attitude, attitude, attitude

As a self-confessed summer-hater, I have tried very hard this year, employing much conscious effort to 'enjoy' all things outdoors and warm in order to make Oliver's life a little less stressful by giving him a break from my seasonal whingeing.  It really has felt like I have closed my eyes, raised my arms heavenward and thrown myself foward into the abyss, hoping to be caught, and I am very pleasantly surprised by the outcome. 

It started with this post, and the decision to take on the garden.  I am a self-confessed gardening-hater too, but, in for a penny.   Since Easter and the hefty outlay on garden furniture, the weather has been tres froid, and I was able to take respite in jumpers and indoorsiness once more.  Suddenly, out of the blue, the tide has turned, and - lo!  There was sunshine.  I girded my loins, de-fuzzed, (no mean feat I can tell you), and dug out my (thank you O Primark) £2 in the sale linen trousers to beat off the heat.  Out came the flip flops and sun cream (yuk, yuk, YUK), and out went the desire to hide away.  I threw open the windows and doors (literally) and went outside.  We have been over to the local park to meet friends, down the local 18 hole pitch and putt, and yesterday - gulp - The Beach.  I even managed this feat of largesse without spoiling it for everyone else.  Yah for me.  Ha ha.

My change of attitude has made such a difference to how I feel about the coming summer months.  I think years ago I had decided to rail against it, and got myself actually a bit scared of summer.  Twat. 

Morning vista:

Last weekend we took our first break-ette of the year, and went to North Devon.  We trollied along on the first day to Ilfracombe, and the Tunnels Beaches.  This was very en vogue in victorian times, and there is loads of info about the gentlemens and ladies beaches (separated by a cliff, of course)

It was bloody freezing, cost us about a tenner and there was nothing doing in the rock pools.  (I caught Mark grumbling that they should be stocked with salmon for the entry price). 

You can't beat a bit of anenome-poking.

Sunday was warmer, and we braved the sea (with wetsuits and body boards) which was exceptionally cold for this time of year.  We played pitch and putt, which was a really nice family activity and I even got to do a bit of this.

French Kiss - cool film.

An evening stroll out to Baggy Point.

By stroll, I obviously mean piggy-back. Clearly Oliver has lumped  'walking for pleasure' in the same category as 'reading for pleasure' - not really for him and to be avoided at all costs unless absolutely necessary.

And so to the garden.  I have been keeping an eye on the state of play, and this week the runner beans and courgettes were planted out.  Now, I know this is no biggie for a normal person, but for me, previous despiser of the great outdoors, this has been a real event.  I am ridiculously proud that I have grown this green stuff from seeds, and that we should be able to actually eat food I have grown.  What a brilliant concept. 

Check out my sexy Spear and Jackson tools.  And my dirty gloves.  Real proper grown up gardening stuff.

In the midst of this, a large spider scuttled across the earth, causing me to shriek like a girl (I know), throw myself backwards, nearly impale myself on my sexy Spear and Jackson and stumble out of my flip flops onto the path.  I really must work harder at my summer mantra: Befriend The Spider.

I put them canes up, I did.

I am interested in these little things:

They have sprouted from the veg peelings/bits from the compost which I dug into the ground to help the runners along.  I thing they are growing from squash seeds from the leftovers of a queensland blue,  and I am impressed with their quiet but steady determination to reproduce.  Keep it up younglings - I will watch over you.

Oliver's bit in the garden is doing well too, despite his inevitable waning interest.

Ignore the weeds, I've got them buggers in my sights - he has carrots, flowers and spuds in here.

And finally, I finished the happy flower a while ago, but thwarted in my desire to hang it in my kitchen, it has ended up here.  Not ideal, but the walls aren't finished and I cannot face Mark doing his nut over me banging in a nail into the wall before the paint goes on it.

Laters.

so so

Been pretty quiet on the blogging front, I don't have anything of particular note this week so this is to be a post of ponderings.....

After a week (last week) of Oliver being ill and therefore not doing any 'work', we were back into the swing of things on Monday with history and geography.  For geography we use laminated country fact sheets by Atlas Editions, I only have 60, but hey - that's over a years worth.  I have a random selection of countries, and this Monday we covered Brunei.  Like I say, a bit random, but interesting enough.  History is our beloved Story of the World.  This week was the end of the viking era and the battle of Hastings.  He seemed to like it well enough and it gave me a good excuse to get out my Kings and Queens of England poster to bang on at length about the monarchy, one of my favourite subjects, lol.

The afternoon is supposed to be reading, and the theory is that 'we' read a chapter of whatever book I have deemed 'suitable' for the purpose (the current one is 'The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tiler' by Gene Kemp), and I read a bit to him, and he reads a bit to me.  In practice this translates to me reading to him, yawning and eventually slurring my words as I nod off (I am not joking), and him doing everything within his power to ensure that I do nod off (tucking me up with a blanket, snugging into my side), and therefore he doesn't get to read anything at all.  Sigh.  Oliver's complete antipathy towards reading weighs heavily on my heart.  On the plus side, I am encouraged by the leap he has made in forming his writing and in everyday reading and spelling, so shoulder to the wheel and all that.

On Monday Oliver went along to a fencing club which is running for 6 weeks at a local school.  He loved it.  Real life sword play.  Does life get any funner - I think not.  It was all very energetic and it was followed by an evening of cubs, and - quelle surprise - plummeting blood sugar levels.  A few people have enquired after Oliver and his diabetes lately, and I have to say, already the inconvenience seems 'normal' for us.  But I have to acknowledge the fact that Oliver makes the whole thing easy for us.  He 'gets it', realises that there is no other way to live now and does not waste time moaning about it.  I am safe in the knowledge that whenever he isn't with us, he knows what he can and can't eat, and is confident (and pretty good at actually) at taking dextrose tablets to boost his blood sugar when expending energy.  I am grateful we had 9 years of 'normality' with him before diabetes reared it's ugly head, and I am glad that we have enough years left before teen years start to encourage him to learn good blood sugar control.  Of course I am not whoop-di-wooing here, but boy, things could have been worse.

At his last regular hospital appointment, they did what is called an HbA1c test - basically how much glucose is present in the blood.  The gist of it is that the lifespan of a red blood cell is around 6 weeks.  As glucose sticks to these cells, they can calculate an average level of glucose over this period.  Darned clever.  At diagnosis Oliver was at 11.5%.  on 19th April he was 9.8%.  At the end of this month I am optimistic this will be down by another couple of per cent.  The lower, the better, obviously.  The better control he gains over his blood sugar now,  the better his chances of not developing problems later on in life (with his eyes and his kidneys - prone to damage due to excessive insulin).  It is this possibility which looms like a black shadow on the horizon.

He has had an invitation to go for a couple of taster evenings at scouts.  He will be 10 next month, and can go up from cubs in September.  Scouts seems so grown up.  He is going to be 10.  10 seems so grown up.

Laters.

hypocritical crochet....

It was SIL's birthday at the weekend.  When the mag Mollie Makes came out last year, she and I were swept along with the whole vintage/crafty loveliness of it all, but quickly tired of the twee-ness and ridiculous impossibility of ever achieving a home/style anything like it, so 'we' stopped buying it.  

I thought these 'apple jackets' were a bloody marvellous idea for little girlies to take their apples to school in their lunchboxes, and I still love love LOVE them.  SIL thought they were the work of the devil.  From that moment, she was getting one.  The day before her birthday, having purchased and wrapped her gift, I remembered the apple jacket, and amidst much cursing, frantic trawling t'internet and a touch of eye strain, under pressure I cobbled together this:

I don't much like the colour now, and Lordy knows why I thought it would be perfect, but there you have it.  The anticipation of the eye-rolling, the resigned sighing.  Oh, money cannot buy such moments of perfect wickedness. 

Although I don't always subscribe to the heart-skippity hooky love on Lucy's blog, I will confess to being a trifle envious of her home and ability to make pretty stuff.  I have shamelessly used her patterns to make my granny stripe, my ripple and my big blanket squares.  I have also used her tutorial to join said squares, so, yay for her despite the skippity-deeing.  A little while ago she made a hanging decoration - the happy flower.  At the time I was partaking in a little eyeball rolling of my own at the seemingly pointless effort of making such a thing, but - lo!  A couple of days ago I was suddenly seized by the urge to have one of my own.  (I blame SIL - it cropped up casually during an idle meandering conversation with her).  Yesterday, in an almost fit of needing to Start A New Project, I sat for a lengthy time (can't be more specific than that, it's embarrassing),  and hooked up this:

It almost resembles the real thing.  It made Mark roll the 'ol peepers, so I know I am on the right track. 

The puss cats after being stuck out all night in the deluge:

The suite life, for sure.  (See what I did there?)

The day the Queen came to town

Yes, our little ol' town was graced with a visit from HM.  I had no intention of going and actually seeing her amidst the throng of people, the very idea shook me to my anti-social core, but then I was seized by the memory of one summer day in 1977, Silver Jubilee year when I, as a wee child, went off in a coach to the University (I think) to see the Queen, and I remember very clearly the actual moment I laid my own eyes upon her, and felt quite awed.  Selfish, lazy me, I thought to myself, and drove Oliver into town to join the throng, stand at the barrier in the high street and watch the police motorbike escorts bring the Royal car into town.  It lasted but a moment, and she was half an hour late, but the crowd was buoyant and friendly, of all ages, and the air of excitement was palpable.  Somehow it's cool to be keen on the Queen.  Oliver was beaming, and was so clearly chuffed, the whole experience warmed my heart and made me glad and relieved we had made the effort.   Our Monarchy stands us apart from the rest of the world, and I am proud to be British because of it.

Not a brill photo, I'll grant you, but hey, it's not every day you can (almost) get your son and the your Monarch in the same shot.

Today Mark is taking out the one remaining single paned window in the kitchen/diner:

This place was built in the 30s', and had a weird cast-iron sort of sun lounge thing attached to the back.  When it was double glazed, the bedroom and dining room windows still formed part of the sun lounge so the single paned windows remained.  They are a bit hideous, and run with condensation year-round.  Because some tit before our time put the curtain rails up too tight to the windows, the curtains touch the glass, and subsequently have got mouldy over time.  Same in the bedroom.  Boy 'tis grim. 

With the advent of the new window, we can now get blinds fitted.  Whilst I am not a fan of blinds per se, when the sun is out this time of year, this room gets bloody hot and bloody bright and we end up having to close the curtains so we are not summarily cooked and blinded, and then we are plunged into such darkness, we have to have the light on.  This, in turn, sends me slightly hysterical, so this whole operation is a good thing.

And so to crochet.  The daisy ripple has caused me some consternation it has to be said.  The purples alone (even with black and white) were looking gloomy.  So I popped in a little pink, and grey, and didn't like that either. 

So I frogged it right back to here:

And started again.  Now, I am not entirely convinced that I am in love with this either;

but I have come to realise that it is the width of the stripes which is throwing it off balance, not the colours so much.  Sooooo, I have started to add in some 3-stripe colours, and I like this a whole lot more.  There we have it.  After a few more stripes, when I feel 'happy' with a chunk, I will repeat it, chuck in a notable middle section and then reverse repeat the first half.  IYKWIM?

Happy(ish) days. 

a little post-ette

Yesterday Oliver made this:

I can honestly say I had no hand whatsoever in this little square - he made it all by himself, from scratch.  For this purpose:

Aaahhhhh.  Sweet.  And this is where most of my crochet swap squares migrated to:

Seems kinda cosy in there............

The passage of time...

... leaves but one standard - quality.

I was reminded of this quote (which I wrote out several million times when learning the art of calligraphy in my dim and distant past) when I was perusing the blog of Mrs Thomasina Tittlemouse earlier.  She is showing off some beautiful heirloom tablecloths (among other things) with exquisite embroidery work on them - so, so pretty.  I was musing how things made by our ageing (or long gone) relations are so durable, well made and stunningly handsome, but it is probably more to do with the fact that they have lasted so well because they are of quality, hence the quote.  Perhaps there were shoddily-made items floating around, but they have never been handed down so we get to look back with rose-tinted spectacles.  Maybe I should damn well make sure the pile of poop which I churn out on a regular basis makes it through to the next century by burying it all in an airtight time capsule for Oliver.  Heh heh heh.

Actually, talking of calligraphy (yes, stay with me, we were), I am going to see if I can find my old calligraphy practice sheets, because I was watching this programme about real roman life the other night, and there was a lot of looking at roman lettering, and I remembered how much I loved to use this style when doing calligraphy.  It is so geometric, and cleverly worked out so that it is even, and pleasing to the eye.  The programme, by the by, is worth a look - and certainly has altered the rosy-posy view I had of the way the romans lived. 

I really could blather on - I have caught bits of some quite odd programmes lately which have tweaked my little grey cells.  Off to wrestle Oliver to the table to exercise his - wish me luck. 

Ooh, some pics:  Because I have taken some.

Needing another colour here - have got silver on order, but I am toying with purple's opposite number on the colour wheel - yellow. 

Wedding anniversary tulips - gorgeous.

Oh, and here are the letters generated for Mark in his PC Scrabble game the other night:

Haaa haaaaaaa.  He started again. 

and we're off

With a little time in hand before lunch today,  and accompanied by Mr Nice Bloke Peter Andre on catch up, I started the ripple for Daisy.  It went beautifully.  Following Mrs Attic24's neat ripple pattern, There were no errors in counting (unheard of) and the first 3 rows are complete, and dare I say it, perfect.

By my standards, anyhow.  Had a bit of a moment when I was suddenly seized by the horror that I had used my Stylecraft 'life' wool instead of the 'special'.  The palpitations were very real, my friends. 

Spent the afternoon poncing around in town, where Oliver attended the St Georges Day parade and Cathedral service.  I am normally against these things in principle, being that they are on a Sunday, a family day, but this time I insisted (despite the fact I feel it is barbaric they can't wear coats in the rain and have to resort to bin liners beneath the uniform),  he go along for several reasons.  Firstly, because he is a sixer this time, and should, I think (and so does Mark), lead by example.  Secondly, because this is his last year in cubs and as he is one of the older ones he will be looked up to by the younger ones.  Thirdly, because it looks good to his leaders, that he is prepared to make the effort.  Fourthly, because I strongly believe there is something to be said for this sort of thing instilling a sense of patriotism and 'belonging', which, in turn, leads to a sense of self-worth and camaraderie.  Fifthly, it is the only time I could ever get Mark into town and into a posh coffee shop for a decent coffee, as it's the only place open after 4.30pm.  I nicked a posh coffee cup and saucer.  Ssshh, that is really naughty, don't tell anyone. 

I leave you with a pic of my boy parading the High Street, and Mark petting the cat under the guise of working on the garage. 

Laters.