The wine scheme

This is the Harlequin scarf finished.  It is not that blue, I have buggered up the colour settings on my camera somewhere.  Even editing cannot seem to dim this blue.  It is lovely, heavy, drapey and soft.  It is also a bit weird looking, I think, and not at all what I expected.  Still, it is warm and Oliver likes it well enough to wear, and it only took a couple of evenings to knock out. 

Now, today I arrive fresh from Sue's post on dieting.  Yep, a yawntastic topic for most of us and usually one which I indulge in at least once a year. 

This year, post Christmas, I have managed to hold my weight stable at around the 11 stone mark.  This is a 'good' weight for me - a few pounds under this and I am at my best weight and have a goodly amount of space in my trousers.  But I then find this a tricky state to maintain.  Usually pigging is my undoing.  And the copious amount of white wine I cannot seem to live without. 

Thinking about giving up wine actually does send a frisson of fear through me.  If this constitutes a drink problem, then I have one.  I currently consume around three bottles per week.  This is in the form of a couple of glasses per night, plus extra guzzling at the weekend.  Yikes.  A couple of years ago I topped out at four + per week, so goodness knows what state my liver is in.  And goodness knows what the hell I was thinking then....

Anyhoo, having gotten a grip-ette on the situation and reduced my glass size I have decided to increase it again to 250ml, constituting a 'large' drink and will have one - yes, one - glass of wine of an evening.  I have found myself a beaker suitable vessel and this will ensure I do not exceed two bottles of wine per week, which I think not unreasonable.  I do not smoke, consume lots of caffeine, or eat sweets and chocolate on a regular basis.  Gotta have an outlet somewhere.  Still, even I must admit I would feel happier if I didn't sit down at the end of the day and yearn for my glass of cold white. 

Moving on, whilst on holiday last week I chanced upon this book in a fag-smoke filled grubby secondhand bookshop.  Oh yes, I visit all the best places when en vacances.  This book interests me.  I have skim read it in my usual slapdash fashion, and it seems to be based on these principles:

- 'load' your day with carbs at the beginning of it, and not the end.
- walk, walk and walk some more.
- do the five tummy exercises from the book every day.

Oh yeah, I can do that.  I think.  I am not going at this all guns blazing, but I think adopting the principles seem sensible, do-able and I would benefit from them.  When I first started reading about 'carb curfew' I did break out into a sweat.  The idea of not eating carbs past 6pm makes me want to scream out loud.  I loves me carbs.  That's probably why my weight holds at around the 11 stone mark.  10 stone of it on my arse and thighs.  I reason that this 'curfew' is for normal people who go to bed by 10pm, so I think I could shift this to at least 7 or 8pm, making it possible to get my evening meal in before I surrender the happiness of starchy comforting goo overnight.  Also as I work late two evenings a week, I reckon that a carby snack of oaty flapjacky stuff whilst pounding the hospital corridors is also allowable. 

I have given this a go for a few days, and I have to say, I do feel better in the morning for not having bloated on carbs up til bedtime the night before, and that flinging on my coat when the opportunity presents itself and dashing out to fast walk round the block to notch up a quick 3000 steps is a satisfying use of my time. 

This book compares someone with a sedentary lifestyle (imagine stereotypical office worker) who visits the gym twice a week to alpha mum (a role I like to picture myself in) who dashes around doing housework, shopping etc blah blah.  It's not really rocket science or a revelation, but the calories burnt by the regular exercising office worker is significantly less than your average burnt out housewife.  I found that I can easily cover 5000 steps during a normal at home day around the house.  And I live in a bungalow. 

Also, through Oliver having diabetes, I know more about carbs and the way they work now.  This is not revelationary news either, but when you eat them, your pancreas produces the necessary insulin to enable your body to make use of the glucose which is in all carbs.  This process happens every time carbs are consumed.  Therefore, logically, you will have glucose available for energy which if you don't use - will have to be stored.  As...??? Wait for it......FAT!!  Ta dah!  It is the basic principle underpinning all 'diets' everywhere, the world over since the dawn of time - if you don't burn off the calories you consume - you will get fat. 

Sometimes, it is hard to focus on this one, very simple, very logical idea.  It gets lost in various guises and weight loss schemes.  For any of this to work for me, I just need to keep my head in the game. 

Enough already.

hola

Last week was spent in (not so) sunny Lanzarote, and walking around in flip flops and a vest* was like a breath of fresh air. 

We shared a villa with my parents, whose presence both soothed and irritated me in equal measure.  It is lovely to find household chores being uncomplainingly taken on by my Mum, and a cup of tea being frequently offered was the epitome of being well cared for.  Still, my Father's petulance and tantrums annoyed my intensely, as did my Mother's determination to tolerate them.  That said, I like being on holiday with them, and admire their advenurous spirit in talking to the locals (yep, real live bona fide Canarians whom Mark and I would avoid clashing gazes with for fear of striking up a conversation), and their matter of fact approach to going into places and doing stuff.  My Dad actually went along to the local gym last time he was there - by himself!!  Zut alors.  (or the Spanish equivalent).  Truly, for Mark and I it would be like the manifestation of all our horrors - going into a place and speaking to people.  Really, it's a marvel either of us have got this far in life without turning into an amoeba. 

Day 1:

 

 

These two rocked up every day once they twigged that bread was on offer.  Oliver called them Barry and Pecky.  Don't ask.

 

 

 

But this was his favourite friend:

 

 

Patchy, the naughty kitten. 

 



 



 As you see.

The pool was cold, and on this day there was a 90mph (at least) wind whistling across it.  You will note that there is nobody else in swimming.  Oliver is laughing and pointing at his Nan tiptoeing and screeching her chilly way down the steps to get in. 

He stopped laughing pretty quick.

And it was all hunkydory until you stood up in the howling gale again.

I think there is something wrong with the colour setting on my camera.  The water was not that blue, and the beans not that orange. 

We took a trip over to Matagorda to see the planes scream in overhead.

 

The photos do not do justice to the closeness and size of these jets - it is a brilliant free thrill to be had I can tell you.

And a huffy-puffy walk up the side of a mountain for the view and the crater that once was.

 

 

And on the last day, the sun shone glorious and bright and the wind all but disappeared.  Quelle surprise.

Think I could quite happily live in Lanzarote from January to March.  It felt so very bleak landing in the grey dampness of yesterday. 

*other items of clothing were worn.  Phew.

 

being able to cable

was exciting achievement enough.

I have not picked up my needles since taking that last photo - I really think it was all about just knowing I could do it.  Weird.

Moving on, this week I am mostly working on this:

 

 

tres boring to do, it has to be said, same stitch, same colour, round and round and round.... although I think it will look rather snazzy when complete.  It is for my niece, who looks great in this type of hat.  Unlike me, who, in this particular style of headgear, is a twat in a hat.  I am going to do it a bit long, roll back the brim(?) and stitch some purdy flowers on it.

She'd better wear it. 

Due to the continuing chilly spell, I finally pulled out this scarf,

which I made a while back.  It got a lot of admiring comments (which I lapped up, of course) and Oliver questioned bitterly why he didn't have one like it.  (I lapped that up too).  So, with this in mind, post haircut today we popped into the neighbouring yarn shop and found this:

He liked it, and then we found this inside:

How thrilling.  The yarn is Stylecraft Harlequin, in sky silver.  Actually, when I started to work with it, is really is silvery - can't wait to see how it looks when the blue and purple hues come out.  I reckoned that two balls would do it, and all was tickety boo until I went to pay and found out it was nearly six quid a ball!!  Quelle horreur.  I never pay this much for yarn.  Well, never until now, obvs.  I handed over my handful of fivers feeling quite queasy, I don't mind telling you.

My little sample lines:

With a 7 and 10 hook respectively.  I'm going for the 10, for a drapey feel, and speed. 

Soooo good to start a new project.

Laters.

getting cable

not the TV version - this:

Real, proper knitting wot grown ups do.  I can't even begin to describe my joy at getting this far.  I have unravelled this piece six times already. 

Problem being, I cannot fix a mistake, being slightly unskilled in the knitting department, so any slip-up is an error of catastrophic proportions.  I have referred to that Bible of modern times - YouTube - but in learning to fix a dropped purl/garter stitch means you must be able to recognise them in the first place.  Which I cannot.  Ergo no fixy. 

So I plough onwards, slowly, laboriously and with sore fingers from a bad grip (my next learning curve on the YT express train of knowledge on all things) hoping that my next stitch will not be my last. 

In other news - wait! 

There is no other news.  My life has been totally dominated by knitting cable and everything else apart from the absolute necessary, such as being a Mumsy, Wifey (sort of) and going to the toilet has slipped into superfluous obscurity. 

Tune in again soon for more gripping yarns.

K1, P1

On my Hobbycraft jaunt last week, I picked up a ball of Crofter Fairisle yarn - just because - and because I thought it would make a nice winter scarf for Oliver.

It would have made a better one if I hadn't been such a tightwad and picked up two balls, because I have run out halfway through what I would call a decent length.  My nearest stockist of this £3.79 ball of yarn is 30 miles away and postage to get it to me is coming in at around the £3 mark.  Estimated petrol cost to get to the Hobbycraft is £3.69.  Rock.  Hard Place.  Me.  Bloody hell.

I have finally succumbed to knitting.  Only tentatively, mind.  My knitting resume consists wholly of 25 years of badly done and unfinished scarves.  I get very bored with rows and rows of bog standard starter garter stitch, and if I drop one, or make extra (don't ask) then I am unable to rescue the situation.  My Nan was an avid knitter, and my Mum is a capable one (or though inexplicably cannot sew all the bits together at the end and has to take it to my Auntie Anita to do).  So, needles to the wheel, I used my beloved YouTube, and last night produced my first rows of purl.  Or proper knitting, as I excitedly babbled to Mark, who couldn't have been less interested. 

Cable next - it looks even more proper. 

getting on with

'stuff' lately - cooking up this...

...and that.  If Granola counts as 'cooking'.  The cake is parsnip and sultana spice cake, baked on the back of the frenzy of health and activity that always accompanies the arrival of the first veg box.  It's quite nice - good with a cup of tea, as my SiL always tells me my cakes are.  Oliver said it sucked all the moisture out of his mouth, so - same view different windows eh?

I have bravely branched out in the crochet department and taken a departure from my normal blanket making to create this little fella:

I left him on the kitchen table for Oliver when I went to work with a blue ribbon and a lable round his neck calling him Pascal, which I thought very natty indeed.  He is a French poodle you know, but by the time I came home the blue ribbon was discarded on the floor, Pascal had been renamed 'Stitches' and absorbed into the toy mountain which lives in Oliver's bed.

Emboldened by this foray into toymaking, I recently purchased this:

and hope to produce a whole heap of cuddliesomeness.

And a Navajo Ripple update:

The white is working.  Phew.

Just after Christmas the three of us took our Christmas double chins out for an airing.

The three of us NOT being Mark, the squirrel and I, obvs.  And Oliver doesn't have a Christmas double chin weighing him down either.  Obvs.

The local squirrels were very tame, and very overweight, the fat little blighters.  Too many peanuts bought by cooing tourists, no doubt.  We tried to tempt them with cherry tomatoes, which is the only food I had with me, but they obviously hadn't started their New Year diets yet, as they were very sniffy about them.

Hmmm, what else.  Looking forward home-ed wise I have decided to focus on reading, writing and spelling for a few months.  This is a weak area for Oliver, and I suddenly woke up the other morning in a cold sweat panicking about how the hell he would ever sit an exam in anything given his current loathing of the written word.  Shoulder to the wheel and all that.  Poor Oliver, getting his education solely on the back of his mother's twighlight epiphanys seems a little ad hoc, even by my standards.

Anyhoo, his spelling and writing is improving, albeit slowly, so a focus on it for a while won't hurt.

Tootle pip.

New Years Realisations

No resolutions for me this year. 

Although Oliver has requested that I stop swearing in the car when out driving.  I'll give that one a good go for him. 

Today feels like the first day of the year to me, Mark has gone back to work and so have I.  The close family times are over for another year.  Yes, yes, I know we can 'be together' anytime throughout the year, but there is something very special and unique about that week or so at Christmas when you are drawn together by the celebratory feel of the season and family films, games and lovely meals eaten at the festive table with crackers.  I feel more of a unit then than any other time. 

And whilst mentioning crackers may I just say how disappointed I am by the growing trend for 'luxury' crackers.  I don't want a silver plated yo-yo or nail clippers in my cracker.  I don't want a sheet of highbrow jokey facts or charades nor a pleated hat made from high quality cartridge paper.  Crackers should be the crackers of my childhood - cheap and completely crap.  They should contain a hat made from flimsy tissue paper so that extreme care must be taken when putting it on.  Jokes should be groan-tastic and the gifts should be a clip-on moustache or a fortune-telling fish. 

Having said that I have found the odd tape measure and mini screwdriver set to be quite helpful in the kitchen drawer.  If I can ever find them in amongst the clip-on moustaches and fortune-telling fish, that is.

We are going to eat better this year.  I have spent some time scaring myself silly reading up about conditions you can develop by years of poor eating and have decided to overhaul the family diet (and budget) at the same time.  Mark is ok with that, Oliver less so.  Not sure Mark will be so happy when I dish up a kohlrabi and cauliflower sandwich next week ha ha. 

I have ordered a fortnightly veg box from a local organic farm, as I caught a TV article last night saying that spinach grown in the soil in 1914 contained so much more iron than its counterpart today that you would need to eat around 30 times more.  Shit a brick.  The same sort of figures were true for cabbage and calcium.  I think.  I was crocheting and skim-listening so I can't be too sure of exact figures, but it has jolted me enough to decide to not buy supermarket veg for a while anyway.

And fibre.  I am going to start cooking more oaty things.  Like cookies etc as the fibre we eat is not brilliant.  And I know cookies may not be 'the' way to go, but hey - gotta be better than no oats surely. 

And I will return to exercise as I gave myself December off (thank you me), and I can feel a layer of blubber settling in and no doubt making itself at home around my internal organs and choking me from the inside out. 

Out damn blubber.