summertime.... so it's time to make cozies

People cozies, and teapot cozies, that is.

Finally, some shots of the Yoda coat - modelled by Hiding Pup - teamed with its yarn-mate, the My Dear Stalker hat. Both made in glorious Garthenor Organic Jacob.


And the coat may not be pretty (but the buttons are), but it will be absolutely perfect for winter. Because it does what it says on the tin - it will keep me warm, and has places to store things. And I got to work on various techniques while making it, what with those afterthought pockets (lawks a mercy, and blessings on you, Elizabeth Zimmermann, says I as I tug my forelock), short row bust darts (which are just about in the right place), three-needle bind offs on the shoulder.


And dudes, check out those side seams. Finally, I think I may be cracking the mysteries of the sewing up (which is much, much easier in a big chunky wool, 'cause it is so much easier to see things). I am insanely proud of those seams.

Originally, it was a Rowan pattern - Kim Hargreaves' 'Snow', from Rowan 26, but the modifications have made it my own. That, and that the model in the magazine looks cool and interesting and attractively windswept, whereas I look somewhat like a cross between a small child in a home-made Paddington Bear coat, and a muddy Michelin man. But I care not, and when worn with the hat, the Jacob yarn will protect me from all slings and arrows, and any possible name-calling. Because I will be the warmest thing around, and moreover, I will have pockets to put things in.

Second, behold the teapot cozy in progress. A mad confection of frills, which has yet to fall into the knitted flower garden (yes, the pink is going to be covered in knitted roses). The sharp, and assiduous blog-readers among you may recognize the influence of Yarnstorm - for it was her pineapple cozy that is the inspiration. (Yet somehow, Yarnstorm's pineapple cozy has a certain kitsch splendour, whereas mine is, inadvertantly, going for the crocheted toilet roll cover on acid...) I've just got to hope that functionality wins out over lack of taste, and that the soon to be owner (why yes, it is going to be foisted on someone as a birthday present - but they get the tea pot too) can cope with the sheer amount of yardage in the ruffles.


Right, I must go and knit flowers now. And check on the painting of the garage door - child labour you know, such a useful thing (well, it is the summer holidays, and my next-door neighbour gets to look after her grandchildren, and the garage door badly needed doing, and the kids were at a loose end, and it is so much cheaper than paying a grown-up to work. And the littlest one is just about small enough to send up the chimney.)

And then I must go and remove the pillaged bird's nest. Which has been ravaged over the past few nights by killer. Who does not believe in giving her prey a sporting chance. Because where is the fun in that, when she can nip out at night, and catch the birds a-napping. Behold, I am the pawbinger of doom.


And I've got a feeling that I owe quite a few people emails and such. But I've melted my brain, wearing a too warm yoda coat in the finally, it might almost be summer temperatures.

ps - glad you like the sock post, but I am shocked, I tell you, shocked to my core, at how some of you saw such dirty things there. Go and was your minds out with soap.

is it just me....

.... or does this look like something it shouldn't?


Yup, that's right, a too tight sock. In the latest Socks that Rock Club colourway and pattern.


Have a good weekend, y'all.

ker-nitting, ker-not finishing

The Cosmos Jacket, she is done. Well, she is knit. And she is now waiting for all the ends to be sewn in, the sleeves set, and the seams sewn up. And then we play the sizing game - will she fit, won't she fit. But a lovely knit to make, where the designer cunningly has you working on lots of techniques, fair isle and intarsia, mattress stitch and picking up. Jamieson's patterns tend to assume a degree on knitting know-how, and I would have been terrified a couple of years ago, worrying about whether I was using the 'right' cast-on, or joining the yarns 'properly'. But with the internet, and an out-of-control book buying habit, knitting has become a more natural craft to me. Just wish I were better at the sewing up! (I found some old junior school reports the other day - apparently, the teacher thought I really, really like sewing. Just because I used to be fastidious about washing my hands every five minutes - meaning less time spent actually sewing - and because I used to take things home, and get mum to do it for me. Because I really, really didn't like sewing. At all.) Oh, and a word of warning - check your yarn amounts. The yarn pack contained much too much of the accent colours, and not quite enough of the main. (But, despair not, for this means I managed to score some free stash yarn, and Jamieson's sent down the extra.)

And even though Cosmos is not quite wearable-finished, my lust for Jamieson's is undiminished, for Winter Sunset is growing fast(ish). I am absolutely hypnotised by fairisle in the round (remind me of that when I get to steeking, and cutting). I love the rhythm, and watching and feeling as my hand dips up and down, main and background, counting each repeat, finishing each row sooner than I think possible. The sense of accomplishment, as each pattern repeat, each row, each block is completed, the tiny sense of loss, as you know that that section is finished, and the anticipation as you look to see what comes next. I know that I am losing all sense of proportion, but it is better than looking up, looking around, and realising you need to do the hoovering, again. So excuse me, while I ignore the world around, and get back to watching a sunset grow.

woolfest and water, water and woolfest

First, the weather watch section (unfortunately, not a patch on The Iceland Weather Report, but hey). The expected deluge just pretty much, comparatively, tinkled down - so all that nervous anticipation, all that 'blitz spirit' (and I'm never quite sure what to think about that phrase), came to naught. And though it is raining, and thundering right now, the worst of the threat is hopefully over. Which is good - for people are still underwater around the country. And much as the flooding here has been a tragedy for many people, we were relatively lucky. Nothing like the regular flooding in Bangladesh, or the current floods in Pakistan, or what happened after Hurricane Katrina.

But the 'best' news? Decimate can come out to play. For it seems that in Hull, the housing stock, both public and private, was decimated by the flood (though the council wimped out, and just went for the measly 1 in 10!).

But you all want to know about Woolfest. Unfortunately, my official photographer, Hiding Pup, had volunteered to stay at home, and pup the flood barricades (well, and there is no way I was going to be sharing a tent with him - friendship only goes so far). So, really, no pictures (though many of the same people, and animals, were there, so last year's pictures will do - the early July posts. And some of those animals are such regulars, that I swear the minute they see a camera, they start primping and preening, and checking that their locks are in place. Yes, I'm talking about you, the Crookabeck Angoras.)

Well, there was the camping - with Woolly Wormhead and her mother, Gloria, and her aunt, Paula. Fibre people all. And camping people, which is even better, for they brought the goods, the equipment, the tents, and even put up my tent for me! (I, however, arrived with 5 packs of ground coffee, wine, beer, bananas, the largest, thickest duvet around, and 36 kit-kats. I know what my priorities are.) The campsite, Graysonside, is stunning - and comfortable (actual hot, properly hot water in the showers, and cleaner that my own bathroom).


There were people to talk with, into the early hours of the morning - when fellow campers Babylonglegs and Yoshimi came a calling. And Wye Sue dropped by with her spinning wheel. And no, we did not accidentally set fire to a cardboard box in an attempt to keep warm.

There were knit-bloggers to meet (and of course I can't remember their names), and fibres to fondle. There were spinning wheels breeding (nothing else can explain how every time I turned around, there seemed to be more), and people to convert to sock knitting. There were old friends to see - those on the KCG stand, and those on KCG Trading (fortunately they seem to remember me from year to year, which is helpful, as each year I forget my membership card). And, of course, the Jamiesons stand. Which was visited many, many times. Well, they brought a lot with them, and you didn't want to make them carry it all home again, so it was only polite to walk away with a kilo (or 2 or 3 or more), of their yarn.

There were books to buy - Terri Shea's 'Selbuvotter: Biography of a Knitting Tradition', Priscilla A. Gibson-Roberts' 'Ethnic Socks and Stockings', and Veronica Gainford's 'Designs for Knitting Kilt Hose', because I am having an historical moment. (Gloriously, Gainford has her own set of knitting abbreviations, taken from a Victorian, Edinburgh published knitting book. Now I'm fine on 'O', and 'T', but do you know what 'A', 'Ts', 'P', or 'B' stand for?*) There was just a little bit of new and exciting wool to buy - just a little bit of Wensleydale, and a couple of balls of Teeswater, because we need to keep the variety of sheep breeds alive. There was one incredibly dumb purchase. Not because it isn't beautiful, and soft, and gorgeous, and a deep, rich, very animal alive brown colour, and not because the family selling it weren't lovely (come, visit the ranch, we've got room, and beer, and Texan B-B-Q), and not because it isn't always fascinating to see what a different fibre is like. But it was hideously expensive. A single skein of Buffalo Gold sock yarn - enough to make one (yes, just one) adult anklet sock. Or something else, I am sure. Perhaps something framed, behind glass, with an alarm system, to prevent theft, 'cos it ain't called buffalo gold for nothing.

My overall impressions of Woolfest 2007. Socks, spinning and felting. Gone were the innumberable hanks of variegated lace-weight which were everywhere last year. Up was the amount of roving to be had. And weaving is creeping in with just a little bit more strength. There is still a little bit of an issue with a couple of places vastly underpricing their goods - a stall may be showcasing an organisation, but when a delicately smocked child's coat dress, in hand spun, and two colours, is selling for only £35, or a beautiful, tiny, knitted and beaded purse sells for £10, it impacts on all those who are trying to make a living from their craft. But overall, Woolfest goes from strength to strength, and the members of Woolclip are keeping a close watch on the feel and identity of their festival.

And I leave you with a photo of my last purchase. A few stones from the Cumbrian felt wall (being sold for charity). Who could resist taking home a bit of dry stone walling, especially when being sold by a young girl, whose pitch includes telling you how they are 'safe stones to throw, because they won't break any windows, because they aren't actually real'. And because I wanted to see what the cats would do to them. (So far, the stones are still intact, but they have been sniffed, prodded, sat out, scent-marked, and are currently being ignored.)


And I'll see you all at Woolfest 2008.

* O - yarn over
T - knit two together
A - slip stitch, knit two together, pass slipped stitch over
Ts - slip stitch, knit 1, pass slipped stitch over
P - plain stitch (knit)
B - purl stitch

I want ....

.... to thank our dearly beloved Yorkshire Water, for having the prescience in signing me up to a free, three-month sewer and drain damage insurance policy. Amazing, that the letter was sent out on Thursday 21st June, and the great deluge hit us on Sunday/Monday 24th/25th June. (Where I live was hit quite badly this week, fortunately our house was, just, safe, just a minor roof leak, and a little bit of toilet backing up downstairs, but enough are still under water. Blueadt, who has a swanky new mobile phone, took many, many pictures.) Just who are their weather forecasters? They should get a pay rise. Ah, but the best thing about this free, try-it-and-see insurance policy. You can't make any claims for anything that happened before 5th July.

.... to have a wedding. With ceremonial swords. Because for the really very reasonable sum of £39 extra, you can get up to £20,000 of cover for ceremonial swords. Just what do they anticipate happening with the ceremonial swords? Do you get someone in from the Confrérie du Sabre d'Or, who attacks the toasting champagne, sending the cork flying off, to great applause, but it lands on top of the wedding cake, which topples, tipping the flower-ringed candle over, which sets fire to the crepe swags, which in turn ignites the immense amount of hair-spray vapour in the marquee, and as the fire brigade arrive, to drench all the guests in water, they run over the castle owner's prize Chinese Crested Dog (nothing fatal - just put him off his stride a little) which was on its way to a highly lucrative stud assignation. And all this from having a ceremonial sword or two at the wedding. (Oh, and not to mention that in the whole basic wedding insurance package, they'll even pay for your counselling, but only if the wedding doesn't take place. But if you are getting married soon - Good Luck!)

.... to stay dry this weekend. Even though the Met Office is predicting more heavy, heavy rain. Because someone has decided that I must go camping, in order to attend Woolfest. (The one and only time I have ever camped was in a friend's backgarden at the age of 8. Memorable because they had broad bean plants in their garden. And we had just 'studied' broad bean anatomy and reproduction at school. So we spent the whole evening, in a state of high giggles, just this side of mass hysteria, comparing the anatomy of a broad bean, and its reproductive cycle, to that of humans. Urgh, men, urgh, gross, giggle, giggle, giggle. Parents screaming to get us to shut up. I wonder why I never went camping again.) So hopefully I won't be washed down a mountain, with a precious skein of hand-dyed lace-weight clutched in my teeth, as the hills resound with the sounds of knitters all crying 'Save the Wool! Save the Wool!'.

.... my new, just finished Yoda coat (though it will probably be more Kenny from South Park coat - the hood looks worrying) to dry in time for said camping. Because I need something to wrap up in to keep warm. Because I've been told that campsites don't tend to have central heating.

.... finally, for my house to stay dry this weekend too, though as I am leaving Hiding Pup in charge, I have every confidence that it will be. But I might just move some things (the stash) upstairs, just to be extra safe. And it would be no great loss to humankind if the living room carpet had to be replaced.

this is not....

... a cow. Even though she eats a cow's worth of grass, and other assorted vegetables (I'm currently trying to wean her off raw potato peelings onto carrot peelings, but somehow the orange doesn't appeal.)

... a sign of affection. Though I suppose, grudgingly, they are quite fond of each other. (Mainly because the not a cow has a habit of not finishing her cat food, giving the not affectionate one ample opportunities to grab some sneaky extra helpings.)

... asleep. This is 'being' asleep, with the paw over the nose actively keeping those eyes shut, because it is daylight outside, and one wouldn't want to be awake in the daytime, because that would interfere too much with dawn and dusk hunting activities. (Though she has a spangly new collar, with a bell on it, which has dramatically reduced the number of huntees.)

This, you may have noticed, is not a post about knitting. This is because no photographs of knitting have been taken recently. Because I cannot quite face all 48 knitted and decorated butterflies just at the moment, and because I had yarn quantity issues with the Cosmos Jacket.

Many thanks for all your generous comments about the Cora Shawl - she shall have an outing soon.

cora filed

Finally, at last, the Cora/Neapolitan Ice Cream Shawl is done. Not just done with the knitting, but done with the washing, the blocking, even done with the photo-ing. Done, done, and ready to be done with as I please, and if that means wadding it up into a ball, dumping it on top of the filing cabinet, and forgetting about it for months, it is done to be done with. (The fact that I might just be waiting for an invite to an 'event' - and I'm really not fussy here, any kind of 'event', which involves hanging around until the summer evenings turn cool, and something simple must needs be draped to keep me warm, and I can pretend that I am elegant, really, really shouldn't have anything to do with whether I wear Cora or not, but hey, I'm only human, and I want to show it off at somewhere a little bit nicer than the local pub.)

The facts:

Can't remember when I started Cora, but it was sometime this year, and, even more amazingly, she has only been hanging around since I bought her at the Harrogate Knitting and Stitching show last November. (The shawl pin, shown below, also came from the same show, but you think I can remember from whom?)

It is, but of course, a Sharon Miller design (though not her colours, which were just a little too pink), goddess of all things lacy.

A remarkably trouble free knit - which is down to two reasons. Shetland wool, baby (Jamieson's Ultra, this time) - my choice of desert island yarn, no matter the weight, because it just grabs me, baby. And the good luck knitting markers from Mary-Lou, which have stuck with this project from the very start (scroll down to seem them in action). Not that I believe in luck, but the lack of dropped stitches, come blocking time, has got to be down to something....

A couple of other thoughts. First, may I never see feather and fan again, or at least for a long, long time. Yes, pretty, yes, effective, yes, simple to learn. But on a round of close to 1,000 stitches, and may the knitting saints forgive me, but more boring that purling close to 1,000 stitches. And second, the shawl is large (just over 5 foot square, and it could have gone further), I am short (just, just over 5 foot, and some people still owe me an eating of their hat, because I broke the 60 inches), so in the triangular shot, the dreaded pointing finger of look, look, large ass(crack) here is avoided. Yippee.

So I leave you with some photos, the obligatory cat claiming ownership;

the laundry line shot;
the close up, with adornment;
and the imagine a person inside the elegant drape shot;

And I think, in honour of the luck that Mary-Lou's stitch markers brought, I shall rename her 'The Wimseycal Shawl'.

scene of crime reconstruction

Yes, yes, well all know how useless I have been recently. But it isn't my fault, 'cos I have been drowning in a sea of home baked cookies and rock buns (Yarnstorm's rock buns - seriously good, and if I may have spun a few stories about how she seduced her husband with them, mea culpa, but it certainly helped in their selling), second hand books, marmalade, and knitted butterflies. For 'tis the season to be standing on market stalls, raising money for whatevers. And the season is not quite over yet, for the children at school of knit (the genius idea of Blueadt, which is much fun, but costs us a fortune in breadsticks - used to stop that post school lack of energy crash, 'cos we vetoed the sweets and chocolate, and fruit is too messy - as well as the hi-larious sight of breadsticks as chopsticks, breadsticks as knitting needles, breadsticks in ears, breadsticks up noses, and the perennial favourite of breadsticks as vampire fangs, which is just as funny as it was a year and a half ago) still have their summer fair to come. What's that? My crystal ball is saying it can see me sitting in the wee small hours, sewing buttons onto butterflies, and butterflies onto brooch and barette and bangle backs.....

But in between all this rampant capitalism, other things have been happening. First, I have been seduced by the eternally perky Flo, (yes, my life is not complete, unless I am serving screaming cell-phone users, being barked at by bossy business ladies, and cleaning up after caterwauling children). And second, there has indeed been some knitting. For the semi-big news is the neapolitan ice-cream shawl is finished, just awaiting blocking (and purchase of accompanying real neapolitan ice-cream).

And finally, with the aid of the amazing dust/fibre/hair/fluff-ball finding and creating cats (just give me a rug, any rug, any carpet, any chair, for I must to sharpen my claws. Holes, what holes, I can't see no holes, no, that isn't a hole, in a rug, just beside me, with a pile of pulled up fibre beside it, and gosh, how did that bit of carpet get in my claws), I have been playing at CSI. For I have been stringing, reconstructing the scene of the crime, the moment of impact, the point of pointlessness. With ... wait for it ... up to 25 different bits of string in any one row.

Behold, I bring you the back of Jamieson's Cosmos Jacket. With cat. And tangles.

Aren't cats helpful.

missing in action

and I could show you the pile of flithy used tissues, to justify my absence, but you don't want to see that, do you. (Anyway, I'm an old fashioned hanky user - every xmas I pretend I am a man, and put a box of nice, new, man sized handkerchiefs in my paltry xmas stocking. When you were little, didn't you think it was so awful, how your parents used to get things like socks, and underwear, and hankies for xmas? And how it was worse than unforgiveable, when you got them too? Oh, but I know I am getting old, when I start to think how lovely it would be, to get a pack of M&S functional, comfortable knickers in my stocking.) And worse, it seems that there is something strange going on, in the knitting pantheon, that everytime I get close to actually finishing a shawl, I get bronchitis (for evidence, the olympic knit, that nearly finished me). But the ice-cream shawl, she is nearly to the edging, and if I am good today, then the end is in sight.

But I do have something to show you. To make up for my being ill, and just in time for summer (and to make me feel better for being too ill to make it down to London, to play with my frog bag owner - apparently, a big hit, and just the right thing for nearly 5 years old J.J.O. to carry his sunglasses, lip salve, and money for ice-cream, when down at the local paddling pool). Behold, I bring you 'My Dear Stalker', by the fabulous Woolly Wormhead. And hopefully, she won't mind that I made a few alterations - making it extra, extra large in gorgeous organic pure Jacob wool, from Garthenor Organics, adding a crochet brim, and then felting the f***ker. So, some before and after shots:

(yes, that is a partial picture of my, still in my pjs)

(what, you are meant to be able to see when wearing a hat?)

(the washing machine didn't eat it)

(the ears, the ears, just right to protect you from the sounds of the bells, the bells)

Now, this hat is meant to be from one of my big brothers, but it is so lovely, that I'm not sure I can bear to part with it. For it is warm, and cosy, and slightly not quite 'normal'. And when you wear the ears down, they swing comfortingly from side to side as you walk, and you get to feel just like a bloodhound working for Sherlock Holmes. Not quite clever enough to solve the crime, but you know you'll be crucially helpful to the case.

Finally, you may notice that I have changed the template - I have somehow managed to pass 100 posts. And this means that all my carefully collected side-bar delights have etherized. Oh, well. So I'll try and work on those, and get them back ('cos I love housekeeping so). And apologies, for all those who tried to listen to Monsieur M.C. Nuts - well, the sound worked for me!

I shall return, with tales of ice cream shawls, and socks in progress and local elections. Bet you can't wait.

may I present....

MC Nuts and the Wordsworth Rap.

(If you want to know more, go here. If you want an alternative take on Wordsworth and his daffodils, try Yarnstorm.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, I share this with you only because I consider it my duty, a matter of vital public interest, and because I have no knitting to show. Because who can knit, when MC Nuts is in the house?

(And a confession, I have never read the original - must have been ill that day at school.... preferring the metaphysicals myself, being all pretentious and good educated as what I am.)

I feel like there is something I've forgotten...

oh yes, that's it, the blog. It isn't that I mean to forget, but since we went and had an hour taken away from us (I know, I know, there are some of you out there who think it is the most heinous thing ever, daylight savings, and I agree, I hate the stealing of an hour, but I do so love these brighter evenings,), I've sort of got distracted. Including, to the scratchy pain of my arms, scalping the holly bush, and then playing third witch on the left, as I beat the cuttings down into the bin with a stick.

But, in the recall of my forgetfulness, I thought I would share with you a last year finished object. Some may remember the excitement of the coffee bags. And the trepidation with which the sewing machine entered my life. Because, despite all fears to the contrary, I did indeed manage to co-ordinate coffee bag, sewing machine, and yarn (beautiful, Woolly Wormhead yarn). And made the world's largest, and possibly most impractical, bag ever.


But since then, I have found a use for The Bag. The most perfect use, one which matches in size, in concept, in material, and, astonishingly, in colour. For The Bag is the perfect thing to put a cardigan in. Not a finished cardigan, but a cardigan in construction. Where the texture of the coffee bag matches the texture of the shetland wool - light, airy, but with a distinctly pleasing subtle scratch. Where the insane depth of The Bag itself eats comfortably all the needed balls of yarn, where the clever little pocket I (yes, me, all by myself) installed holds pens, pencils, bits of note paper, markers, scissors, and even wound-up spare circulars. And the final serendipitous concatenation? The colours match.

Now, I must run away - for I am also concocting peculiar things with frames and bits of cotton string. So far, no tangles, but there is time yet.

Oh, yes, a final plea. Does anyone know of a bell that could be put on a cat collar? We can cope with the mice, and the tragic occasional bird (because the birds are learning, and getting better at warning that a cat is loose in the garden), and the collar does already rattle, with tags and labels and jingle-jangle noises, but how do you warn butterflies that they must flee the evil stalking kitten?

how do you know....

when your housekeeping is being called into question? When your cat chooses to projectile vomit deliberately down the side of the almost built in fridge, in order to make you clean the kitchen 'properly'. And all before you've had your first cup of coffee. Ay, me.

Turns out, I have been in a rather grumpy grey mood lately, which is why I haven't been around. And it doesn't seem quite fair to share tales of disgruntled stomping and wooden spoon bashing, when I know tales of ridiculously picky cats (the food had tuna in it, she likes tuna, if she wasn't neutered, and could open the cupboard, I'm sure she would make love to the tuna fish cans, but it turns out she really, really doesn't like the red mullet that came with the tuna. As she has demonstrated, quite stickily and visibly, every time she has tried the delicious red mullet and tuna) and felted frogs.

So, a quick catch up. And behold, a kitten en repose with a felted frog (I don't think she likes it, do you? Oh, and please ignore the dying plant.)


But despite the general tone of heading for a meltdown (dealt with this weekend last, and very cathartic too, if not a little scary for others), I have managed to find time to do some fun things. For I was very kindly given permission to gate-crash SkipNorth07, the annual event when knitters descend on Brontë country, and scare both the locals and the visitors (as it turns out, nothing clears the common rooms in a Youth Hostel faster than a bunch of knitters laying out their wares). I had arranged an assignation with WoollyWormhead and WyeSue to meet the SkipNorthers at the KCG, to lay waste to their yarn mountain. And, of course, drool over some of the KCG collection. I had also arranged to enable young Amore (who had been good, and travelled by train, and therefore had only limited yarn and fibre carrying capacity), by offering to drive her first day's yarn purchases home. (And yes, I did hand over her goodies, unmolested and intact. And yes, my halo is looking shiny right now.) The SkipNorthers looked like they were having a fantastic time, where ideas were exchanged, new skills learnt, old skills passed on, and most importantly friendships created and reaffirmed. And the local yarn stores they visited have, by all accounts, begun to recover from their ravishing. (And I met many others, including many I have met before, and as usually useless didn't take/remember names, sorry, and I'll do better next time.)

What else, what else, oh yes, some knitting, in gloriously fat Jacob wool, still slightly infused with its lanolin. To make a gloriously comfortable, functional, long, pocketed cardigan. In which I have worked not only short row bust darts, which I hope are not place around my navel (no comments about the natural proclivities of gravity on older wobbly bits, without the benefit of fabric and wire engineering), but also short row 3-needle bind off shoulders! And on this triumphant note, I shall run away, and go and do something productive. Which might involve knitting.

can't come to the computer right now....

'cos the 3 needle cast off is kicking my butt. 'Cos as you may notice, I seem to be using about 8 needles. And I have pinned myself to the sofa (some may say nothing new there).

But, this means that the evil jumper for my godson is back underway. Sleeve island is the next stop.

The frog bag felted beautifully, consultation has been taken on eye placement, and all that is waiting is to persuade the model to model for the photoshoot (cat treats may be involved).

See you when I've broken free.

and actual finished things

A pair of Whitby Socks - from Nancy Bush's 'Knitting on the Road' (and a kitten-no-more-but-still-tiny for scale). And the amazing part? They took all of four days gentle knitting. Because they are in bigger wool. Bigger, beautiful Socks that Rock mediumweight. Only 51 stitches around. And all I want to know is, what on earth took me so long, to work out that bigger wool on smaller projects equals much, much faster. Happy, toasty new socks for February's chill. Yippee.


And a second thing, in really not long at all (though I'll admit that it isn't quite, quite finished). Instead of finishing a small jumper for my now 4 1/2 year old god son (which was due for his 4th birthday), I decided that I would make him a felted frog handbag. Well, I'll tell him it is a satchel (but then again, doesn't every self-respecting metrosexual 4 1/2 year old really need a handbag). From Nicky Epstein's 'Fabulous Felted Bags'. And bar the finishing, a very quick knit. And because it is due to be felted, mistakes aren't that important. So again, Yippee. There was a slight hiatus in the knit, because Jamieson's had been selling yarn kits based on erroneous gauge info in the book, which meant I was a little short. But Jamieson's came through for me, and sent down, free, enough red to finish making the frog's tongue. And I fudged around a little, making the yarn stretch by switching to a slightly stripy handle. Which I think gives it a manly touch (just to keep his daddy happy, because I am going to have so much fun teasing his daddy about his son's handbag).

(That Jamieson's might also have sent down some other bags of yarn is neither here nor there. But I just got to say, I'm loving the slightly stiff, dense, this is real wool you are working with feel, and the rich depth to the colours of their dk weight.)

So all I have to do is sew up the bag, cross my fingers for the washing machine (front loading felting is such a leap of faith), and then finish that acursed jumper.

And to remember, when discussing homophones with a bunch of 8-11 year olds, not to let them come up with their own. I must be old, not to have realised how hysterically funny we and wee are, let alone Pooh and poo, and to have forgotten quite how piercing the hysterical laughter of 8-11 year olds is. All this in an after school knit club.

(And Susanne - yes, you are so right about using a nice plain, smooth cotton as waste yarn. I really ought to get some one of these days!)

actual knitting content

And you thought I'd forgotten how to knit - while I just thought I had done something truly awful to the knitting gods, given the parlous state of my finishing ability. But, after giving up in disgust on just about everything already on the needles, I actually managed to find a relatively small project, and finish it. So, a pair of fair isle fingerless mittens. Adapted from Ann Feitelson's 'The Art of Fair Ilse Knitting' (wonderful book, even though some parts make my brain ache). Adapted because duh, when you make a pair of mittens for your own, small hands, don't just blindly, blitheringly use a pattern designed for a nice, large, male hand. (They are still just a tad too large in places, but hey, something finished. And I say pah to blocking).

And what have I learnt? Well, I can indeed knit in a piece of waste yarn, and then pick up from it (thumbs, baby, thumbs). But it is so much easier to pick up, if the pick up row is one colour only. 'Cos when it is a sweet little two colour, alternating stitches in closely matching heathers row, you end up trying not to get tangled in what in an otherwise normal round would be the itsy bitsy floats. Funnily enough, good light helps too.

But what I also learnt? They were quick. (Okay, so comparison knitting is lace shawls, long socks, ganseys....) And they were fun. And they used stash. Sort of. And they are warm. Which is all good.

But I have been knitting other things, too. New things. (I'm not knitting old things, because everything is in time out. Everything. And not solely because of user error.) Below, behold, the boiled ass lace (there are many reasons to thank Rabbitch, not least her way with words) that is my version of Sharon Miller's Cora Shawl. Which is now into the interminable feather and fan. But, as it turns out, I appear to be knitting an ice cream coffee break. Because somehow I appear to be knitting neapolitan ice cream, with a large side order of iced coffee with whipped cream. (And can you explain why I eat more ice cream in winter than in summer?)

Ah-ha, but you are more interested in that stitch marker? It is a chinese luck ball (okay, so you tell me what they are called - but that whole one ball inside another ball thing, carved out of one piece). Part of a beautiful set from Mary-Lou, who shares my loves of all things Peter Wimsey (a reference involving chess-sets, presents, searingly romantic love, and a life that will never be mine). And I have to say that they do seem to be bringing me luck on this particular knit. For so far, nothing has gone wrong. I have not pulled the stitches off the needles. I have not screwed up the pattern. I have not switched needle size mid-knit. And I have not run out of yarn. Perhaps all that was missing in my life was the right stitch marker.....


Finally, I'm glad you enjoyed my tale of farting shoes (go on, say it, it's fun), and be assured that there are always days when farting shoes are not only desirable but necessary. Farting shoe days are the kinds of days the see me ending up with one third of a sawn up bath panel sitting in my hall way. The days that see me begging a friend to stick back a bit of the roof with duck tape are farting shoe days. And when the cats sleep on just the left side of my back, causing great, uneven pain - yes, a farting shoe day.

ps - For those who asked, Kim being the latest, the Wedding Ring Shawl is still alive. Just in long term hiatus. It sits besides its cone, on my desk, reminding me daily that it is still there (perhaps this is why I have been avoiding my desk). And it will get done. But I'm happy for the shawl to wait, because that kind of knit should be done with a joy and a lightness in the heart. And any decisions to be made about the fellowship of the ring shawl blog can wait indefinitely, too. Because the wonderful Snow, my fellow fellowship of the ring shawl knitter, has been having such a grim time of it over the past few months. And it is far more important for Snow to find her joy and lightness again.

which shoes ....

get me more strange looks, and occasional interesting comments in public?

Why yes, of course, the pair of I'm not really a nearly 40 year old lime green Converse.

So, the background is, well, you all know how you have a pair of shoes, boots, whatever, which are your comfortable, and not completely shabby, going out for the day shoes. Shoes which have held up well, coped with all the perils of daily shoely life, survived deep puddles, grey snow, dog mess, broken pavements, and bubble gum. Shoes which have even survived the one cat's need to remove shoes to a place of privacy, so she can inhale long and deep on the aroma that comes from well-loved shoes. (This cat eats raw potato peelings, so the fact that she wants to stick her head in a trainer should come as no great shock.) But the shoes, they are coming to an end. Still comfortable for an hour or two, but just one day at a yarn show drops a hint that you might just need to wear something else. (The yarn show was in London, and only one pair of shoes, valuable suitcase space, yadda, yadda.) And when your delightful hosts suggest taking you out (actually out, where someone else does the cooking, and the cleaning, and brings you nice things like wine, and keeps filling your glass up, that kind of out), and you ask how far the eating-out place is, and if you can go on your hands and knees, because, well, your feet are threatening all kinds of civil law suits, you know it is time to find some new shoes.

So, the next day, you crawl to the nearest shoe store, full of fancy London types (I'm down from the sticks, you must remember), all looking young, and trendy, with hair and make-up and perfume and fashion and dinky little bags and feet of iron, you realise this isn't a place that is going to sell 'sensible' shoes. And then you remember those All Stars from your youth, how all the trendy girls at your school had them, and how mum was just the absolute meanest, meanest, why didn't she understand, she just didn't care that you had spent all your pocket money on Adam Ant records and posters, and she just wants everyone to laugh at you 'cos your shoes are wrong, and she doesn't care, and if you don't have a pair of Converse right, right now you will just absolutely, completely die. And then that little mist comes down, accompanied by the realisation that there is a credit card in your bag, you do need a pair of new shoes, and they do look as if they would be comfortable, and no-one can say nay.

So you come out with a natty pair of lime green Converse. Which go so incredibly well with your hand-knit socks. And you bounce. You really, really do bounce. (You also tend to go a bit pigeon-toed, because not only are they flat, they are completely and utterly flat, without useful things like arch support. Don't believe me - check out that bouncy, knock-kneed walk that identifies a Converse wearer.) You start getting all yea, whateva, and you even bounce through puddles. (Point to remember - Converse uppers are fabric, and not entirely waterproof, and nor are the helpful little eyelet breathing holes.) And they are great. You have hours of fun, playing with the laces, and bouncing. And they become your new, favourite shoes. Because you didn't just have a birthday which took you really quite dangerously close to 40. Because you are young, not just young at heart. And you go on bouncing. And you go on bouncing with the handknit socks. And you start wearing them all day. And then you bounce home from an evening with friends, when you sat on the floor and ate cheap plastic sponge fingers and drank whiskey and beer and wine, and teased the cats with catnip, and you hear this strange, and strangely regular sound. A little pfthpftht, pfthpftht, pfthpftht, pfthpftht. Which is quite loud. And other people look at you. So you trying skipping, but the pfthpftht, pfthpftht is still there, accompanying the beat as you skip-bounce down the road.

And the next time you wear you new favourite lime green Converse with hand knit socks all day, the same sound is there. And this time you are with knitters. And they laugh at you. And point, and wonder if you had macho beans for dinner. 'Cos the miraculous thing about hand knit wool socks (apart from the miracle that is the heel), is the miraculous thing about wool. How it can absorb water, and still feel warm. How it can absorb water, and not feel wet. And how, at the end of a long day, when you feet just might have felt a little bit toasty warm, and there might also have been a puddle or two, and so your socks might just be a little damp, that that warm, slightly wet wool on the heel rubs up against the back of the nice rubber cradle on the shoe, and with each step you take, your shoes fart.

And of the other shoes - well. What I want to know is, is why women are expected to look all fancy at weddings and such like events, when it is more than likely that this means wearing your fanciest shoes (and yes, The Manolo, he knows how to make a shoe, and I love those shoes with a passion, which is why they only come out for special occasions, and you at the back can behave yourself, because I have, as you very well know, a deeply boring life), and the hosts will always insist on making you walk, stand, manipulate a plate and glass at the same time, expect you to both eat and drink, make interesting and polite conversation with strangers, and try and look vaguely elegant (or at least in ironed and/or matching clothes) on grass. Without sinking. Or spending hours picking off bits of rabbit droppings that have been speared by a very expensive, and very pointy heel.

And finally, the knitting. Which shall not be mentioned, bedeviled as it is by yet more lying ball bands, who declare to be of the same dye lot, yet clearly aren't, because someone must have played shuffle in the yarn store. Which is seen only when the front and the back are just about the be grafted together. So I'm off to post some growth stunting pills to my godson, because I am determined that one day, this jumper shall be finished, and he had better not have grown to big for it.

big head,

big head, I've a big head,
my head it is enormous, and is large to look upon.
Jenla, Jenla, they gave me a big head,
now I've got a big head, and the pressure is on.
Big head, big head, I've a big head,
'cos Jenla think I'm funny, and I've got to carry on.
Big head, big head, I've a big head,
now I need to knit more hats, so they fit my giant head.

Those darling, wonderful knottygirls gave me an 'award', in their annual, completely objective, handing out bouquets (and brickbats) session. Go, check it out, find new and interesting and wonderful bloggers (and don't forget to present Jenla with an invoice, for suggesting yet more ways to spend your time not working).

But I'm wondering if I should be miffed, 'cos apparently my deeply heartfelt and completely serious words have been taken awry. Don't they know I live my life as one of mature, reasoned, restrained, utterly rational, tasteful and graceful navel-contemplation.

Ladies, I am honoured. May you not live your 2007 in interesting times.

merry, merry, happy, happy

'Tis hoovered, 'tis swept, 'tis dusted, 'tis cleaned (well, only the bits you can see, let us not be over-ambitious). The supermarkets have shut, there is no more shopping to be done. The loaves are baked, filling the house with spelt flour goodness at 2am, and only one ancient loaf tin has died, because I didn't grease it (I know I have more, newer, somewhere, but somewhere is somewhere, and not here). The drinks are stocked, the fridge is full. I am (nearly) booted and suited, all ready to go out and start the actual festivites, having lain in a lowly bath while listening to angelic (ha! I've known a few choir boys in my time) choir boys start the King's College Nine Lessons and Carols.

The tree went up, and came down - cats, shiny glittery things, and climbing opportunities, predictable, of course. The presents are wrapped, with only one little thing left to make (why yes, it does involve yarn). And not even nemesis mouse is around, to stir through the house, on the night before Christmas.

And now, I must go and lie down on the kitchen floor. Because I think I dropped an apple yesterday, and I think it rolled under the washing machine (the kickboards are up, because the cats are convinced something ghastly lives under there - dust balls, mainly - and it is somehow easier to let them roam, than listen to the nightly yowls), but I'm not entirely sure, 'cos I might be imagining it, but then again it could have rolled back and behind and round the corner, and out of reach to rot delicately over the coming weeks. And I shall start my Christmas having quiet hysterics, again, as the world turns on.

To all friends, old and new, real and virtual, to those who do, and those who don't, happy, happy, merry, merry.

please, is *it* over yet?

Yes, yes, so I may in fact have got the 'puter back a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't really been meaning to be so deeply neglectful in my blog feeding. Just that, you know, it is one of those times of year, when everything builds up, and there is too much to do, and then on top of that people keep expecting you to go out and be social. Like buying the evil fake xmas tree for the xmas party wasn't enough (the buying of which involved 2 trips to the same shop, and because the first trip went so horribly, tormentingly wrong, and somehow I managed to emerge bereft of fake tree, but carrying smoke alarms, unbelievably cheap and nasty acrylic yarn, and glitter glue, which is now all over the patio, after 3 hours wandering lost, feeling just a little like a hamster finally released from a laboratory maze, after having defiantly failed to press the red button in order to get the treat, which meant that the second trip saw me being accompanied, for my own good, apparently, by someone who would probably have preferred to have put me in some kind of child's training harness, but instead decided to resort, despite repeated threats of violence involving tinsel sprinkles and wrapping paper, to chanting 'spit, spot' at me). Because then I'm expected to go and decorate it, and the tables, and serve the food, make tea and coffee for 30 rapacious women, and stop our dearly beloved but somewhat exasperating president demand the continued participation of members - average age 79 - in the game of musical statues to a rousing chorus of 'Here we go round the Looby Loo' (for the third time that evening).

But at least I have missed the last post for xmas cards, so I can now throw that annual guiltfest out the window, and resort to the whole hand-delivered only thing (and don't you dare mention that they haven't been written yet, that isn't fair - because the most important card has gone, which is, of course, the one for that delight of a chap who delivers my morning newspaper, regardless).

And of course no xmas knitting will have been done in time, but seeing as intended knitting giftees live on in blind ignorance, it doesn't matter one jot, and I get to work on MY shawl, for MY present to ME.

Oh, and another reason for not feeding the blog - although the computer no longer sounds like a didgeridoo (which I sort of miss), some of the software has gone walkabouts, and until a certain person (who might earlier have been beaten with a swathe of xmas themed tissue paper, for quoting Mary Poppins in inappropriate locations - and when was the last time you read Mary Poppins? One scary lady, scarier even that Dick van Dyke's cockernee accent - finds the disk they borrowed, and photo software is reinstalled, there will be no pictures. Which is a little sad, because that means no pictures of the beauteous and righteous stitch markers that Mary-Lou sent me.

But there has been some action here, when I was still computer-less. The main delight of which is a story involving a bath, tiny, tiny little screws, back spasms, and mass destruction in the house with garden saws. A story to be told another day, when you are all good and quiet little children.

Oh yes, I promised tales of mice and other things. I am sad to say that nemesis mouse has met his end. Because he pushed his luck just once too much, was caught again, lost again, caught again, lost again, formally identified as nemesis mouse - same cocky tilt to his snout, and a butter wouldn't melt twitch to his tale - and I was prepared to give him a third chance. But this time, he chose to hide in a bag of roving (because yes, I am still trying to learn to spin), and that was a step too far. Mice widdling up the curtains I can take (just), but when he sets up shop in hand-dyed roving gifts from the glorious Woolly Wormhead, well, something snaps. And a quick dispatch with the back of a shovel is the result. Warning notices have been posted by the back door, at mice-height.

But, enough. And the sofa and spiffy clean, just been washed, and that evil bastardly washing machine went and slightly felted it, crochet blanket are calling.

incommunado

and I had all these tales of nemesis mice, farting shoes, roving, channelling teenagedomhood, and knitting that just won't do what it is told.

Instead, my poor little 'puter is on borrowed time, is feeling very poorly, and needs to go away to have its hard drive seen to. Because hard drives aren't meant to sound like a didgeridoo, no matter how sweet they sound. And waving the laptop around, to make didgeridoo tunes, isn't a good thing.

See you soon.