I was hoping to have some more dramatic progress on the big-crochet-house-thingy-secret project to show you by today but, well, chicken pox round two. So we’re back to quarantine and crazy sleep-deprivation. Poor Twin 2 has got it bad, but he’s a stoical little chap, having endured far worse in his short life. Much time has been spent cuddled up on the sofa reading him stories whilst I knit a Cladonia shawl. Because after two nights of a couple of hours of sleep, I’m a bit zombie-like and not up to figuring out how to crochet a lawn-mower for the garden of the big-etc-etc project. I will show you some progress later in this post, though.
But the pre-lace section of Cladonia is a perfect easy knit for zombies. For the commenter last time (Madeline) who asked about it as she’s lining it up as her next project, here is progress so far, shown with able assistance from my non-poxy twin:-
My gauge is w-a-y titchier than it should be, so I’m going to add in extra rows/increases to compensate, and adjust the lace section to match. Will this work? I dunno: I’m too sleep-deprived to apply my brain to this – or indeed any other – matter. I’m still madly in love with this yarn though, and please don’t forget that you’ve still got time to secure a discount or win a skein of your choice from the dyer who created it. It’s beautiful stuff.
Anyway…. roses. It’s summer, so there are roses. They’re scrambling slowly over the front of the crochet-house-etc project thingy:-
I’ve still got quite a few more areas to embroider, though. And we definitely need some window-boxes, too:-
And real ones are bursting out around the garden…
…despite the fact that I <whispers> don’t like roses. At all. I live in a cottage-cum-brewery in an English village so roses are virtually mandatory – our garden was stuffed with the blighters when we moved in – but I’m sorry, I just don’t like them or their space-hogging, prickly, skin-tearing stems. And I don’t like their diva-like need for constant attention to stave off blackspot or migraines or whatever it is they’re supposed to suffer from.
Not surprisingly, the roses started getting straggly and blackspotty within about forty seconds of us moving in here. So in a fit of murderous pique, I took the secateurs and hacked the rose bushes back to the point of near-oblivion. No, gentle reader, I’m not talking about a spot of polka-dot-gloved idle pruning on a pleasantly sunny afternoon, I’M TALKING ABOUT TOTAL ROSE ARMAGGEDON. There, I thought, too lazy to dig out the stumps or roots, that’ll learn ’em. No more roses. Now I can plant some nice flowers instead.
But do you know what happened? Do you know what the blighters did? Within mere months of this butchery, they’d only gone and grown back in newly luscious exuberant health, producing bursts of blooms and leaves without a hint of blackspot.
Roses: they’re like those trick birthday candles that you can’t extinguish.
Oh dear, I think I need a sit-down. Where’s my knitting?
[Disclaimer: this blog post is the product of a sleep-deprived and possibly delirious mind. I really did try to butcher the roses, though.]