Mad Hair Day

I love my postman. I really do. Not in a get-yer-Stubbies-off sort of way, I have a big hairy man of my own for that sort of thing. Come to think of it, I love him too.

The reason for all this wild emotion? It’s a box. A plain cardboard box. Well, not entirely plain. It has the word Ashford written on it.

Gary (The World’s Nicest Postman) has delivered a parcel to my partner/father-of-my-children/man-I’m-shacked-up-with (The World’s Nicest Boyfriend) and I’ve turned into a thing possessed.

I’ve been dropping hints like bricks for weeks. I’ve made them hold my skeins of yarn till they pleaded for release. I’ve built tools from Meccano, Lego and toilet roll tubes. And I think, just think, that sometime, somewhere, someone finally listened.

It’s a month till my birthday. They’ve emptied the box and hidden the contents. I have the urge to ’spring clean’ the house (and that’s never happened to me before!) when I might, just by chance, find the mystery object. It’s going to drive me nuts! Who would have thought a reasonably (note the subjective adjective) sane woman could be tormented by a simple cardboard box!

Don’t get me wrong, I love surprises. It’s the suspense I can’t stand.

Well, hello everyone! I’ve had 16 visitors today and while that might be laughable to the lucky bloggers who have hundreds of hits a day, I’m wildly excited. Admittedly, it doesn’t take much to get me wildly excited but that’s never been a cause for complaint in the past!

I’m almost ashamed to admit that I’ve nothing terribly exciting to blog about. My knitting continues, stocking stitch after stocking stitch, sucking the joy out of existence with the tedium of it all and making the little voices in my head louder. “Cables,” they whisper, “lace… you know you want to…”

Still, most of the inner demons can be silenced with food. This might account for my previously blogged difficulty getting skirts that fit. Or it could just be a good excuse to turn a mound of these:

into a gallon of marmalade. We are lucky to be in citrus growing country, and during harvest time, we are presented with carrier bags full of fruit almost daily. Just how much marmalade can one family eat, do you suppose? 20 jars, 50? I’ve made orange, mandarin, tangelo, lemon, lime, mixed citrus and grapefruit so far. Full sugar, half sugar and practically diabetic. And I’m not alone, around here you can’t give the stuff away and you daren’t invite friends over in case they bring you a dozen jars. Or more oranges.

I’m baking more bread (courtesy of Clarence and his little yeasty friends) in the hope of tempting the family to try the latest batch of preserves. I’ll have to keep hiding the peanut butter until they have cleared some room in the larder. I have space issues with my jam stash!

I’ve also been getting on with my spinning as my yarn diet continues and the urge to go shopping grows. I’m trying to finish spinning the fibre that I was given when I bought my wheel. It is carded and ‘in the grease’ and it washes up a beautiful creamy white. I’m winding some into a ball before plying as I only have two bobbins at the moment. Then I put the balls in large mugs and ply the yarn back onto my bobbins. I don’t have a skein holder or ball winder despite my heavy hints so I have commandeered the Lego and built my own. It’s adjustable, it rotates, it is fragile and it is irresistible to toddlers. Ask me how I know.

Look, see how clever I am:

I thought this would give them ideas about birthday presents. I thought wrong.

“Hey Mum,” said my teenager, “you don’t need to get one of those umbrella things, you’ve built one of your own!” I pointed out the lack of a ball winder. He offered me the Meccano.

Sometimes I’m just too resourceful for my own damn good.

I am completely incapable of making up my mind when it comes to trival decisions. Now I’m stuck deciding how to finish a lambswool/angora cardigan (first ever attempt at knitting without a pattern – top down, raglan, thanks to Maggie Righetti) I have the same problem in restaurants. In fact, my family all know that they can have chosen their food, ordered the first round of drinks, traipsed off to wash their hands and have a chat with the waiter before I can narrow down the starters to just a few choices. Oddly enough, I make business decisions all day long and never have this problem. In the office I am Decisive-Spiky-Briefcase-Woman. Elsewhere I am all Oh-Gosh-I-Don’t-Know-What-Are-You-Guys-Having.

I knitted this a year ago. It is lambswool and angora in a mauvey pink which I adore. It has three-quarter-length sleeves (because I like them and because I ran out of yarn – anybody spotting a theme here?) and it’s just plain stockingette. It looks a little crumpled in the photo because it has been hiding in the bottom of the Closet of Shame ever since I took it off the needles. It even has a little coffee stain on it because I’m a messy eater (and drinker). I love the colour. I love the cardigan. I’m utterly feeble when it comes to making a decision.

Now I know and recognize my little problem. None of this comes as a surprise to me. Evidence of my delusional tendencies is found in the way in which I tackle this problem. I could have made a list of the planned edgings, tried them out on my swatch (yes, I swatched!) and come to a decision about trim before even casting on. If you’ve read this far then you are probably betting against this course of action by now.

I could have planned the entire cardigan, executed my carefully plotted instructions and be wearing a girly pink cardi by now. But I didn’t. Instead I’ve spent the last year trawling yarn shops buying balls of yarn that I thought might finish it off nicely (without having any particular plan as to HOW to finish it off nicely) – delusional tendecies illustrated by the blue-ish grey metallic yarn in the photo below (what was I thinking?)

Then the crowning moment of insanity. “I’m short of ideas,” I thought. So I bought BOTH Nicky Epstein books. Knitting On The Edge and Knitting Over The Edge. Now I have so many choices I am paralysed with indecision.

So help me. Please! Anybody got any suggestions?

The yarn I used for the cardigan is Cleckheaton’s Angora Supreme. It is a shade darker pink/mauve than the photo. The ball on the top left is the blue/grey metallic yarn that I bought in a fit of desperation/insanity. The white yarn underneath is another Cleckheaton Angora Supreme, same as the cardi but in white (I have two balls of this) and the other white yarn is velvet acrylic which feels lovely and is bright white. The pink yarn is also velvet acrylic but variegated pinks and purples which match the cardigan surprisingly well. I have some very pretty plain pearl-grey round buttons which might look lovely on this, should I decide to use buttons. Clasps are always a possibility… or perhaps no fastenings at all? I usually wear my cardigans open… It’s quite a loose gauge and drape-y so I think a zip might be a little stiff….

I’m entirely stumped. What trimming? Which yarn or combination of these yarns should I use? I’m dragged this poor garment in and out of the cupboard so many times that my family find reasons to leave when I say “I just want your option on something…” It’s occupying my favourite knitting basket (which I’m resenting) but I daren’t turf it out in case it lurks forever in UFO hell.

Anybody got any ideas? I’m thinking something classic yet girly. (Gee, that helps, doesn’t it?!)

What would YOU do?

I know it will all end in tears but I just can’t help myself. The enormous yarn-hungry cardi continues. I’ve scrapped the idea of the hood, am working on two sleeves at once and am resigned to it being somewhat… cropped. And I’m STILL going to run out of yarn! So why can’t I stop?

Maybe because frogging means this flaming yarn is going to sit in my stash forever. Perhaps because I just can’t bear to undo what I’ve done so far. Maybe because I’m a self-deluding, bloody-minded nitwit.

My money’s on the latter.

I’m having a blue sort of day. Blue everywhere. Blue language, blue knitting, blue mood and blue skies with melting clouds and onshore breezes which tousle the heads of the gum trees. This is a blue chunky-ish cardi for my skinny sister who can carry off over-sized long-length chunky hooded cardigans with belts and bell sleeves. Me, I’d look like I was wearing a dressing gown. But she’ll look gorgeous – at least, she would if it weren’t for the near certainty that I’m going to run out of yarn.

Of course, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was wildly flattered to be ASKED to knit something (hitherto occupying the niche for Mad-Auntie-Who-Knits in our family) and happily set to planning a long casual cardi with tie belt and hood. I planned the size, had some acrylic yarn (she wants machine washable and cheap, I had this in the stash with nothing planned for it) and had dreams of cables and textures and, just for once, a figure (hers, not mine) to carry them off. This is a very plain yarn from Sirdar, a darkish wedgewood blue slightly thicker than a British double knit. With my lovely Denise set (perfect for top-down, no-seams raglan) I was all set to go. I swatched and loved the cables. I congratulated myself on side-stepping all evil knitting vibes by making the Mighty Magical Swatch which is the talisman against all yarny disaster. I cast on provisionally for the neckline (I can add the hood later from the cast-on stitches- no sewing, Yay!) I completely ignored all the planned cables (which looked so lovely and, as less is not more when lovely cables are concerned, I added many many more) and knit. And frogged. And cast on again. And knit. And ignored the little voice in my head urging me to re-swatch the even-more-newly planned re-vamped cables. And frogged. And opened a bottle of something potent. And cast on AGAIN and, this is the truly wondrous bit, knit… knowing full well what had happened before but STILL ignoring all the screaming voices in my head which howled “Swatch, you silly bint!” Now there’s no prizes for guessing what happened next. In fact, if there is anyone out there who can’t guess then they must be as deluded as I was myself. That is, if there is anybody out there at all… Hello? Anyone?

So. Here it is. Enormous cardi version 6. Yes, Six. Only four are detailed above. Versions 4 and 5 are too painful to mention. There was wine, there was tears. There was airborne knitting and much foul language.

You might notice that there are no cables. I can’t bear them. I never want to see another cable (well, this month, anyway) and don’t speak of moss stitch. After all the angst, the writhing, the tantrums and the general flinging-about, my skinny sister uttered the stupefying words “Actually, I think I’d prefer it plain.”

Here it is. Miles and miles of plain stockingette. I’ve ten balls of the stuff and it took five to get from neck to armpit. What are the chances of a mid-thigh body and long knuckle-length sleeves with a hood? Yep, that’s what I thought. Bugger.

Or so I’m to believe. For years I’ve been following a sacred family tradition and, along the way, undermining my child’s sense of trust, truth and morals. My crime? I’ve been lying to my children about bears, sharks, crocodiles and cheese sandwiches.

I’ve also lead them astray about biscuits and slippers but those are secondary crimes. David Attenborough may never forgive me but I’ve been telling my baby daughters (and my son when he was knee-high) that all sharp toothed carnivores do not lurk under one’s bed in the hope of munching on a juicy toddler, no matter how plump and biteable their bum. I’ve told them that they much prefer cheese sandwiches.

Let me paint you a picture. Most parents will recognize it unless they sleep like the dead or in a separate building from their babes. It’s three o’clock in the morning. Worn out from a hard day’s Making-A-Living you are sleeping like the proverbial log, only to be ripped from blissful slumber by the hysterical screeching of your pre-schooler. You dash in there expecting fire, beserk pets or axe-murderers only to find your baby wildly sobbing and utterly convinced that there is a blue lion under their bed who is intent on eating them before breakfast.

I discussed just such a pitiful scenario with another parent today. I cheefully outlined my strategy: small hysterical children are incapable of rational, logical thought especially at three o’clock in the morning (as, indeed, am I). Explaining calmly that tigers do not inhabit surburban bedrooms does little to quell the screaming. Dragons on the carpet, crocodiles in the closet, they are all just as real to the over-imaginative not-quite-awake toddler as you are. I explained my tried and tested method. Do not argue with your little one- after all, they KNOW that the bear is under the bed. If you insist otherwise they will a) become more upset and b) worry that it is going to eat you too. Instead, smile and insist that they are entirely mistaken – bears do not eat juicy little girls and boys. Even if their evil Big Brother has told them otherwise. Bears (insert pointy-toothed-carnivore of choice here) MUCH prefer cheese sandwiches.

Believe it or not, this has entirely satisfied three otherwise very intelligent children. The logic is inescapable- they,  after all, prefer cheese sandwiches. So why wouldn’t the beasties? (I must point out that you have to be quick witted about this as they get older. My four year old wanted to know where the monsters kept their cheese sandwiches and I told her that they kept them in their lunch boxes, where else? I then had to point out that she had never got close enough to the Big Orange Crocodile to see whether or not he had his lunch box with him so she had to take my word for it).

So what makes me the World’s Worst Mother? The other parents present today were horrified that I should tell my children about the cheese sandwiches. The politically and parentally correct course of action would have been to patiently and, it would seem pointlessly, explain the native habitat of sharks, crocodiles et al until the child saw sense. Or, as a minority held forth, to tell the child they were being silly and leave in order to discourage any further imaginative interruptions to your sleep.

In the hope of corrupting otherwise good parents everywhere I’m striking a blow for all the bad mothers who tell lies to their toddlers. I’m going to tell you how I deal with recidivist monsters. Get under that bed and make smacking noises with a slipper – then tell your child you smacked that rhinoceros (don’t ask!) and sent it home. As insurance against further visits I leave a ripe slipper under the bed – the beast will smell it a mile off and avoid your house entirely. This can result in small children filling their beds with whiffy footwear but it does no lasting harm to their olfactory nerves so where is the harm? (You might also need to buy more slippers. I have eight pairs - but then, I also have two toddlers).

Monsters (especially the blue ones) may require some guerilla tactics. After a thorough course of smacking with slippers (and don’t hesitate to send Daddy under the bed to deal with big monsters- give him two nights of broken sleep and he’ll co-operate) you can test the extermination of all things big and hairy by placing a biscuit under the bed (except if you have mice, in which case you are encouraging the small and hairy to become fat and hairy) and seeing if it is still there in the morning. As every child who has ever seen Sesame Street knows, monsters cannot resist biscuits (cookies, if you will) and will have to eat it. Come the dawn, the untouched confectionery will prove to your child that they are safe. (A word of warning – when the child wises up and starts to eat the biscuit in the morning, insisting all the while that they are still being terrorized then you know that they are too old for this one! Watch out for the crumbs of evidence!)

I find it mind-boggling that the parents I met today (whose reaction to my atrocious parenting was so aghast that I’m feeling quite cross and defensive about it all) freely admitted to telling their children about the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas and cited them as ‘traditional’ while my woman-on-the-edge-of-sanity parenting ploys were seen as damaging and morally abhorrent. If Santa can come down the chimney and scoff a plate full of mince pies and knock back the sherry then why can’t I feed hungry sharks a cheese sandwich or two if it gets us through the night?

Okay, rant over. I might be a bad parent but I am a clever knitter. Obviously not if you look too closely, but here (drum roll please….) is THE SOCK!!!!

You’ll notice I said THE sock. Not A sock. That’s because it is the only one. The second one IS already on the needles and I’m working through it and quietly vowing to knit two at a time in future. I swore I’d never knit socks, couldn’t see the point. I’m not even sure why I succumbed. It could be because everyone else is and I’m a bit of a sheep at heart. It could be because my feet are the only part of my body on which I can wear stripes (and I do love them so!) without looking as wide as I’m tall. Or it could be because I have been utterly beguiled by Stephanie’s writing about this luxurious addiction that I was tempted to knit what she knits, outside my comfort zone, in the hope of being, one day, a Knitter.

Either way, she was right about the socks.

I’m knitting a sock. Well, everyone else is and I was finally sucked (socked?) in by promises of two socks at once (thus avoiding the dreaded Second Sock Syndrome) on one needle (Magic Loop, thus avoiding the dreaded dpns) and being able to knit from both ends of the ball of yarn at once (thus avoiding leftover yarn which drives me nuts as I’m completely incapable of throwing yarn away). Other benefits include the apparently wondrous comfort of hand-knitted socks on my enormous feet and the opportunity to buy sock yarn in cashmere blends from poshyarn and the most gloriously dyed merino from Sophie’s Toes. I haven’t received my sock club yarn from Posh Yarn yet but I have had three glorious balls from Sophie’s Toes and I’m itching to start. In the meantime I’ve begun a toe-up magic loop sock (one at a time, I wasn’t brave enough to do two at once for my first attempt) on my glorious new Addi bamboo circulars which arrived from Astrid’s Dutch Obsessions last week. This is in Opal yarn which I had handy although it doesn’t compare to Sophie’s merino.

I sound like the shopping channel! It’s difficult being so cut off from good yarn shops up here although the view does make up for it.

This isn’t my view, I hasten to add. Dear me, no. That would be far too simple. This is the view from a client site where the sock, Him Indoors and I went yesterday for an installation. I came along to help out (and because very occasionally they let me out of the office), to fill in the paperwork and to take pictures of half-knitted socks from every location. Much to the bemusement of my client.

The sock also went on the ferry to Russell, the aforementioned Hell Hole of the Pacific although you wouldn’t think so now unless you have a horror of restaurants, art galleries and luxury homestays. Here is the sock aboard and abroad – being held unwillingly by Him Indoors (“Make it quick, people might see!”) just in case anyone thinks I’ve got very hairy hands!

The home dyed yarn awaits inspiration. Hats? A felted bag? Or just eternal purgatory in the yarn stash? I’ll decide once I’ve finished the socks. I’ve finally discovered how to get some peace and quiet for solitary knitting. Just mention that I have three skeins requiring patient holding while I wind each of them into a ball. You’d be amazed at the speed of the exodus. If I’d realized it was that easy to get everyone to leave me in peace then I’d have threatened them with yarn earlier! Though there are now mutterings about how ball winders and skein holders are necessary to family harmony. And they keep pointing out that I have a birthday coming up…

My dastardly plan has worked! (insert maniacal cackling here!)

This weekend was raining and cold. So instead of letting them throw books at each other, I dug out the first wobbly skeins of homespun 2-ply (spun on my Ashford Traditional from the bag of brown fluff which I still haven’t identified but washes up a beautiful soft white) and encouraged the children to get messy with some food colouring.

We mixed the icing dye with some water in jars, put the soaked skeins into oven bags and squirted (with an empty ketchup squirty bottle) the primary-coloured dyes onto the yarn. There was a certain amount of squishing and splashing as they ‘blended’ the colours (read: discovered that most colours when mixed seem to turn into Darkest Swamp) Then a quick splash of vinegar water and the wool was bagged up, sealed in a tupperware tub and put through the dishwasher a la Knitty.com

An hour’s wash, a few more hours cooling down – without touching so it didn’t felt (I recommend a big stick for this part, not for stirring but for defending the yarn from excited little stained hands) and then I rinsed the cooled skeins till the water ran clear. Okay, actually I rinsed them until I lost patience, shouted “Sod it” and just hung them up to drip pastel raindrops all over the shower unit. And here they are (above) nearly dry on the window sill.

They turned out entirely different to what we anticipated. The Littluns and their Big Brother had expected shades of green, purple and orange along with the primary red, blue and yellow. Instead we had autumnal shades of russet, gold, dark brick and mossy greens. All the blue seems to have washed out entirely (there was plenty of it in the water, just none stuck to the wool!) and the red lingers on only in the titian and garnet shades. Still, if the yarn knits up nicely then I might make hats for the children from it – the Big Brother is already requesting knitting lessons which I’m happy to grant. Mind you, I have a horrible premonition… my little monsters wearing their lovely woolly hats when it starts to rain (or their heads get sweaty) and bronze rivulets dripping down their noses.

Dyeing is addictive, it seems. I’m already planning the next foray as I have some dye left and I’ve been foraging in the LYS for some more white yarn. But what I found is so delightfully smooshy that I might just leave it naked and fondle it in secret.  No wonder Him Indoors calls this Knitting Porn!