I’ve taken some better pictures of progress on the big crochet project. But before I show them to you, do you mind if I go off-piste, subject-wise? Because some things in life interfere with knitting and crochet time, and I want to grumble, if you’d be so generous as to indulge me. Here goes…
I don’t like running.
I do it, on and off, because it’s a cheap and outdoorsy way of keeping fit. And because, for as long as I occupy what would otherwise be useful space on this planet, I will never, ever set foot in a gym or an exercise class. Not even if you put all the wool in Shetland and a case of the finest Chablis just across the threshold to tempt me in. Nope.
But still, I don’t enjoy the cold, hard exertion of running. Or the lung-hurty thing. Or the sheer mental and physical effort required to haul my fast-expanding backside around the highways-and-byways of Oxfordshire. And I’m not much motivated by the potential to knock 0.003 seconds off my personal best time, either. Sorry-not-sorry, fitness app developers. Talking of running apps, I really hate the way they wait until you’re running past an entire bus-queue of people to shout out, “Distance: 0.1 miles. Pace: three hours per mile.” Yeah thanks for that humiliation in front of half the village. And yes, before I noticed all you people standing there and pretended that this sprint was comfortable, I had indeed pretty much slowed to a walking pace.
Frankly, I’d rather be knitting. (Frankly, I’d rather be filling in my tax return whilst licking live snails.) I’ve never experienced that ‘runner’s high’, the endorphin rush that people rave about. A friend of mine said that he used to come home from running on such a high that he’d want to go straight back out again to run some more. And this is a man who claims that in his youth, he enjoyed every illegal drug going, so he presumably knows a thing or two about getting high. But I just don’t get it. The only thing I feel at the end of a run is a dull sense of relief that I no longer have to run.
Before the twinnage came along, the Stoic Spouse and I used to run together, although these were the sorts of runs where we’d pause to stare every time we noticed a deer, or a hare, or a woodpecker, or an orchid, or a toad, or a vole, or a slow-worm, or a kestrel. (It was amazing how often I spotted distant specimens of wildlife that he just couldn’t see. Amazing, I tell you.) Also, the Stoic Spouse kindly shouted an endless stream of abuse in order to keep me motivated. He’s much better at running than I am. (Eight to ten miles once a week, the nutter.) He’s much better at verbal abuse, too.
Obviously now we have children, one of us always has to be home with the twinnage, so I have to run alone. And the wildlife around the village where we live these days is a bit rubbish (you’re lucky if you see as much as a rabbit). So I just plod on, with a dogged sense that this is all that stands between me and a plethora of future lifestyle-related ailments. There are moments when I wonder whether the lifestyle-related ailments might actually be more enjoyable than the running.
I’m just not very good at physical effort. Mental or creative effort, yes, but not aerobic, physical effort. So let’s stick to the heaven-knows-how-many-hours that have cheerfully gone into the various components of the crochet house furniture-related project so far, and show you some slightly better photos than I showed you yesterday. I’ve been busy in the flowerbeds since these were taken, trying to work out how to crochet rows of cabbages and bursts of montbretia.
Oh, and there’s this one too:-
And the window boxes were a lot of fun to embroider:-
BUT, I’m sharing this journey with you warts and all, and I think we have a failure. I tried to embroider some sneaky little plant growing around the paving stones of the path, and I just don’t think it works. At all. Agreed?