And how’s a lass supposed to live her knitting life when “real life” (imagine me doing that exaggerated quotation marks thingy in the air with my fingers whilst pulling a disdainful face as I say those two words) keeps barging in and demanding attention? Forsooth, anyone would think that I had to work for a living and parent my children and put the bins out and even haul my idle rear out of this chair in order to chuck another log on the fire. Oh, wait…
(May I just say at this point that I love the fact that my spellcheck is comfortable with ‘forsooth’? That’s my kind of spellcheck. It also tolerates ‘thingy’. I can see that me and this spellcheck are going to be firm friends. Unlike me and my satnav, who have fallen out after it attempted to persuade me to beat a traffic jam by directing me to come off the motorway at a junction, whizz round the roundabout and then sneak straight back on to the same motorway in order to overtake all of about ten cars: as a result of this arseholery, we’re no longer on speaking terms. Oh… the spellcheck doesn’t condone ‘arseholery’: I know how it feels.)
But life throws things at you and expects you to catch them, which is a pity because I’ve always been thoroughly rubbish at ball games. And those things that life hurls your way sometimes interfere with knitting.
For example, we’ve had a couple of birthdays around here. A couple of very small, twin-shaped birthdays. I did a lot of chocolaty baking. And blew up a lot of balloons. And cleared up a lot of brutally shredded wrapping paper after the ferociously feral frenzy of gift-opening that occurred. The Tyrannical Twinnage requested little guitars for their birthday, in order to be just like their guitar-strumming father. A wise friend advised that ukuleles make perfect children’s ‘guitars’. So my parents, the Twisted Seniors, gave the boys ukes. A good idea, no?
Thus far, the boys strum with more attention to rhythm than to tune, but even George Formby had to begin somewhere.
Speaking of George Formby, my Dad made the mistake of mentioning him in front of the Stoic Spouse. Really Dad, you should have known better. So now, the walls of our old brewery home (and possibly the walls of the neighbours’ homes too) are reverberating to the chords of ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’, and I’m joining in with my best singing voice. The poor twinnage scarcely get a look-in with their ukuleles.
But this birthday was the first one that the twinnage really anticipated and understood and enjoyed. And I’ve almost finished removing all the balloons from the ceiling. (You know that thing where you rub balloons on your hair/clothes and then they stick to the ceiling via static electricity? My Dad does that. A lot. Invite him to your party and you’ll be removing balloons from the ceiling all flippin’ night. You have been warned.)
My Mum, meanwhile, had a go with the giant knitting needles that I bought at the Knitting And Stitching Show. Look! She’s not entirely converted.
…But I feel a hearth rug coming on, when present projects are finished.
So I’d better get on with those present projects, which include crocheting the vegetable garden and writing up the house bag pattern for you. More muchly soon, my friends.
(Oh, the spellcheck dislikes ‘muchly’.)