WIPs, APs and BNSPs

Not a catchy title, I grant you.   For those in the crochet know, a WIP is a Work In Progress.  Everyone who crochets (or knits, or crafts in any way, shape or form), will be familiar with the WIP.  The AP is when the WIP has spent too long at the bottom of the dusty workbag and in the deep recesses of the subconscious.  Once recalled to the conscious mind, if the WIP causes a bigger pang of guilt than a peak of pleasure - it's time to re-assign it to the realm of the AP - the Abandoned Project.  My big blanket has this week achieved this status.  Largely due to the fact that I have used up all the wool intended for it on my ripple, but also because it was starting to be bloody hard work.  The ripple, incidentally,  is 3 rows from completion and I have sewn in about a quarter of the ends.  It is pretty boring at the moment.  This has now been temporarily dumped shelved in favour of.......trumpet fanfare.......the BNSP.

Of all the projects in all the world, this is the most inspiring, the most exciting and the one we can't wait to tell everyone about.  It is the Brand New Shiny Project.  Yielding all the promise of a fresh start, a clean page and NEW-NESS, my BNSP is this:

image courtesy: http://foxslane.blogspot.com/

I saw this blanket on a blog, and I think it is super cute.  Ha ha.  Seriously, I think this is uber stylish, and being 12" squares, only 12 are needed to make a decent sized blanket.  I made my first square in one evening, so it is a realistic commitment.

Moving on, yesterday the weather was beautiful - a lovely spring day.  The sort of sunny day I don't mind at all.  We took a little trip out to Killerton House.  It was so pretty and relatively tranquil.

The Whomping Willow, surely?

Laters.

waffle

Been working on my crochet squares for the swap:

I know there are a few samey ones, but I like doing them.  Sorry.

Nothing tres exciting to blog about, but seems ages since I did, so feel obliged to cast a spotlight on my days which have trundled past.  The half term week in the end turned out to be a bit of a flat flop.  Having structured our days around a little bit of educational stuff and tv/lego/crochet breaks since the new year, the removal of the work for a week didn't provide the welcome relief which I thought it would.  Instead we both just felt adrift.  I did go as far to suggest that we do a bit of work in advance to get ahead for this week, but I got the 'are you mad?' face, so we just sloped off to our respective unrewarding activities.

See, I'm not the sort of parent who lines up a whole list of activities for the holidays.  Firstly because I don't need to - I see my kid all day every day so have none of the guilt-assauging need to bond with him on specified days throughout the year. (oh lucky, lucky life). And secondly because every other bleeder and his wife and family are out clogging up the town and country and popping out anywhere becomes an exercise in tolerance and perseverance.  Since I possess neither of these qualities in spades, nuff said.  Of course, the upside is that schoolfriends are available for playing with, thereby freeing up more of my time to engage in further unrewarding activities.  Half full, half empty.  That's what I say.

In fact, the most engaging activity I indulged in over the half term was giving the bathroom the proper clean it deserved because it was minging dirty.  Can you imagine anything more funner?  Thought not.

super cute

I think not.  But do-able and do the job wristies. Done. 

I am ashamed to tell you how many times I started these again.  Six.  It is my attention to detail problem rearing its ugly head.  When a pattern calls for 20 stitches - it means it should be 20 stitches at the beginning, and 20 stitches at the end.  Not 22 after 2 rounds, not 24 after another 2, what the f***?!  How is that happening?!  Anyhoo.  They are now in my coat pockets ready to use, and doubtless we will now have a heatwave and I will never get to wear them, like I will never get to use my blanket.  Unless the boiler breaks down.   Or we move to Norway. 

Tuesday was St Valentine's day - a source of complete misery and humiliation for me throughout my teens, but now a pleasant and family based day where Oliver is really pleased that Mark and I exchange token gifts, like chocs and flowers and cards, and the three of us have a nice family meal.  This year I took full advantage of the Sainsburys meal deal buying 2 lots so we had salmon and dauphinoise potatoes with veg followed by hazelnut and choc torte-thing or white choc and raspberry torte-thing,  washed down with sparkling pomegranate and elderflower and sparkling cava for me.  No brainer cooking and waaayyyyy cheaper than a meal out.  Next year we'll dine on mince and slices of quince and eat with a runcible spoon.

I remember Valentine's day of 1998, when my then boyfriend,  (hereafter referred to as Knobhead), decided it would be a good idea (!) for us to go out for a meal with Mark, (now my Mark) and his then girlfriend, (hereafter referred to as The Nutter).  We knew Mark from badminton, and had socially met up with Mark and The Nutter a few times.  The evening was HID-EOUS.  Mark and I clashed horribly at that time, and the evening went from bad to worse.  I ended up not talking to Knobhead at all by the end of it, and there was a foul atmosphere between the four of us.  I recall saying the next day that I never wanted to go out with them again and that Mark was a complete bastard.  Ironic really as I married him the following year. You couldn't make it up.  Didn't see that one coming, for sure. 

Hey ho.  I am drawn to these, but so fear the mocking from Mark, that I don't think I have the balls for it. 

Laters.

wrestling with wristies

I have been toying with the wristie idea for a few weeks, given that my coat seems to be disproportionately short in the sleeves.  The pattern I selected from Ravelry is giving me a bit of trouble, so last night I plumped for me old mate youtube.com where you can get a whole tutorial, a bellyful of American twang and a pair of wristies appearing before your very eyes in four minutes flat.  I luurrrve you tube.  The pattern I wanted to do involved rows of shells, but the youtube one is rows of half double crochet which I am dubious over, as it can look a tad 'bandage-y' which I think is NOT a good look for hands.  Still, the youtube one is - and I shudder when I hear this phrase- 'super cute', and has a ruffled/fluted edge which I can play with in order to detract from looking like I am wearing NHS wrist supports.  Super cute my arse.

At work last week I received my lovely NHS tunic to wear as I carry out my duties:

Doesn't that just scream pink?  It is the most vilest colour in the world ever to wear and suits nobody.  Apart from black people.  That's not being racist, that's pointing out the injustice in the colour spectrum.  And I've seen the evidence.  On the plus side this has lovely deep pockets and a pen department, so,  happy days.

My ripple blanket is coming along very nicely, and I think I could finish it within about 5-10 more rows, but I am seriously so enjoying using this wool and these colours so much, that I am reluctant to stop. 

I have done this bobble square:

Which felt far less of an achievement in the end than I thought it would, and this target square:

I like these target squares, and think a blanket of them would look very cool in lime, scarlet and black.  Or lime, white and black.  Or lime, another green and grey.  Anything limey, really. 

And here my lovely boy indulging in very non-educational activity:

Talking of which, the 'lesson' schedule we started off several weeks ago has been a fantastic success, and I have had no problems with getting Oliver to co-operate with any aspect of it.  He clearly is a kid who thrives with routine, and enjoys having a bit of control over his time.  He has done more work in the last 5 weeks than he has done in the last 5 years, and as a result we both have been basking in the glow of small achievements.   We have decided to work in terms, like school, as this means he has the prospect of regular chunks of time 'off' to do with as he pleases, and also his friends who do attend school are available for playing with too. 

Change of subject:  Sainsburys are doing their cast iron casseroles at discount this week, and today I got this baby for £26:

Yummy.  I have always hankered after a Le Creuset, but this will do the job very nicely.  I am now hankering after chunks of meat to cook in it.  I am bloody determined to do a casserole using the hob-oven method before the week is out.....

Those were the days

Found this lurking in a pile of 'memory stuff':

It's a photo of school sports day 1980.  Our class (4L) won that year, and I can say, the rose-tinted hue of halcyon days aside, it was the best year of school for me.  My memory of it is that I was (for some obscure reason) very popular, and being in the top year of the school (the last before high school), I had the confidence of feeling a big fish in a small pond.  Even the most popular boy in the school fancied me.  Haaaa haaaaa.  Lordy knows why because I was a scrawny boyish looking thing with a foul temper.  Still - it's all about confidence and I was quite settled in my peer group back then, and I was very sporty and hence popular with the boys because I could beat them at PE and I played football at lunchtime. 

That's me in the middle, in white.  The one that looks like a boy Oliver says.  I rest my case.  The blonde girl on my right is Michelle, who I was re-acquainted with when I went to the Rosemary Conley classes in recent years.  She still has lovely thick blonde hair and married her high-school boyfriend.  She is still married to him and is a very, very nice woman.  The boy on my left is Stephen - the most popular boy in school of whom I speak.  He went by the nickname of 'Bogie'.  Don't ask.  Blonde girl next to Michelle is Carol, who had large breasts from the age of about 10, and was therefore extremely popular with the boys.  Her tits were the complete opposite to mine, which didn't put in an appearance until about 1983.  Funny isn't it, it was a deal then.  Now,  tits is tits.  Time is a great leveller. 

Next to Carol and partly obscured by Deanna, is Vanessa.  She is holding a smurf aloft.  They were popular then, the smurfs - the first wave of smurfs.  Smurf was my nickname, because I was a virtual dwarf at middle school.  I seem to recall being the smallest girl in the year. (with the worst clothes).   Anyhoo, I digress.  Vanessa was my best buddy then.  We drifted apart in high school while she dabbled with another friend (I have never quite forgiven her) but we held on to friendship, and now we email and meet up (by accident the last time) and I value her enormously.  (She won't quite believe that I am sure).

This happy golden year was led by Mrs Lee.  A fabulous teacher who liked me, and, sensing her liking for me, I flourished in my schoolwork and self belief.  She told me I would go a long way.  Have I gone a long way?  It's been 32 years, and that's a long way I suppose.  I haven't achieved something like 'hey, I'm a neuro surgeon', but I chose to home-teach my son, and I think she would like that.  She called me Chatterbox.  Ha ha.

Enough reminiscing.  The present is slipping away from me while I sit here.

Laters.

just remembered

Thought of something vaguely interesting to blog about.

 My last visit to the dentist resulted in being referred to the hospital to check out the 'callousing' on the inside of my cheeks and on my tongue.  I have to say at that point I was completely pissed off with my dentist, as the waiting room was filled with displays of pictures of rotting teeth and gums and grim messages about oral cancer, and an unexpected referral to the hospital is going to get ones heart racing somewhat.  I assumed that as I had Oliver with me, he didn't want to cause alarm by mentioning the C word, and I think, from memory, and in his limited social skills way he tried to say he didn't think it was anything serious, but I have carried a niggling panic at the back of my mind since then. 

Well, said hospital appointment came around last Tuesday, and I obediently trotted off to my appointment, expecting (and to be fair, praying and hoping for)  a quick poke around with a torch and a curt dismissal.  Instead I got a room full of kindly nurses and a chat about a tongue biopsy which they had lined up for me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Fuckarooney.  It truly was a bottom-clenching 10 minutes.  I think I must have visibly paled with the realisation that invasive action was required, as they were incredibly sweet and gentle with me, as you would be with an simple elderly person, or a naive child.  Picture the scene: A nurse sat on one side held firmly onto my protruding tongue with a piece of gauze whilst the other gave me a local anaesthetic in my tongue.  She then sliced off a piece from the side (I'm sure it was no more than a sliver....) and put in a couple of stitches!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
Since I couldn't talk properly and was quite shaken by the time I got back to the waiting room, I had to tell Oliver the bare bones of my experience.  I then got to see him pale visibly. 

Anyhoo, the lovely lady said they think it's Lichen Planus - not cancerous, not contagious, not a quality -of-life impinging condition.  That's if it is that......or it just might be callousing.  will get biopsy results probably in a couple of months.  And it was bloody sore when the anaesthetic wore off.  I sat in McDonalds with Oliver watching him scoff a happy meal whilst I sipped at a SlimFast.  Yum.  Not. 

It ain't over 'til it's over

The kitchen is looking mighty cool, I can tell you.  I daren't go in there to take photos as Mark is doing the walls today and is a pretty pissy mood that he is having to work over the weekend again.  I think he thinks I don't appreciate it.  I do, I really do, but he doesn't accept praise very well, and indeed is quite ungracious with it, so I have stopped trying to offer it.  Also a bit tricky because I haven't much idea about how much work actually goes into what he does, so I am reduced to saying things like 'hmmm, nice hole in the wall there', or 'good brickwork', at which point he looks at me with such disgust that I wish I hadn't spoken at all. 

We went out to pick tiles this morning, and whilst at the checkout there was a display touting the joys of underfloor heating.  I sidled up to Mark to highlight the joys of underfloor heating in case the display hadn't caught his eye, and he seemed 'interested'.  The thought of warm tiles underfoot is a jolly cosy one, and will help keep the room warmer, as it is now pretty chilly as it is bigger, and we have lost a radiator. 

Here is the colour we chose, Sweet Caramel by Dulux:

Not going to set the world alight, I grant you, but it was on offer at £10 for a big tin, and I found that terribly appealing.  The tiles we picked are very pretty, in tones of beiges, pinks and an odd bluey one - mosaic-y. 

Think this is the most boring blog post I have ever done.

Sorry.