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.

please, is it Friday yet?

Because this is the third day since Monday that I have been absolutely convinced that it is Friday, and I just can't be wrong three times, not when I have already spread my everlasting stupidity over a period of weeks.

Evidence of said inane mental babbling? Look no further than eternal gansey. (More examples of general must not be let out in the world alone - I have just not only missed my mouth with the coffee, but in putting the coffee cup down, I watched as in delicate, graceful slow motion an arc of black nectar landing on the keyboard. A tragedy because we are awaiting the next coffee delivery, and are on short rations until I get to mug our rather nice looking parcel delivery man - who has sweet little sideburns, and a dashing ponytail - which saw me close to just using my tongue as a mouth. Enough. Just be thankful that for reasons unknown I hoard keyboards.)

The eternal gansey, which has travelled and been petted by many, seemed to really be pushing at the boundaries of infinity. And the reason? One which you have no doubt already answered. 'Cos yes, as I gave up on the dangerous to myself and all others within a 5 metre radius long and pointy steel dpns, I managed to move down a needle size. And there was I thinking that the gansey was just doing weird things after the ribbing (yeah, 'cos knitting always pulls in after ribbing, and when you increase the overall stitch count). And who would have thought that there would be such a difference between 2.5mm and 2.25mm needles. And I would tell you how far off my tension is from the suggested, but I also appear to have misplaced the pattern. Yippee. But seriously, it was small already, and I'm now working at about 40 x 48, when 30 x 40 would have been fine. Ah, it will fit someone. Even if I have to perform surgery (on them, of course), it will fit someone.

And the worst of it - even though I checked all the ball bands, and checked the dye lots, they were lying to me. Because there is the most distinct colour shift. Look.


But at least it is accompanied by an almost complete sock.

And in other news - I bring you the Mouse Count. Mice caught: many. Mice caught and lost in the house: four. Mice caught and lost in the house and caught again: three. Mice presumed missing in action: one, which has got to be somewhere, and according the to cats is either up the chimney, or under the oven. Mice caught, lost in the house, caught again, lost again: one. And that one mouse, caught, lost, caught and victoriously lost again? That mouse which beat the system? It is the mouse which climbed the bedroom curtains, which caused kitten to spend all day, and all night sitting by the curtains, purring at the curtains, attacking the curtains, and climbing the curtains. It is the mouse, which caused me, at 2.30 am, to try and prove to kitten that there was no mouse in the curtain, by unhooking the full 8 foot curtain, shaking it out, pushing the kitten under the lining, and rehanging it. And then at 3.30 am, taking the kitten, holding it under one arm while crawling up the lining again (remember, curtain had been rehung by now), screaming and dropping the kitten as mouse was seen, frantically unhooking the curtain, again, bundling it up, taking it outside, going back in to collect kitten, chasing up other cat reinforcements, turning curtain inside out, finding mouse, showing cats where mouse is, preventing cats from killing mouse while on curtains (blood and pale green silk blends not a good mix), showing cats again where mouse is, preventing cats from taking mouse back inside (this is one smart mouse, the cats are not showing any great evidence of intelligent mouse catching), and then finally watching as mouse escapes. And I am sure that mouse gave a jaunty salute as he disappeared under the fence. Kitten has returned to just leaving half-eaten worms in my bed. Mouse is laughing at us all.

so I went to Ally Pally too,

and all I got was this, and this, and this, and this, and some other things as well.... and I may have also fitted in a trip to the elegant and helpful Stash Yarns too. (And this is long and rambling, but if I don't show the haul, I know I will be mugged by some people. You know who you are.)

So first there is the sock yarn. And this year the theme is breadth - in a campaign to trial as many sock yarns as possibly, all different (and let us not mention that some may already reside in the sock yarn box, for they are in different colour ways, and yea, that does not count). From left to right, bottom to top, with names and all (because some people will insist), Koigu KPM, no.2, Lorna's Laces in Douglas Fir, Cherry Tree Hill in Water, Hipknits (cos it is cashmere, and after day 1 at Ally Pally, my feet were threatening a coup), Trekking XXL, no.66, and finally Fleece Artist, in the colourway without a name.

And then there was the must get things for lace and such like, and isn't some gift-giving season approaching, and of course I can knit up this much between now and then, and finish everything else too.
Lounging across the bottom, Cherry Tree Hill's Cascade Fingering, in Spring Frost. A pretty pastel 2200 yards (just about 2000 metres) laceweight, again from Hipknits, and again because it is cashmere - which I am strongly thinking should just be made into a portable pillow, permanently attached to my head, so any time I am out and about, and maybe feeling just a little stressed, I can just pet it and pet it and love it and pet it, and rest my weary head on it, and then everything bad will go away. And finally some more Fleece Artist, this time Handmaiden's Sea Silk, in Vintage, with a matching skein of silk Rumple. I see scarves in my future.

But then, I made the mistake of being a sheep, and visited Piiku, because Ruth said so, to get some grey roving and some undyed carded fleece. And because I will not be beaten by a spindle.
And I compounded the sheepishness, by following Yvonne to Catalina and their shawl pins, and then to Taj and their Wagtail mohair (which is so soft it would make anyone wag their tail).

You think this is enough, don't you. But I found the Habu stall. At which point a hazy mist comes down, and I come over all wonderment at what the Japanese spinners can do with cotton and silk and bamboo and wool and copper. And I have to have it, all.
(When even serious stashers were impressed by my Habu haul, do you think I should be worrying? And please don't ask what I am going to do with this, because I think it is rude to ask people questions when you know they don't know the answers.)

And yes, there were some other bits and pieces, including knitting needles, because I am stupid enough to go to a show, in order to buy yarn, in order to facilitate yet more playing with yarn, and then remember that in an effort to pack light (more room for yarn, you see), I had decided to leave all needles at home. Well, faced with a week away from home, brand new and interesting and gorgeous yarn, and no needles, what would you do?

There was much to do, and much to see. There was helping out on the Relax and Knit stand (where I did try to be helpful, really I did), and the strange refusal of a ball of Possum yarn from Yvonne, who is truly a goddess of all things good and fibre-y (I have no idea what happened, I think I had just shut down by then). There was the meeting of many, many people. And the meeting of many, many bloggers. (What is the collective noun for bloggers, by the way? And is there a separate noun for that strange sub-group, knit-bloggers?). I finally met Mary-Lou, and have solved the mystery as to why I knew I liked her (well, I like her for other reasons, but she knows what I mean), bought some of her stitch markers - which arrived home before I did, and in considerably better shape - and generally discussed all matters of the world with her. I finally met the absolutely irrepressible WyeSue, who should have been a gibbering wreck, after all the shows she has been at recently. But she wasn't, and I don't think she ever is, and I think under her direction short people should rule the world (cos I'm short too, and we rock).

I met Jan who is extraordinarily generous, and a wicked hat fighter, and another Sue, who sat there all composed and helpful, despite sacrificing some of her crochet hooks to Relax and Knit beginners, and despite being tormented by a certain yarn manufacturer's fashion show. And there was Fred, who would come and tell us we were all knitting too slowly, seeing as he was supervising the Speed Knitters. (And I saw the fastest knitter, who works continental and on circulars, though on straights for the trials, and it just shouldn't be possible.) And I know there were many others, and at this point I would just like to remind you that I am useless at being organised to keep a track of names and faces (and I would refer you to those who are far more together), in the presence of so much fibre, so many knitters, and so, so many people with inexhaustable supplies of good humour. It may not be considered the coolest pasttime, to play with fibre, but it surely makes those who do deeply happy.

Finally, my heartfelt thanks to Ruth, who took me in, got her angel partner Tom (a handsome angel too) to rescue us from the train station, fed me pizza and wine and coffee (real coffee, proper, real, thick, strong coffee), let me play with her cats, let me sleep on her sofa, let me talk fibre until far too late in the night (she talked, and I listened - she knows what she is talking about, I am just very, very good at the bs), showed me her cat and dog hair blanket, but wouldn't let me steal her Hitchhiker, and all while all she wanted to do was play and experiment and design new and beautiful hats.

And now I have to go and finish with the laundry.

aarrrgggghhhhh

*It* has arrived. My nemesis, my humbler. The mechanical, electrical thing that both reduces me to a quivering, jibbering wreck, and yet enables the spending of vast amounts of money. Oh, yes, even though it actually arrived last month, it has taken until these last few days to get it out, and play. And then realise there are only so many old sheets that one can play on, which means a trip to a local haberdashery, which means causing chaos as everyone in the department has to help me (can I have 5 metres of 10 different ribbons, and no I have absolutely no idea what I need 50 metres of assorted ribbon for), and answer my really, really stupid questions (including which scissors to buy), and then cause further chaos and much seething, and reducing small children to tears, as I hold up the queue at the checkout (not my fault the store wouldn't open another checkout, and the small child started crying because small children sometimes do for completely unfathomable reasons, and I did apologise...)

And I even drafted in reinforcements to show me how to work the thing (many, many thinks Piglet), and try and convince me that the thing is not evil (though it tried to bite me when I was tenderly following the instructions and cleaning out the lint), which I'm not entirely sure of yet. And so what is my first sewing chore, with all that fabric, and ribbon, and needles and thread and scissors and bobbins and yes even velcro and zips? Why, taking up 3 pairs of trousers. Things which are easier done with that clever, clever iron on bonding tape. Something has gone wrong in the state of machinery.

But there has still been some knitting - and, as usual, not of all the things I should be doing, but of something completely new. But you see, I needed a present, to take to my Aunt, who would be putting me up in London, so I could go to the Knitting and Stitching Show (where Ruth has promised to look after me, so I'm sure I'll be safe, unless someone waves a BFL fleece at her from across the way!) So a quick moebius scarf, in Lion and Lamb, with a picot cast-off edging which actually worked. And though I know alcohol is a traditional and much appreciated house-guest gift, surely a luxurious, one-off, made of silk and wool, keep you warm and chic in London scarf will be just as appreciated. (But I'll get her a bottle of something anyway, because she is a good Aunt.)

And later, if you are really good, I have a story of mice and cats, curtains, and 4am trips to the garden to tell.

in motion

Strangely, for me, this past week has been one of great motion. Of exciting tales and derring-do - well, actually more just of leaving the house and being sociable - of sights and sounds and travelling knitting. So a very quick catch up, not for you, but for me, and my dodgy memory, now that I am 38 (which is a very good time to read A.A. Milne again, I think).

There has been knitting in public, working in the sun, working on a jumper promised to a 3 year-old boy (which he might just get by the age of 4, mea culpa). So a trip to the local park on Sunday last, to eat and drink, and knit sitting on the grass, while watching local bands play in our local Mela. And then, what with the houseguests of the two-legged kind, who are good, and bring bottles of single malt, and clean up after themselves, and the houseguests of the four-legged kind, who I really could do without, thank you so much cats, and if you think you are getting fed after setting a live mouse loose in my bed while I'm trying to get to sleep you can think again, you would think there had been enough to do.

But no - for other knitting went travelling, when a friend who works at the local history section of the library borrowed the gansey in (eternal) progress for a talk she was giving on the history and symbolism of ganseys. So not only did my knitting get petted and patted (and returned with mighty swollen head), but I can get to find out what all those combinations of knit and purl stitches mean.

And then, and then, just to add that always needed touch of WTFness, I went to hear a Theremin played. By Pamelia Kurstin, who is an absolutely delightful member of the screw, nut and bolt loose club. And I swear she escaped from the Sesame Street cupboard. And I never in my life thought I could say I went to a Theremin concert in Hull.

Andthenandthenandthen, my brand-new-birthday-present-to-myself sewing machine arrived. A thing, which I had been given last year, or 10 years ago, or even 30 years ago, I would have jumped up and down on in horror and disgust and childish tantrum how could you how could you I hate it I hate it mode. A thing which I actually decided I wanted (I think), a thing which is sitting there, still, virgin of thread, because I am ever so slightly scared of it. But soon, when I am feeling brave, there may be tales to be told of running stitch and 4 kinds of buttonholes and zig-zagging and scallopping and, and, and.

Andthenandthenandthenand finally. I fixed the toilet. I fixed the toilet by removing the tiny, tiny piece of brick from the washer that sits in the inlet valve (don't ask me how it got there, I really don't want to know why bits of brick are floating through my pipes). Not by replacing the whole unit, or indulging in any kind of major re-plumbing, or cutting and soldering of copper pipes, or having to call in an emergency plumber. Or following any of the really really not useful advice from the man at the DIY store. Admittedly, I have left the toilet with a slightly different quirk in the flush, but at least it no longer dribbles all night long.

Because I am feeling all-conquering and perky, and these hands can do anything, apart from maybe finish something. (Oh, and thank you, the socks that rock have become gravel, and are now sitting meekly, until I can work out how to re-work them.)

j'accuse...

... myself, of being an idiot. Because I know, now, just about what number of stitches I need on a sock for me. And I know how many to decrease down to on a short row heel. But more than that, I also know how easily seduced I am by pretty colours, and when something yarny gets compliments from knitters and non-knitters alike, and when that something yarny gets told how very, very lovely it looks and feels, I should know now that it is time to listen to the inner claxon.

Socks that Rock is gorgeous stuff - I may have mentioned this before, just once or twice - and I am eternally grateful to Snow for giving me the heads up about joining the Socks that Rock club. And the most recent skein I received, in Peaseblossom, is a stunner. And their suggested sock pattern looks as if should work. Well, look at the photo - don't you think those soft pastels really marry well with Barbara G. Walker's 'subtle mesh'?

(the colours are just about true on my monitor, maybe a fraction warmer in real life)

And I love that Socks that Rock have really been pushing different patterns, and pushing you to experiment with techniques (the Socks that Rock club blog tells all).

But I knew, as I cast on, and I knew, as I read the pattern, and I knew, as I came to the heel, and I knew, as I went along the sole, that they just weren't going to work for me. 'Cos the pattern is lovely, but gives no opportunity for ankle definition (not that I am that vain, but if your legs are short, and somewhat stout, but you know that you did once have an ankle, you do quite want to give the ankle an opportunity to still be seen). And I love a short-row heel, but I know I need to decrease down to 8 (or maybe 10) stitches, and stopping at 12 leaves funny little heel ears. And thought I may have big broad peasant feet, they are still comparatively small, and 70 stitches round is just too many, too many, too many. So the sole is all baggy and wrinkly. Look, photographic evidence!


So, guys, what should I do? Persevere, and give them away to someone else? (And if any of you say yes, I may just have to come round and do something nasty to your stash.) Rip back, redo the heel, and reduce the stitch count on the sole? (But that means I am still left with the no-ankle problem.) Rip completely, start again, having rejigged the pattern? (Am I up to the jiggling?) Or rip completely, make some little wrist warmers using the 'subtle mesh' pattern, because it is so very, very beautiful, to be worn when it starts getting chilly (unlike those of certain teenagers) and then make a pair of simple little toe-up footies with the remaining yarn?

Decisions, decisions, most of which involve the delaying of actually finishing the dratted things.

Oh, and thank you for all the offers of help with sewing. I will, no doubt, be demanding further advice from you all. Because I think I am this close to buying my very own sewing machine. Something which would have my old sewing teacher from back in primary school rolling in her grave...

coffee knitters unite

Because I have a cunning plan. So cunning, that it could very easily go stunningly wrong. Because it is a plan that involves ... sewing.

Now, for some background. A while ago, I got the very lovely Ruth Woolly Wormhead to make me some hats, for a friend and her brand new daughter. And one of the joys of working with Ruth, is that she spun me up a couple of yarns to choose from. So I chose one, and the other skein went back into Ruth's stash. Only to recently reappear, looking for a new home. And so, the sumptuous Silky Flame became mine (though I have had to grovel to Piglottie for having stolen her yarn, but hey, all is fair in love and yarn purchases.)

And I looked at the skein - it looked back. I took out some needles, and started to knit, and the yarn started growling, every so slightly, not being entirely convinced that I knew what I was doing. So aripping we did go. And out came the crochet hooks (bag, I thought, it wants to be a bag). And the yarn sighed, a deep, tortured, resigned sigh, carrying with it an unfailing sense of 'you've missed the point there, kiddo'. Yes, it did like the idea of being a bag, but the design was wrong. The crochet was wrong, the shape, the altogether drape was wrong.

So I thought some more. I though about my friend - and my poor descriptions of her to Ruth - who had inspired the yarn. I thought about all the times my friend and I sat and drank coffee together (and may have put the world to rights at the time), and how my friend had spent years living in India. And I had a cup of coffee. And then, I thought, coffee bags. Wouldn't a bag made out of a coffee sack, one that had travelled the world, survived tempestuous seas, heat and rain and cold, being stuffed into a shipping container, survived being dragged out and carried and emptied, to be thrown aside, bereft once its purpose had been fulfilled, well wouldn't a bag made out of a used coffee sack be a good thing. So I called my coffee supplier (doesn't everyone have a coffee supplier), and the star that he is, he found me three beautiful bags, which smell of far-off places, and seas, and coffee.


And the yarn, it unwrapped itself, and drapped, and declared that this could, indeed, be good.

But you see, here is where it can all so easily go wrong. Because to make the coffee bag, I am going to have to:

cut the bag, preferably using straight lines,
and;
sew the bag, preferably using straight lines.

And this means sewing. (Well, it also means cutting, and I've never been very good at that either, but the sewing is worse.) Which means finding a sewing machine. And remembering how to use a sewing machine. And how not to injure oneself using a sewing machine. And how not to destroy things using a sewing machine. And how not to destroy a sewing machine.

But, don't you think it could work, a bag, which came all the way from India, sitting side by side with yarn inspired by India, spun with delicate strands of recycled sari silk. A simple, homestyle (yes, and lined too, we want this thing to last), delicious smelling bag, banded round the top with knitted loop stitch silky flame. Wish me luck, folks - but don't hold your breathe, cos it could take me some time.

Oh, if anyone wants, I can try and write up the pattern for the ribbon twist socks. Which you can have, if you promise to throw a bit of money a charity box. And if you promsie not to shout at me, because I can't write a pattern. Just email me (address in, guess where, the sidebar).

red ribbon twist socks

Yet more finished knit things. And these, although they aren't posed well, I am inordinately proud of. For these are my very own, I made them up all by myself, Red Ribbon Twist Socks. Made for a very dear person, and given to her, on the day of her retirement, while still slightly damp (look, I made the deadline). And with a red twisted ribbon, because in the 5 or so years I have known her, I have never seen her without her AIDS ribbon.

Red Ribbon Twist Socks:

In Cherry Tree Hill supersock, in the Wild Cherry colourway. (Which is shades of RED, because unless things are for a small child, I do not knit pink, no matter what anyone might say, and these are not in shades of pink. So there, you know who you are, you pink-sayers.)

Toe-up socks, using the Turkish Cast-On (what is the T C-O? You can do no better than check out Fluffy Knitter Deb's tutorial on this, and then virtually stroke her P-man while you are at it.)

With short row heels, ribbon twist (left over right 2 stitch crossed cable, and matching right over left, yes, I actually put some thought into it) clocks on the instep, and the really, really clever bit, is a travelling ribbon twist from the heel up - so it starts at the centre back, and travels over and up to meet the clocks on the instep, ideally, if I've got it right, just above the ankle bone. Finished with some 2 by 2 rib, and then kitchenered cast-off.

Started on 2.25mm, then switched up to 2.5mm for the last couple of inches, for that calf ease.

Invaluable, once again, was Priscilla Gibson-Roberts's 'Simple Socks', for the short row heels, while Fiona Ellis's 'Inspired Cable Knits' talked me through travelling cables.

So why no better pictures? Because the rightful owner and inspirer of these socks has long, but crazily narrow feet, so no way could anyone else model them, and I couldn't really ask her to whip off her shoes, on a hot summer day, and pose.

What else, what else. Well, the Cherry Tree Hill is lovely to work with, held up to being reknit post heel many, many times (yes, I took notes on the first sock, and obviously my notes made absolutely no sense when it came to knitting the second sock) and softens up beautifully. But, even though CTH may say their supersock is machine washable, cold water, I wouldn't trust them not to still give off dye, because the water coloured RED (not pink), muchly, in the hand-washing.

And I will knit these socks again - because the other clever thing, if you want them for wider feet (or shorter, or any combination), all you need to do is increase the number of stitches in the plain old stockinette bits. Because the pattern bits stay the same. Woo-hoo. And they were quick, and cute, and work well in variegated, because they aren't overly-complex, and even look good inside out. So yay, I'm feeling clever. (Boast, boast.)

There is also plenty of other knitterly action going on - the large and now in the boring stage gansey (miles and miles of stockinette) is growing, and has found an owner, a wonderful woman who runs a volunteer programme managing gardens (including vegetables) in an inner city area, and needs something warm for winter. A winter sweater has been started for my godson, and the yarn bought for his warmer weather next year sweater. Socks are being made, for me, in Socks that Rock, in the most eatable colours (seriously soft yummy Midsummer Night's Dream inspired pastels, go STR club). Which also means that I have things to photograph in the future.

And the biggest news, there has been small, but significant progress on the WRS. In that it has been picked up again, and knit again. And the FotRS is not defunct. though it may be moving through treacle for a while. (But if you want real WRS progress, check out the other members of the WRS ring - look in the side-bar, you know what to do.)

Enough witter - back soon.