Though I live in rural Oxfordshire, I rarely go into the city of Oxford these days, except for my twice-yearly haircut. But a chunk of my shrivelled old heart is forever in that city where I lived, partied, loved, worked, and studied for my first degree and doctorate. I bought my first home there too, in which I spent seven happy years living alone but socialising manically, before I met the Stoic Spouse and morphed into a Semi-Sensible Grown-Up. Ah, those were the days.
Anyway, today was Haircut Day – I hate haircuts with a passion – so I tethered the Toddler Twinnage firmly to the Stoic Spouse, gritted my merlot-stained teeth, and headed off. What has this got to do with knitting or crochet, you ask? Well it’s tenuous, but I’m getting there, OK?
Anyway, I drove into north Oxford, past my old flat, and stopped in North Parade, a little row of shops and eateries very near my old college, also the location of our nearest pub and of a reliably grumpy delicatessen who sold the most delectable bean pasties even to hardened meat-eaters like me. This is North Parade:-
It’s changed a little in recent years, and one of its latest changes is the arrival of this loveliness:-
I had a little free time before my haircut, so what do you think I did? My bank balance is clearly far too heavy, so naturally I had to lighten it in this wonderful shop. Adriafil do a delectable cashmere, don’tcha know? Pictured is the immensely helpful woman who assisted with lightening my bank balance.
Then I headed into the centre. This city affects me. Every street, every shop, every pub, throws out a memory, good or bad. I think it hit me more today because it’s October, and I first arrived here in October 1991, head full of Morse, expecting intrigue, glamour, and the odd murder or two amongst the autumn leaves and dreaming spires.
In case you’ve never been to Oxford, here are some photos.
And another one:-
Anyway, ’til next time. The Secret New Knitting Project is preceding apace. All will be revealed.