Oh Dear

I had such plans for the Knitting and Crochet Blog Week and then, WHAM!
Work smacked me upside the head so hard that by the time I remembered to blog, it was three weeks after the event.

Oh dear.

No use crying over spilt milk, though. What's done is done, and can't be undone, as someone's granny used to say.

It's probably a sad indication of my work/life balance that the funny things and observations I used to blog about here don't get recorded anymore, not even on Twitter. I don't know if that's because they don't happen to me anymore, or because I'm just rushing around with my head down so much that I don't notice them.

William Henry Davies knew what he was talking about, though:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

That's what I feel life has become increasingly like over the last few years. No time to stand, no time to stare, no time to breathe, no time to just be, even.

So, a little late perhaps, but here's my New Year's Resolution.

I resolve that I will take time out of what I know will be a busy year and stand and stare, to breathe, to be and I invite you to join me.

Frozen Moments

I saw the local news last night for the first time in several days. The main story was about further arrests for the murder last week of a young man in the town I used to live and work in. With a sickening lurch I realised I knew the young man in question. Although I had not taught him, I had fond memories of teaching his older sister.

Although all the details are not yet in the public domain, there is suspicion that the murder is drug-related. My heart is aching for his family. When I was teaching there, everyone in the school knew this child, but whatever choices may have been made in his life (and I read his Facebook page tonight so I am under no illusion) no family deserves this. As I go to bed tonight, I am accompanied by memories of a 7 year old with attitude, frozen in time and I realise that this is the fate of primary school teachers; frozen moments. Life for these children moves on in all its splendid, turbulent, gory, glorious detail as they hurtle hopefully into adulthood and yet to us, they remain locked in that time, that 39 week window that we knew and taught them in. RIP.

Freaky?

If you want a sign of how freaky the weather conditions are at the moment, look no further than this tomato, which contains seeds that have started to germinate inside the tomato...,

4KCBWDAY3: Infographics

Knitting and Crochet Blog Week 2013 Day 3: Infographics.  Errr....

Infographics sounds like a made up word to me, but I've decided that many words in these tech-savvy  social media days sound made up to me. Ho hum.

Anyway, today's task is to include an infographic into the blogpost - a way to combine both text and graphics to convey information to the reader. Well, with a brief like that I should revert back to my science and engineering background to present some well-researched and peer-reviewed data about the state of my knitting.

Yeah, right.

Instead, you have this purely anecdotal piece of bad science, as observed by my husband as I approach a work-related deadline.

Procrastination of work tasksWelcome to Pro! | Create infographics

An Interesting Week

A and I have just come back from a week in Devon, staying at the delightful Honeysuckle Hideaway just outside Cullompton. It took us 5 years, but we got back finally (ok, that's a small fib because I took my parents there for a couple of days last summer, but we stayed in Rose Retreat, the larger cottage). It was lovely to be there again, looking at the sheep, although the weather was pretty lousy - cold, windy and a fair bit of rain. However, never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be sharing my holiday with Margaret Thatcher. At times it seemed like we talked of nothing else.

To give a little background, A and I have differing political views. I'm a wishy-washy liberal, with splinters in my bum and a crick in my neck (too much sitting on the fence and seeing things from both sides) that generally feels a country with a welfare service and the NHS is A Good Thing. The joke about A, on the other hand, was that if you cut him in half, ToryBoy was written through him like a stick of Blackpool Rock. I believe in social housing and community; he believes in capitalism. However we are both clearly Thatcher's children - we were 9 when she came to power, 20 when she was forced to resign. Love her or loathe her, you couldn't ignore the way she influenced our political views as we grew up. I am not a fan of many of her policies and her treatment of some northern cities in the 80s was nothing short of appalling (remember, I've lived in the North West now longer than I ever lived in Oxfordshire), but I find myself at the end of this week feeling very uncomfortable about some of the things that have been said and the way some people have behaved.

Thatcher was a divisive politician, of that there is no doubt, and although there were moments of financial strain in our working class household as I grew up, our lives weren't turned upside down like those of mining communities up and down the country. However some elements of the British public seem to have decided that the implementation of these, and other, hard line policies give them the right to ignore the fact that she was a person with a family who are left behind. Let me put this into perspective - this week, a frail 87 year old woman, who suffered a number of strokes and quite possibly wasn't aware of much of the outside world any more, died. Whether you supported her policies or thought her the worst thing to happen to Britain ever, she was still someone's mother, someone's granny. Ding, dong the witch is dead?  Really? From where I'm standing, that reaction looks insensitive at best and vituperative at worst.

I can't help wondering what the reaction would have been had we been marking the passing of a former Prime Minister who had introduced exactly the same policies, made the same polarising decisions and won three General Elections but was male, not female. Would the vitriol still be flowing? I don't know the answer to that but there's a tiny little voice that can't be silenced that says "No". And that both saddens and worries me, because looking at the young men (who let's be honest are barely old enough to have been born whilst Thatcher was in Number10) dancing in the streets this week, I wonder how they would cope with a woman in power now.

Hello?

Er.. hello. Hello? Anyone out there?

This poor blog has been very negleted of late. Too much time playing on Twitter, Ravelry, Flickr and the podcast.

Can't get the time back though, so no use wailing about it. I really don't have time for that hair shirt.

So what's happening in my world?

Well, I'm still working at the same place, still playing with yarn, still sharing my life with A and a cat. We have a conservatory now, where I am sitting as I type this (oh the joy of a wireless network) and it's fast becoming my favourite place. Much as I love it in the sun (oh the light!) I think I love it even more in the rain. It's like camping, but about a zillion times more comfortable.

So no promises, but I hope to start blogging a bit more about non-yarny stuff (do I do anything non-yarny? Can't remember) If any of you are still out there, come along for the ride. :)

There's an App for that...

Woolly wedding

Look carefully at this wedding dress -

Yep, it is made from what you think:

She breeds these Lincolnshire Longwool Sheep, and Olivia (above left) provided the locks for the skirt. The happy couple also had lamb they had bred for the wedding breakfast. OK, I'm maybe too much of a townie to go that far, but I am so behind people breeding animals with care and respect. The article is here, and I never cease to be amazed by the range of comments from people, particularly those who can't understand how people can breed animals with love and then eat them. Surely if one eats meat it is better to eat an animal that has been well cared for than one that hasn't?

Headache

Why do I feel that I know some of the children in my class less now than I did this time last year when I was writing their reports?

And there's more...

A has just told me about George Osbourne's taxi fare that he's been ordered to pay back. He had a constituency meeting (I'm guessing in Knutsford, since that's the centre of the Tatton constituency) that finished after the last train to London. Now, I've caught a train at 6 o'clcok before now to be in London and that was not the first train of the day. Is this was George did so he could be in London for his early morning appointment the next day?

No, of course not. He hired a cab. £440. Fab. That's more than many people pay in tax per month. Hell, it's more than some people in his constituency earn in a month.

Sheesh.

B$@@#y Dog food

Many people who know A and I wonder how we got it together. He is affectionately known to some of our friends as Tory Boy. I, however, think of myself as a liberal with a broad socialist streak. A believes in survival of the fittest in a dog eat dog world; I believe all of us have a responsibility to support those members of society who, for whatever genuine reason, are at that moment in time unable to support themselves. We seldom discuss politics because whilst I am prepared to listen to another's point of view even if I don't agree with it, A just sticks his fingers in his ears and sings "La, la, la, I can't hear you."

Over the last little while, however, politics has been discussed in our house and this week has seen me reduced virtually speechless by some politicians' views regarding their expenses.

Last year I could be heard wondering aloud why an MP's second home would need such expensive items as those from the "John Lewis" list. Within the last couple of months I have failed to understand why the Home Secretary was able to claim for any TV, let alone her husband's choice in adult pay-per-view movies. And don't get me started on that bath plug. You can't afford 88p?

This last week, though, has taken the biscuit. As I shuffle around the house trying to deal with the delights of catching up on planning, marking Optional SATs and reviewing the school's assessment details, my contemplative silence is broken by Tourette's style outbursts.

N: Mutter mutter

A: What's that love?

N: Mutter mutter

A: No, still didn't catch what you said.

N: B$@@#y dog food!

I don't CARE that every one of the little slimeballs in our venerable (cough) Government is legally entitled to claim for this ludicrous list of allowances in relation to second homes - the question is are they morally entitled to them? I have no quibble with MPs from regions across the UK needing a residence in London. I do have a quibble with MPs who think this entitles them to claim for housekeepers, moat repairs, lawnmowers and effing dog food. Sorry, but where does this come into the grand scheme of things?

I am a primary teacher and like many, I suspect that I buy things for my classroom or lessons that I would be entitled to claim back, but don't because "it's only a couple of quid". Did the woman with the dog food think that? What about that Jacquie Smith's bath plug?

A works in industry. He visits different customers around the country and could stay away overnight in hotels - but he doesn't. He views pretty much anywhere is the UK as within a reasonable distance to return to Cheshire. "I can get back home", he says, "so I do". He also visits Europe, and again, tries to go out and back in a day rather than clock up hotel bills. When he does stay away, he is expected to stay in mid-price range hotels. He could probably write a thesis on the corporate branding of Holiday Inn or Novotel. He is entitled to claim the mileage from home to the airport, but doesn't because it is less than his usual home to work mileage.

Now don't get me wrong - I don't live with a paragon of virtue by any means. Both of us have had our fair share of works stationary for personal use. We both benefit from the Airmiles A clocks up on our credit card when he pays for his hotels up front. But he does not claim for every single cup of coffee or bottle of water he has when he's away, because he doesn't feel that's appropriate to do so.

So why has it not occurred to some of our MPs that some of the things they have been claiming for are not morally acceptable? Why on earth should any taxpayer have to pay for someone's TV subscription? We voted them into Parliament to represent us, not to watch Sky. They're welcome to keep a dog, but good grief - you want one, you feed it.

But you know the bit that really rankles?

They don't seem to be struggling to find the money to repay any of these five figure sums... which begs the question of why they needed to claim for them in the first place....

Frugality

Of course, the downside of spending the housekeeping on yarn is that one must be somewhat frugal until the next payday - which is over two weeks away. Cauliflower cheese, anyone?

Faces from the past

This week I bumped into someone I went to college with and haven't seen since my Graduation in 1991. I recognised him immediately, but he needed some help to recognise me. The years have been kinder to him than me, I suppose, or I was pretty forgettable, which could also be the case. I did have the advantage of having often wondered if I would bump into him, however; I work in his home town and last I heard from him (mid 1990s) he was still living in the town.

It's funny, I often wondered what we would talk about, and we were predictably boring, sticking to work. I told him I had married A, since we were all at Uni together, but realised afterwards I hadn't asked him about family life at all. I also didn't get any contact details, much to several people's subsequent displeasure, but I'd already detained the poor chap and just didn't get a "vibe", if you know what I mean. I didn't want to foist myself on him, I know I can be pushy and try not to be.

I've spent a lot of time in the last 10 months or so thinking of the past. Last summer marked twenty years since my A levels, leaving school, moving to Liverpool, meeting A (although we didn't get together we were good mates) and my thoughts turned to people that I haven't seen for many a year. There's a faint wistfulness there for the girl I once was, even if I was screwed up. There's so much potential when you set out on that journey, leaving a small town for the big city. Arriving in Liverpool felt like arriving in a different country, not just a different region. My memories are full of colour and noise - Liverpool was (and still is) a very vibrant city. Did I meet that potential? I don't know - am I the best judge of that? I do feel that I missed out on things - that I didn't take full advantage of being in Liverpool. I was so embroiled in a relationship that was ultimately doomed that I didn't go clubbing the way others did, I didn't develop female friends the way I perhaps should have done, but then I look back at school and see that I was friends with more boys than girls, so many that's just me. After all, I'm not much of a "girly" girl, and things that teenage girls were supposed to be interested in left me cold. Make-up? Clothes? Not really. I was much more into music, not chart stuff but searching out what was cool and different (a legacy from an older boyfriend?) and that was viewed far more as a male trait than a female one. Jackie magazine? No, NME and Melody Maker. Cosmo? Sometimes, but I'd rather read Q.

So.. wistfulness? Yes. Regrets? Some. Would I have my time over? You betcha, I loved moving to Liverpool. But would I do anything different? You know what...I think I'd still make the same mistakes.

Enough. Navel-gazing gets you nowhere. Let me leave you with this, a favourite in the early 1990s which rings with even more resonance today.

New Year's Resolutions

A and I don't really do New Year's Resolutions. They always get broken and make you feel downhearted and a failure. However, we have both been seized by an impulse since Christmas to "sort out" the house. It's been like Life Laundry at Plain Tale Towers in the last week and a half. Lots of things have been taken to charity shops or the tip, furniture has been moved, electricians and bathroom fitters have been consulted. The sitting room looks great - very clean lines and loads of space - most stash and all knitting books are now upstairs in bookcases. The office still looks a heap, the contents of the wardrobe are halfway through a cull and therefore on the spare bed and we still have far too many books and other clutter in the back bedroom, but things are moving. I just need to go and tidy the dining table where I've just been working - I am determined to tidy up after myself this year (ooh, that sounded like a resolution, didn't it?)

Whatever you are hoping to achieve this year, I wish you all the best.

Funny sights on the A533

After I took the picture in the last post, I washed the socks to block them - it always looks neater when you give socks to someone if they don't look like a crumpled ball of string. Obviously I needed to get them in the post asap, so you can imagine my delight when I awoke yesterday and found they were till damp because the heating hadn't come on.

I can't imagine what drivers in the other direction must have thought as they saw me driving along, red in the face and hair flying behind me as the heater blasted hot air out onto the socks, which were draped either side of the steering wheel on the indicator and wiper stalks...

Carpe Diem

I love Squeeze. When I was in the Sixth Form it was an almost constant soundtrack to my life (oh, alright then, along with U2, Peter Gabriel, Led Zep, Talking Heads, Frank Zappa and Fleetwood Mac - what can I say? I was going out with P who was four years older than me and introduced me to a really wide range of music). Anyway, P had Singles 45's and Under, the 1982 Squeeze greatest hits album and we did listen to it a lot - on his Denon (oh how I dreamt of the time I would be able to afford a proper record deck - the guy had separates with an amazing amp!), on scratchy taped version in the car, on my Walkman during private study in the Common Room... blah blah blah...

But I wasn't the only one, either. Although I went to a state comprehensive, there was a boarding house for boys, left over from BEFORE it became a state boys grammar (it was founded in 1559, lots of things in our school were "tradition") The younger boys slept in large dorms in the oldest part of the school, above the Sixth Form Centre, whilst fourth years and above (Yr 9 and beyond in today's terms) lived in large houses (formerly and now reverted to private residences) on the edge of the school campus. A good friend, N, had a top floor study bedroom that he shared with K and during the summer of 1987, a whole load of us would go over at lunchtimes and hang out in his room, listening to Squeeze. Not often, but enough to mean I can close my eyes and return there every time I hear Mussels From The Shell. And don't be following any nasty thoughts here - all very innocent. Girls were allowed, N assured us, provide we all left our shoes at the bottom of the stairs. Heaven knows what the housemaster would have made of 10 pairs of assorted desert boots, espadrilles and baseball boots then...

But I'm digressing again.

During 1987, Squeeze released the album Babylon and On - I still love it, although the vinyl is showing its age now. 20 years ago today I went with P to see them at Aylesbury Civic Hall, a brilliant gig.

I think.

I don't remember much about it to be honest.

On the way home, we decided that we didn't fancy finishing the evening just then, but the centre of town was shut due to the Fair. We knew we didn't have enough time to park at his and walk back before last orders, so we decided to bypass the town and go on to a pub in the next village.

Now the turn for Moreton is on a bend on a stretch of road that is notorious. P drove a black Mini 1275 GT, his pride and joy and as he slowed down to turn left, a Ford Cortina came round the bend towards us. He hit the bend too fast and time slowed as the back end swung round, hit the front of the mini at an angle (imagine a line from driver's headlight to gear stick) and then his petrol tank exploded. I had pulled my legs up to assume a kind of crash position and the stereo (neatly placed in the space where the passenger glove box would be) made a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans, and the biggest bruises under my kneecaps that I've ever experienced. I was out of the car and in the ditch before I had really made sense of everything, but I then realised that P was still in the car. I dashed back and got him out - he had been unconscious briefly when his face hit the steering wheel (poor guy looked like a cross between a panda and a tapier for a couple of weeks) but he was able to work with me to get out. The engine came in and lacerated his legs nicely. Since one of the passengers in the other car was injured worse than P we went in an ambulance with the driver of the other car. Nice one. Turned out he'd been drinking - they'd been to a darts match or something.

The Mini didn't end up at this angle, it was only about 45 degrees off the original path, but I guess the Fire Brigade moved it to the side to clear the carriage way.

Friday night in A&E is certainly an eye-opener. I still remember the couple in full rock and roll gear who'd obviously been in a fight - or maybe it was just him, with another Teddy Boy. I couldn't make sense of her screaming much. Another girl from our town came in having slit her wrists, so unsurprisingly, she jumped us in the queue. I finally got someone to see P when he kept asking for a nice cup of tea and then slid elegantly out of his wheelchair, out for the count. I'd never shouted at an adult before that night. Still don't, really, but it felt good for a brief moment.

And, as usual with a Nic story (and this is God's honest truth), there has to be a small moment of ritual humiliation.

When I was finally called in at about 4 o'clock in the morning (P was no longer in A&E), I was asked by the nurse to drop my jeans ready for the examination and told to sit and wait for the doctor. He walked in a few minutes later, looked me up and down and, quick as a wink, asked "And what do you do for an encore?"

Smarta**e.

And if that night taught P and I anything, it was indeed to seize the day. Teaching may occasionally knock the stuffing out of me so I can't practise what I preach, but although my number was obviously not up that night 20 years ago, it taught me that it could be, and that I should never put anything off too long.

So I jumped out of a plane at 2500 feet the following weekend, but that's another story...

Postal Rage

Get your walking boots on, this post may ramble a bit. Do not despair, it will get to the point in its own sweet time.

Our front lawn is goosed. Or at least, it was. Early in the holidays I got caught at home by a rep from Green Thumb who quoted such a ridiculously cheap price for treating the lawn that I couldn't refuse. We have spent more than that in the past buying Feed and Weed and trying to sort it out. I didn't really expect it to work, but in the 5 weeks since it was treated, most of the weeds in the front (and believe me there were many) have grown out completely and the grass itself is looking very lush. I don't suppose the sogginess that was the British Summer did it any harm, either.

However (you knew there'd be one, didn't you?) the growth spurt and subsequent death throes of the weeds have left some bare patches, so at the beginning of this month we flung some seed down and waited for the sparrows to eat them all.

They haven't. They've been far too busy having dust baths in the front flowerbed, which is currently resting before being planted up.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, reseeding the lawn. The other downside is that we can't really mow the lawn until the bald patches have seeded up a bit (10 to 14 days). We mowed it really short just before we seeded it. On Saturday, a week after a very short mow, I measured it.

3 inches.

I kid you not.

Heaven knows what Green Thumb have treated it with, but at the rate it's growing, we will lose Stella in it sometime this week.

So why postal rage?

Well, this sudden growth spurt means the grass is long enough to leave tell-tale signs when the postie walks across the lawn because he is too lazy to go back down the drive and round the garden (we live on a corner plot and the next house is some yards behind us - obviously the 30 seconds he saves cutting across the lawn is vital).

This is one of A's particular bug bears. He is currently toying with a couple of ideas to stop this transgression - either blocking the gap between house and shrubs with a berberis (very prickly) or with anti-personnel mines. I think the second is a little drastic, but it's currently his favourite option.

And me?

Well, it narks me a little too, but then every now and again, the postie will do something to redeem himself in my eyes, as he did today...

with a parcel from my Secret Pal, which he posted through the cat flap. So you mean to say your postie doesn't?

So, squeals of excitement all round, although not, I suspect, from the cats. Especially Lilly, who greeted me outside the front door with a particularly hacky look...

Wanna see what I got?

Some gorgeous yarn in a lovely combination of blues and greens that can't really be appreciated via a monitor.

The green is much more vibrant in real life. There was also an interesting box ...

...that was full of...

..stitchmarkers, made by my secret pal in green and purple.

There are 26 and I'm not sure what they are made from, but they aren't just glass beads, it looks like she has made them with Fimo or something similar. And they're glittery! (appeals to my inner princess...)

And what was in the bubble wrap, I hear you cry?

Well, something I adore but just can't get here...

If I don't blog for a while it's because I'm overdosing on Peanut Butter Cups ... mmm.... mmmm...

Thank you SP, what a brilliant parcel!

Did you feel the earth move?

Last Friday I was in the centre of Manchester at 11.50am when the city was hit by an earthquake measuring 2.5 on the Richter scale. Although the epicentre was in the east of the city, the tremors were felt in the city centre, reports stated.

Well, not by me, they weren't.

I have slept through a number of minor earthquakes in Britain before now, and we missed the 13 or so that hit Manchester in October 2002 as we were in Italy at the time, but I think last Friday has to be the first time I've actually been awake and present on the spot so to speak, and the earth still didn't move for me, darling.

There was another reason for the earth to tip on its axis on Friday, at least in the Manchester area. I moved to the North West nearly 20 years ago and Tony Wilson was almost immediately on the radar - in fact it was hard to watch the regional news or listen to music and NOT know who he was, or have an opinion on the self-promoting eejit. But time softens many things, including people's attitudes and in recent years I have viewed Tony Wilson as a vital part of the region's fabric, someone who felt it important to promote the area (and this coming from a southern girl). And he was behind Factory Records and The Haçienda, and for that I think I could forgive him anything. He was a character and will be sorely missed.

I am currently reading Stuart Maconie's Pies and Prejudice and the almost constant references to Anthony H Wilson in the section I read at the weekend are poignant, to say the least.

RIP Mr Manchester.

A Very Expensive Wash

This afternoon, I went to Liverpool to HM Identify and Passport Service offices to fast track my application for a replacement passport. I'd like to complain about the process, but I have to say they were amazingly professional and very slick. I was actually seen before my appointment time and because the personal details page wasn't actually damaged beyind recognition, I was told that I could actually take the priority service and collect my new passport at the end of the day. Since I was already paying £91 for the one week Fast Track as opposed to the usual £66 return in a month option, I thought I might as well go the whole hog. £108, but at least I could then book a holiday for 10 days time without panicking that I wouldn't be able to travel.

Let this be a cautionary tale - when you return from Ireland, it is classed as a domestic flight so no-one checks your passport. If, like me, your routine is to carry your passport in your pocket until final inspection and then return it to the rucksack before going home and slinging your travelling trousers in the wash, you would do well to change your routine.

*sigh*

On the plus side, hanging around Liverpool for an extra 4 hours gave me loads of time to work on Raindrops - I've actually cast on for the second sock now! I also had a delightful conversation in Starbucks with an incredibly well-mannered 9 year old boy who wanted to find out all about my knitting. Believe it or not, that's the first time anyone's ever mentioned my knitting when I've been knitting on my own in public. Does that make me an ambassador now? Sadly, it was just as I needed to return to pick up my new passport, otherwise I would have offered to let him have a go!

It's Official

I am a wazzuck.

Yesterday, I returned from a few days in Ireland en famille. Mum & Dad had a great time (it was their belated Golden Wedding present), I drank lots of Guinness, A got frustrated with the ever present roadworks. He was also having a bit of a mare at work, and seemed to spend most of the time on the phone or checking his emails. He is particularly looking forward to the time off he has planned for the end of the month. Although we have nothing yet planned, we will be going away, ideally somewhere not too hot and a new country for me to tick off of my pitifully short list of countries visited.

This morning I did the last lot of washing from our Ireland trip.

This inadvertantly included my passport.

Oops.

Guess where I will be on Wednesday afternoon...