fund-raising story for them about one of the cubs. So we are going to visit! Andy revealed this to me this morning (I don't think he realises how excited I am by the prospect of this visit or he would have told me last night). He said that we had been invited to go during his week off, but not on feeding day. 'I don't know why we can't go on feeding day,' he said. 'Wouldn't it be better to go the day AFTER feeding day?' I replied. And we had a little laugh.
So tigers and lions here I come! More news as and when it happens...
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