Would you like to see a finished object?
Those of you who’ve been reading here since March 2014 (yes I do recognize you long-termers in the comments) will have seen it already. But as I said in this post seven long years ago, I finished the crochet, but failed to weave in the ends. And I continued not weaving in the ends for a really, really, long time. Slippery cotton takes some restraining, so getting this done was never an appealing prospect. Way back then, my boys were the Toddler Twinnage, and they were messy in ways that resulted in copious laundry. And so, after approximately 0.3 seconds spent draped over a sofa, this blanket needed boil-washing/fumigating/deworming… which couldn’t happen until the ends had been woven in, because otherwise it would just end up clean but completely unraveled.
But… back then I had two small twins with severe reflux (hence the laundry) and I didn’t have much spare energy, so I dumped the blanket in a basket under a chair – just very temporarily, you understand.
And there it stayed for seven years, whilst quite a bit of life happened around it.
Honestly, it reached the stage where I was wary of getting it out because of what horrors might have evolved amongst its folds.
But then a few weeks ago, I was procrastinating about doing something important, which was just the trigger I needed to get the blanket out instead and start weaving in the ends. (Most things that I achieve are done as a means of avoiding doing something else. It’s a great way to get stuff done: just think of something worse that you really ought to be doing instead. Suddenly, cleaning the fluff out from behind the fridge or polishing the cat doesn’t seem so bad, does it?)
In case you’re wondering why I was so averse to the job, this blanket had four thousand ends. And in the unlikely event that you’re in any doubt, four thousand super-slippery Rico Creative Cotton ends a-weaving is not a prospect that I care to repeat any time soon. Many hours were spent, weaving and cutting, weaving and cutting. I found myself in a sort of end-weaving daze. And then one day, as I looked around for the next end to weave, I realized that there wasn’t one. The thing was finished.
So now I’m going to have to stop procrastinating about all the other stuff I need to do.
And yes, I could have trapped the ends as I went along, but I’m mostly a knitter and this was my first proper crochet project, so I was naïve enough to think “Nah, I’ll sort the ends out afterwards – it’s no big deal”.
It’s not been an easy few weeks, by the way. One half of the twinnage tumbled off a low fence and broke his elbow. He coped admirably with the pain, as we sat together in a hospital waiting room staring deep into the spotty pattern on the floor tiles. He’ll be fine – unfortunately he’s had to recover from far worse earlier in his life – but in the meantime, most of his arm is encased in plaster and he currently doesn’t even have to put any effort into thinking up excuses to avoid chores. His brother is being protective and solicitous, which melts my heart.
Remember those ‘Magic Eye’ illusions that were around a few decades ago? I reckon they should print them onto hospital floor tiles, because it’s easier to see them when your eyes are tired, and at 1.00am in an x-ray waiting room, I can assure you that our eyes were VERY TIRED INDEED, and a bit of funky visual distraction wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Whilst I’m on the subject of Magic Eye pictures, twenty-eight years ago I spent three months way across the Atlantic in Canada, demonstrating and selling Magic Eye posters in a Toronto shopping centre. They were a brand new novelty at the time, so I have a lingering sentimental spot for these images. Whilst I’m telling this story, I should mention that the tower-block in which my then-boyfriend and I lived that summer caught fire in the middle of the night. It was scary, but nobody was hurt, thank goodness. But I’m telling you this because we fled down the gazillion-floored fire escape at 5.00am and out into the carpark… where I immediately bumped into a woman I’d been at school with here in the UK until six years previously. And since that night, nothing has seemed like too much of a coincidence to be possible. My Dad – Father Twisted – is wise on the subject of coincidences. He points out that so many potential coincidences in our lives don’t happen, that we really shouldn’t be surprised by the few that do. Conspiracy theorists, please take note…
Anyway. The main reason for the lack of yarny postings around here lately is that I’ve mostly been outdoors, either running or gardening or spying on wildlife. I’m endlessly changing things in the garden to better achieve the twin priorities of food-growing and wildlife-encouragement, and I’ve been reading books about permaculture and forest gardening, which have inspired me to think more vertically in my attempt to grow ALL THE FOOD. There will be pictures, once the big changes that I’ve made start looking pretty.
Of course, all of my activity in the garden is closely supervised by Robinson (son of the irreplaceable Robyn-the-robin). Robinson is perhaps smarter than Robyn in that he gets me to do his bidding without even having to go to the trouble of landing photogenically on my hand. He follows me around, demanding I turn over soil so he can find lunch. The other day, I was bending over shovelling compost when I heard and felt a slight scritching as the cheeky blighter landed on my back to better survey his domain.
And then it got worse. When I dared to stop turning compost, I felt a slight tap on the side of my head as he wing-slapped me. He is an expert flyer and I wasn’t really moving, so this was not an accident. Robinson is trouble. He has a wife and a nest in the ivy that covers our fence, and I’ve already heard the high-pitched chirruping that explains why he demands so very much food, so I reckon I can forgive him. Just about. Predictably the twinnage love him, and they love even more that I’m yet again being bossed about by somebody four inches tall.
Until next time, happy yarnery, my fine fibrous friends.