My New Jumper

I have a new jumper. It has many exciting features. Well, exciting for me, given all my previous jumpers have been of the plain knitted, two arms attached to a body with a hole for the head variety.

The exciting features of my new jumper are as follows:

1) it has angora mix. This means that I am constantly followed by a cloud of jumper fluff, as it sheds at the hint of the slightest movement. I find bits of jumper fluff in my eyelashes, between my toes, in my cereal and stuck in the hinges of my spectacles. The furniture gets covered in jumper fluff, so do the cats. In fact, given how much jumper fluff I shed, I am surprised I still have a jumper left, and not something more akin to a string vest which would be a very unattractive look for a woman of my age and physical proportions.

2) the jumper has a hood. It means I am now officially 'a hoodie' and my plan is to walk around town, hood-up, so as many of my students see me as possible and realise that wearing a hoodie is 'uncool' if grannies are wearing them, and then they will stop wearing their own hoodies and hopefully get a haircut and pull up their trousers to the correct height, too. Unfortunately, wearing the hood up means I transfer jumper fluff to my hair which a) makes me look like I have a woolly halo and b) confuses my hairdresser. However, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make in order to smarten up the youth of Kent. Especially Ben in 11Y2 who wears a bright green hoodie when he thinks he can get away with it, and who yesterday announced he'd had an epiphany re: stop messing about in class and start concentrating for his exam, but it transpires his epiphany lasted only as far as the end of yesterday's Parents' Evening when he was afeared I was going to nab his mother as she did the rounds and tell her what a horrid and lazy child she had.

3) pompoms. My jumper has two pompoms hanging from the hood which I like to twirl in moments of random staring-into-spaceness. I have learned, however, the folly of twirling one's pompoms and staring into space especially in the presence of a cat, namely Pandora Kitten, because of course cats love nothing better than to launch themselves at a twirling woolly ball on a string regardless of how close it happens to be swinging to, for example, a person's face. On many occasions have I stopped twirling just in the nick of time when I have suddenly become aware of Pandora concentrating on the twirling with a wild look in her eye. It's like playing a game of Extreme Danger Pompom Cats.

4) a Nordic pattern. So if I ever find myself in, er, Nord, I shall blend in beautifully. But only if I'm wearing my new jumper at the time. If I am wearing my burgundy velour trousers and purple linen top I shall stick out like a sore thumb and get eaten by a wolf. Or adopted by a bear. Or something.

And this blog, dear reader, is an example of what happens when someone is on Day Six of No TV For Me. It is the result of an over-excited imagination, an imagination that hasn't been drained by telly drivel and desperately craves a creative outlet.

It can only get worse. You have been warned.