Last week ....

was just one of those weeks. One of those weeks, that now that I am 39, I wonder what has happened to my life. (I'm certainly not the international superstar librarian/vet/ballerina that I thought I would be when I was 8. At the ages of 7 and 9, I just mainly wanted to do away with my older brothers.) And I know I seem to be fixated on my age - how *did* I get to 39, just how did that happen - but, joyously, I still seem to be milking the getting of presents somewhat.

So, anyway, last week. It started off with celebrating a friend passing her Viva - another doctor in the very loose academic family - which, of course, involved much high-flying intellectual conversation. And then, increasingly, much toasting and drinking, and possibly a diminution in the tenor of the discourse. (Bless anthropologists, for their ability to keep going for ever and ever, given a fire and enough whiskey, and who cares if we were sitting in the rain, on wet chairs.)

But more importantly, the next day, I reintroduced the newly crowned doctor to yarn. Hooks, though, not needles. (And admonished her soundly, for she had stopped with the hooking, though she now lives in Bristol, and passes their temple of yarn regularly. But now she is hooked again, and I'm sure wouldn't be adverse to my sending her off with a shopping list every once in a while.)

So, the week has kicked off with things intellectual and yarny. Always a good start. And the yarny continued. For next there was a meeting of the local KCG. Where our great and glorious leader told us we would all be working in black and white, and putting on an exhibition in the summer. The standard response to that, of course, is to throw things. But I don't think the yarn hurt too much, and she says that the needle puncture wounds are healing nicely.

And the intellectual continued. For it was the quiz final for our WI federation. (No, we didn't win - but at least this year we didn't quite get threatened with being thrown out for disruptive behaviour. But how can you resist acting out the answers in the Heraldry identification round - and my Lion Rampant was considered a triumph.)

So far, so fairly regular. But midnight saw things moving a little more unusally. For, of course, it was the Halo 3 release. Will Master Chief win? Will Cortana stay evil, or see the error of her ways? Will I survive being in a small intimate gaming shop with so many spotty boys dressed in combat gear? Will I ever get my tv back? ('Can I play Halo now?' 'Yes, you *may*, but only after you've done the washing-up.' Actually, it sort of works quite well, as a way of getting out of housework.)

So Wednesday was spent balling up, by hand, a most beautiful present (while shouting 'Go left, no left, you idiot. Move, now, oh look, you died. And now you have to start all over again.'). Nearly a whole mile of navy blue laceweight.

A present, all the way from the Faroes, from Wye Sue. Who somehow just seemed to know that I don't have nearly enough on the needles. And that the lack of lace in my life was ludicrous. (But as always, once balled, the laceweight, she has to sit there, until inspiration strikes. Gradually collecting cat hair.)

So far, so good. Until Thursday, when strange and fascinating blogging connections all got just a little six degrees. For it turns out that one of the bloggers I got to know through the Knitting Olympics (she got a medal, I didn't, and no I'm not bitter at all) not only used to live 5 minutes away from where I am now, but is that daughter of a member of my local WI. And she was up, visiting. So we got together. And I had one of the funniest, easiest, most interesting evenings I have had for a long time. Meeting An Elegant Sufficient, in the live flesh, was a delight. And then Gill went and topped it all, by giving me yarn. And things to do things to the yarn with. A sumptuous skein of Knit Picks sock yarn, and a bunch of Kool-Aid to dye it with!

Though I must admit, I am a little afeard of the powder packets, given that even though they are still sealed, and not sweetened, I'm getting an anticipatory sugar high off of them! So, if I am seen wandering around with berry-cherry stained hands for the next few days, it is all Gill's fault.

And the week was topped off with an minor emergency visit to the Vet, when one of the beasts (the one pictured at the top of the post, the one looking all butter wouldn't melt) decided to get conjunctivitis. I swear they do it on purpose. I swear they get together, and decide it is time for one of them to get something minor and irritating, but expensive. I swear that they were plotting, while I was out eating posh fish and chips, playing with humans, that I needed to be punished for returning past their dinner time (as if they piles of protest hair balls weren't enough).

And the week came to an end, as I battered some slate paving stones (and yes, I did manage to break one by jumping on it too much) into the dead lawn, in a pair of swanky new spotty wellington-boots, just so I could get to the new compost bin without wading through mud. While waiting for my house-mate extraordinaire to finish making madeleines.

I don't know that I ever had a very clear idea of where I would be by the age of 39, of the kinds of things I woud be doing. But I don't think I imagined this.