hamstrung on happy street

Usually the kind of freak who uses electronic baking scales (because precision is fun) and finds ironing bedlinen therapeutic (just call me Monica), our lives are currently a complete bourach. (Google it, it's approximately the most onomatopoeic word in the known universe. Thank you Gaelic.) It's actually quite liberating, but the panic is starting to kick in. Because nobody can find their clean knickers in the morning.

It's chaos, but it's (mostly) brilliant.

I've been trying to keep up with the illustrating, doing respectably well in recent Spoonflower contests but still just missing out on the top ten. And my silk scarf designs for BetaFashion both placed very near the top in the Art Deco competition (there are about eighty entries altogether, and as far as I can tell, one of mine placed eighth, the other about sixteenthish). The judges have yet to decide which (if any) of the scarves are to be printed, but I'm pretty pleased with my progress so far regardless. Keeping my fingers crossed. My theory is that if I keep plugging away at these open contests, I'll break into the top flight eventually, and it's all great Illustrator practice in the meantime. That's the idea anyway.

But what is not going so swimmingly is reading and knitting. I have completely stopped reading. Between the gardening and the school holidays and everything else, I'm not making the time. I have a list as long as my arm to catch up with, but I suspect it's just not going to happen until school starts again.

And knitting. Well, that is where I need some of your solid gold-plated advice.

You probably know that I fell head over heels with Veera's Happy Street pattern as soon as I saw it. It's so rare to see a knitting pattern that is youthful and modern, and Veera just seems to hit the nail on the head every time.

Image from 100% rain

So I spent weeks trying to find the Madelinetosh colours in any shop that wasn't going to bankrupt me. As soon as I mentioned my struggles here a few months ago, Sarah contacted me to say she could try dyeing the colours for me! She did, and they are AWESOME, and I have the dual self-righteous warm fuzzies of a) having supported a lovely UK-based businesswoman and b) not being bankrupt.

Win, win.

So I wound the wool, packed my needle, printed the pattern; all ready for a wee trip away. After settling down in a comfortable chair, all set to cast on, I read those fateful words: Cut yarn after each colour change.

Heart sink.

What I love about all the other Veera shawls I've made (and I've made a LOT) is that you can carry the strands all the way through the pattern, resulting in (usually) just two ends to weave in at the beginning and two at the end, and a very neat finished product. But looking at the picture of Happy Street, I guess it's going to end up with at least two dozen cut ends. And I'm a novice, so my finishing is very far from invisible. So I'm in a quandary, and would love to hear your advice.

1. Have you made Happy Street? Do you think I should just crack on regardless and hope for the best (because the pattern is so beautiful)?
2. What's the secret to finishing? There is almost certainly a "proper" way to do it that I'm not aware of (I basically make it up as I go along). Do you know of an online resource I can read/watch to teach me how to weave in neatly?
3. If the answers to the above are both "No", do you know of another pattern that would look as fantastic using about 400m each of these beautiful colours that Sarah made for me? 

I get so much great advice, tips and tricks through this blogging lark (not to mention recipes, hand-dyed wool, book recommendations, inspiration, ideas, support... I could go on). Thank you, I appreciate it, and will try not to be absent for so long again.

summer in the comfort zone

You know the "what would I do if I won the lottery" conversation? My best friend and I have it frequently. Sometimes gin is involved. In fact, gin and the lottery game are positively correlated. Me and her bought lottery tickets together the week it was launched in the UK. We were just old enough to play (though technically not old enough to watch the inaugural draw on the pub telly. Ahem.)

So what would we do if we won? All the selfless generosity items have to be ticked off first; pay one another's mortgages (and those of all one another's brothers), buy local pet rescue, make record-breaking charity donation. You know the script.

Once that's out of the way, the selfish indulgences can be debated. And that's always more interesting.

It's taken nearly twenty years to be absolutely sure what my first selfish indulgence would be. It would be The Summer Of All Summers.

On May Day, I'd spring the kids out of school and tell the Breadwinner to quit his job. We'd fly somewhere beautiful and decrepit for a couple of weeks, probably Procida, where there's genuinely nothing to do except eat your own body weight in lingua di bue pastries. Returning to London, having got our heads around being bajillionaires, we'd start a Summer of solid gold-plated wonderment; the Chelsea Flower Show, the Hay Literary Festival, a family-friendly music festival or two, a full fortnight of fabulous seats at Wimbledon. We'd string out the gallivanting until the last night of the Proms in September, and then go to Japan to watch the trees change colour from an onsen in the mountains.

Of course we'd stay in a string of achingly beautiful guesthouses and powerfully inauthentic yurts throughout, the weather would be the colour of a peach, and we would all become gently bronzed and gorgeous. Meanwhile, the traditional Procidan fisherman's house we bought for thruppence would be under renovation by Miuccia Prada herself, and our relatives' bickering (over the value of first brother's mortgage being twice that of second brother's) would have escalated and required arbitration.

It would all be rather nomadic, incredibly indulgent and gently adventurous.

Funnily enough, we're not living that Summer.

Mr Breadwinner is working a very, very long way away for a wee while, so I am currently sole custodian of two small children, an elderly cat, a draughty old house and an overgrown garden. If you're a little bit neurotic (I think I just heard him snort at the "little bit" from nine thousand kilometres. Amazing.) this level of responsibility can make you an eensy weensy bit risk averse.

We're not doing bikes. Or scooters. Or secateurs. Or lawn mowing. Or balancing on low garden walls. Or playing the how-long-can-I-hold-my-breath-in-the-bath game. In fact, let's just not do baths. Too slippery. Did I really say we'd make rhubarb jam? We're not doing boiling sugar. Sorry.

In fact, this week is exactly the opposite of The Summer Of All Summers. As if to underline the point, it's actually just started hailstoning on my clean washing line.

But we are knitting, and reading, and watching coverage of the Chelsea Flower Show on the telly. We're ticking off the days, trading for cooperation in whatever currency seems most appropriate: Merida stickers and playdates for her, carbs and chewy silicone kitchen utensils for him, online window shopping and caffeine for me. Safe safe safe. Well inside the comfort zone. Only a few more days to go.

I want to thank everyone so much who voted for our 'Flatterned Man' competition design after reading this post. You are lovely and I appreciate it. Really, during a tough week, it's disproportionately and outrageously uplifting to know that the numbers are still creeping up. There are still a few days left to vote, and while our tally is pretty respectable, we're a good long way off the top spot.

But I've done some sums and if everyone who reads my YA posts were to vote, we'd be neck and neck. So, if you'd like to know about how I came to enter this little design contest, click here. Or if you've got a spare twenty seconds to just give me a wee boost, you can click on the 'Flatterned Man' by me & Robin here.

It's not going to be the multimillion Summer Of All Summers, I haven't bought a lottery ticket after all. But you could help me to the runner up position and it won't cost anyone a penny!

on being late for school again

Squeezing in a few rows before school while she was supposed to be minding the baby? I can't imagine who she got that idea from...

I've enjoyed the glimpses of my friends' lives on Fridays when they post for {this moment}, but I've never considered joining in myself. And then this morning, when this moment happened, I thought it might make some of you chuckle.

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words [oops] - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.



update :: okay, so it seems that {this moment} is not collecting submissions this week, click through on the link above to see why. I'll try and join in next week instead. In the meantime, we'll be knitting.

let me spin you a yarn about grass

I had this friend a few years ago. She was a trained gardener, very generous and extremely fragile, something she tried to conceal with a cheery exterior. Our babies were born on the same day in the same hospital. While I was out one day, she popped by and left a wee plant on my doorstep, dug out of her garden. We had just moved into our house and she knew the garden was an empty wasteland. I was incredibly chuffed and planted it in one of the new beds I had created in the front. It was kind of grassy and stripy, and grew that first year into a pretty swishy clump of gauzy loveliness. That was six years ago.

Since then, she emigrated to Australia and unfriended me on Facebook. Which is OK. I'm not quite sure of the reasons for the latter, but I'm certainly not going to try and read anything into it. Like I said, she's quite sensitive and I almost certainly offended at some point. It wouldn't be the first time. And it's not like I haven't unfriended people on Facebook before (or more commonly, ignored their friend requests for, like, years.)

Anyway, six years later, and I have just spent the best part of four glorious sunny May holiday days trying to eradicate the mystery grass from our front garden. It had spread across an area of about two square metres, forming a dense mat of roots so strong I've broken several garden implements, and done something moderately worrying to my back. It's killed every plant that used to live in its orbit. My fifty beautiful pink tulips, which used to grow a foot high and stopped passers-by in the street, have been reduced to eleven slightly stunted specimens.

I've ripped up border edging, shovelled gravel, cursed, sweated, gone a bit swirly behind the eyes and had to have wee sit down, and dissected some of my more precious plants to tease out the roots of this thug. It had spread under, over, through and between everything. A quick Google search and I think I've found the name of it; variegated ribbon grass. Or bastard freaking variegated effing ribbon grass (if you happened to be within earshot).

Now I'm not sure what the moral of this story is; beware gardeners bearing gifts maybe. Especially if they flee the country and sever all ties. So listen here people, do as I say and not as I do: never ever, ever plant something called variegated ribbon grass. Don't even think about it. If it's grassy and stripy, WALK AWAY.

I know I haven't got rid of it all, it'll be back. And one of the websites I read said it could live for up to twenty years. So while she may have forgotten me, I suspect our connascent babies will have long left home before I forget her.

So that's what it's all been about round here. Beautiful sunny days and gardening. But in the evenings, as I prop my naggingly niggling lumbar discs against a pile of cushions and wait for two ibuprofen and one cold Tiger beer to work their magic, I've been knitting and reading. And like all the best knitting and reading, they're colour coordinated, natch.

Every Spring I try to read The Jewel Garden by Monty and Sarah Don. It's beautiful and inspiring and makes me excited for Summer. (As an aside, it also briefly includes the most accurate description of depression I have ever read.) On my kindle I'm also reading Flight Behaviour by Barbara Kingsolver for our book group. I'm not even going to be half way finished it by the time we meet, but it's good so far. Not a keeper, but maybe it's yet to peak.

The Varjo for my MIL's friend is really taking shape - it's beautiful. That woman is a genius designer. Did you know she has a new pattern out? I want to make it more than anything I've ever made. But the trouble is I want to make it in EXACTLY her colours. I think that pink she used is Madelinetosh Tosh Merino Light in "Pop Rocks". I searched for anywhere online that has it in stock, and eventually found one place in the States. The total bill to make this garment was going to come to $120 by the time the wool was shipped to the UK. So I guess Happy Street will have to wait!

out of the corner of my eye

The corner of your eye is a very deceptive place.

When we left our old cat in London in 2010, en route to the Far East, every dark cushion or discarded swimming towel in our new Singapore flat was, to the corner of my eye, a black cat. It took a long time for our minds to adjust to her absence.

Likewise, when we moved back to the UK two years later, every dark knot in the floorboards, every clump of black cat fur that blew across the floor, every dark piece of playmobile under the sofa was - to the corner of my eye - a cockroach. Any number of double takes couldn't convince my brain that they do not exist in freezing cold Scottish houses.

It's playing tricks on me again today. In a fit of optimism borne of seven whole degrees of Celsius, I hung out washing this morning for the first time this year. Now there is a perpetual intruder in the garden according to the corner of my eye. He or she is not a very stealthy intruder and appears to be wearing flappy wet pink leggings on his/her arms. Wetter since it started raining.

Is that pathetic fallacy or something? The Easter break has been a wee bit of a disaster. The Boss got the chicken pox which forced us to return from our holiday after about 36 hours. We're housebound, watching kids' movies on the computer every afternoon and subsisting on Easter chocolate. For a former dentist that eschewed telly a year ago, that's a weird old week. 

You'd think I would have got some knitting done? Lots of reading? Studying? No chance. The table is littered with bank statements and gently ageing clementines. Crumbs are amalgamating with paint flecks, puree and glitter in depraved corners of the room, and I seem to be wearing my husband's clothes. I've genuinely no idea how or why that has happened. A misguided glimpse in the mirror shows that the dry shampoo I sprayed in this morning hasn't been combed through, resulting in a weird grey patch.

It may or may not be dry shampoo actually, it may be a bit that I "missed" while dyeing in a hurry last week. Let's face it, neither of these possibilities is glamorous. But out of the corner of my eye, I'm going to go with the dry shampoo option. (Never let it be said that I project a phoney perfect life here, eh.)

Strangely, if you caught sight of us out of the corner of your eye you'd see that we're all having rather a nice time. And for once it wouldn't be deceiving you. I'm just grateful that the corner of my eye doesn't have a chicken pock on it.

a wee bit oof varjo has been started, but as you can see, it's being overwhelmed!

colour lovers

Some people have just got it. The colours of their lives are tasteful, elegant, conscious decisions. I do not have it. As a family we either leave the house looking like a wet weekend or a pride of Liberace's peacocks. (Did he have peacocks? I imagine so.)

All this graphic design studying I am doing only confirms my utterly hopeless lack of colour sense. When faced with a set of electronic colour swatches (or worse, a whole spectrum wheel with sliders... run for the hills with tongue lolling and arms flapping) I get completely paralysed by choice. And then proceed to make exactly the wrong choice almost every time. Ditto in a wool shop faced with a wall of rainbow yarn.

So you can imagine what a pleasure it is to have that choice removed. I have been bought some wool to make a shawl; to be a gift from one lady to another. I guess you could call it a commission! I've never been indulgent enough to treat myself to this lovely kind of wool, and certainly wouldn't have had the good taste to choose these colours. So, without further ado; Madelinetosh I'd like to introduce you to Varjo.

Making these colour swatches of photos is quick, easy and hopefully a good way to work on my sense of colour.

A few other projects I have just finished got the colour treatment as well. Oh, and the first luridly fluorescent forced rhubarb of the season from my garden. It was crumble 30 minutes after this shot was taken (and after 45 minutes, it was history).

Where reading is concerned, I realised that as well as being a colour cretin, I am also a font fool, so I'm geeking up on this Type book. Which I adore.

If anyone has advice on choosing colours for their projects I'd certainly love to hear it. Some of you just get it right every time (looking at you Greer, Lori and Ginny!)

saucy knitting and a family memoir

Turns out that lovely wool I bought a couple of weeks ago isn't right for the Varjo shawl I had in mind. Too masculine in colour for the intended recipient. But it was perfect for the very mannish Earth & Sky by Stephen West, a pattern I've been wanting to make for a while.

Apparently it was a mystery knit-along a couple of years ago, marketed using the only remotely saucy knitting photo I've ever seen. (Relax and take a look, it's PG, honest.)

While I think the finished product will be beautiful, I'm not in love with the actual pattern so far. Just the first couple of inches resulted in eleven ends to weave in. Surely it could have been more elegantly constructed to try and avoid that? It means that the reverse isn't going to be bonny, and neither are the edges, and I'm obsessed about edges. For me the finished product is ALL about perfect edges. Indeed, the other weekend (at quite the strangest Chinese New Year clan gathering of ang mohs on the wrong side of the world) I overheard my Mother-in-law and my Granny comparing the Different Lines shawls I made for each of them, and the praise was all in favour of how nice the edges are. That's a warm fuzzy feeling.

During that same weekend, I got a hold of a manuscript that I've been itching to read. The personal account of a journey my Great Uncle and Aunt made in 1949, driving overland all the way from the Middle East to the UK. I'm reading it very slowly and carefully, photocopying the crumbly, yellowing typewriter pages along the way and frantically gleaning all I can from my InDesign class, so that I can have it printed as a proper book really soon. (Seriously, they teach you how to design and create an actual proper book, isn't that amazing?)

Linking in with Yarn Along, the global community of bookworms and wool twiddlers.

the magical moment when...

The weather here has been unbelievably bad for the past couple of weeks. Howling gales, horizontal hail, sleet and snow. And the kind of driving cold rain that makes my frontal sinus ache on the way home from school. It makes The Boss whimper on the way home from school (because she doesn't know what a frontal sinus is yet but just knows that it's miserable).

I always feel bad for the Posties on days like this. We have two regulars and I wouldn't do their job for the world, yet one of them is always cheery, and the other is always (there's no way around this) hot. The kind of purdee that you almost never discuss with your female neighbours over coffee... very rarely anyway.

Anyway, cheery Postie made my day today by delivering the most magical moment of any project. After weeks of browsing online, humming and hawing about colour combinations and which brand would give me the best result for the lowest price, at last the little squashy parcel of wool from Loop arrived. They always deliver within a matter of hours and wrap it in beautiful apricot coloured tissue, the opening of which, for me, has become a wonderful rite of passage for any special project. The possibilities!

do you know what I mean about this moment? or have I totally lost it?

This time it's for a Varjo shawl by Veera Valimaki, something I've been aching to make for months.

The Postie delivered a magical moment for The Boss too. A lovely wrapped Amazon surprise for when she gets home from school, a belated birthday present from a busy Uncle. She's going to love it (I know what it is!).

And as luck would have it, the sun's come out at last.

Joining in with Ginny and Yarn Along; a global exploration of reading and knitting.

pink for a... boy?

An unspoken goal has been reached. The hand-made stuff has become everyday rather than 'Sunday-best'. My children wear hand-made sweaters every single day, I wrap a hand-made shawl round my shoulders while studying, and my labour-of-love blanket over my knees in the evenings.

And since my two favourite yarns have been discontinued (Stylecraft Luxury Pure Merino and Araucania Toconao Multy in case you've got any kicking around) I flirted with the idea of being DONE with knitting for a while.

And then the Dragon Baby grew. Again. So I guess I'll still be knitting a while yet.

At sixteen weeks old, I am feverishly making his fourth puerperium sweater. Because he is monstrous huge and the 3-6m version is busting at the seams. One of my friends says I must be making cream (I reckon it's Carnation condensed).

I'm using the remnants from two Araucania Toconao projects for my daughter, and so a bit of a pink colourway is being striped into his sweater. But I think it makes a lovely mix, and apparently boys used to wear pink in the old days before we all got our knickers in a gender-specific twist.

And where reading is concerned? Santa, that clever old fella, brought The Boss a beautiful gilt-edged hardback copy of Peter Pan in her stocking. We just finished it last night. The last chapter, where Peter returns and Wendy is grown up and has therefore forgotten how to fly, so her daughter Jane flies away with him instead... gulp, I could barely read it.

I wish I wasn't a grown up sometimes.

reject the expert :: embrace the geek

So 2012 didn't turn out too shabby. During one short year I created a whole small person from a single cell. Perhaps I ought to say "we" created, but we all know who did the lion's share. And by the time the bells rang 2013 in, that single cell from one year before could giggle when he trumped like a carthorse. An important milestone I'm sure you'll agree.

So, despite not achieving any of my goals last year (largely - though not entirely - because of the small person) I do have a few for the next 12 months.

First up, I'm not going to live the way anyone else tells me (unless I actually know them, and then I might consider it). Because if you add all the advice up, all the layers of rules and checklists and intentions and schedules, you will spontaneously implode.

Fact.

A quick example; here's how an (edited) two-hour segment of Christmas day might have looked had I paid heed to Nigella Lawson's turkey dinner schedule and Gina Ford's Contented Little Baby regime. Let's call it the expert mash-up of doom-laiden stress.

10am

- Peel and cut potatoes, then leave in cold water. Take bacon-wrapped chipolatas out of the fridge.
- Baby must be fully awake regardless of how long he has slept. Encourage him to have a good kick under his playgym or take him on an outing. (Who wrapped the chipolatas? Do we have chipolatas? Bugger it. Take the baby for an outing - I don't CARE if you're still in your pyjamas, IT'S WHAT THE BOOK SAYS.)

10.30am

- Take turkey out of brine, sit it on a rack in the sink and leave to drip, drain and come to room temperature. Preheat 1st oven to 200*C. Trim Brussels sprouts and leave in colander. Take prepared stuffing out of the fridge. (On the day everyone's most scared of food poisoning, I can't wash my hands because there's a turkey in the sink. Hmm.)

10.40am

- Put chipolatas in oven, Infuse milk for bread sauce. Measure out ingredients for chocolate pudding and set aside. (Bread sauce? Chocolate pudding? I think not.)

11am

- He should be given a full breast-feed or full bottle-feed.
- Put prepared potatoes in pan on heat to parboil. (Hang on, I'm breastfeeding.)

11.10am

- Take chipolatas out of oven and leave wrapped in foil (still breastfeeding...)

11.20am

- Melt basting liquid for turkey (yup, still breastfeeding...)

11.30am

- Baste turkey with half the liquid and put in first oven. Potatoes should be parboiling so keep an eye on them, then drain, dredge and leave in pan. (Sod the tatties, I've fed him now so I'm allowed a glass of something dry and fizzy aren't I? Geez.)

11.50am

- Change his nappy, close curtains and settle drowsy baby, half swaddled in the dark with the door shut no later than 12 noon. (Chance would be a fine thing. Put him in a pram and pass me the cooking sherry.)

You see? I suggest paying scant attention to them, for that way madness lies. Even if you have two ovens and pre-prepared stuffing.

So, good on you Cami Walker you generous soul, glad you're teaching the world to grin Gretchen Rubin, and Kim John Payne I agree with all your parenting ideas. But this year I'm going to shuffle through under my own steam if it's all the same to you. Advice is good. But you can have too much of a good thing, and "shuffling through" worked for me on Christmas day.

There's another change afoot in 2013: I'm gently embracing my inner geek. I've realised that no simple or wholesome creative activity is complete without an app or a preparatory session in front of the computer screen.

Not that I'm complaining, it's totally brilliant. I've planned the veg patch for this year, proven that I'm making progress with the post-baby weight loss, lost hours to Ravelry, and completed the first week of an Illustrator course (which I hope will lead to my being able to design things pretty enough to sell...).

Happy New Year one and all. Here's to a geeky one.

growVeg is a very cool tool to draw and plan your veg garden.
you tell it your location and it tells you when to do what
based on your frost dates.

my random recipe for January, chosen by random number generator,
was totally delicious. update coming soon.

pregnancy: plotted.
the NHS BMI Tracker app is so simple, and thoroughly motivational.
I'm getting there... gradually.

the fabulous Nicole's Classes (they of the dotty freebie pattern
you see in my background!) are going to keep me very
busy the first half of 2013, kicking off with a month of
Adobe Illustrator. Here's my first week's homework.

a new blanket idea is hatching - maybe I could use Illustrator to design a
gorgeous pattern sheet to sell on Ravelry? That's my resolution...

positive mental appetite

At 57 degrees of northerly latitude it's dark a lot just now. When the sun does shine it is brief and blinding. But mostly it's dark. And then, last night, the snow arrived. In an effort to stay sane I am trying to see it through the shiny eyes of a five year old who cannot remember the last time she saw snow. They're very shiny eyes.

I am trying not to see it through the eyes of a car-less woman who has to push about 20kg of fully loaded pram a mile up a snowy hill to school before nine o'clock in the morning. Those eyes are not shining.

But when I got home from the Arctic expedition school run this morning, I found the perfect prescription for any weather woes. Meaghan Smith's It Snowed blaring out of the computer, all the gifts and wrapping stuff laid out on the table, happy baby in his bouncer, and a plate piled high with buttered toast. (It really doesn't work without the toast.) I predict the warm fuzzy feeling lasting until we need to tackle the hill again at 3pm.

The recent cold snap has accelerated progress on my current knitting, because this jumper/dress looks like it is going to be so comfortable and warm that I can't wait to finish. Just the sleeves left to do. The Boss has grown out of her jeans, but I think I might have to go and find a cheap pair, because these colours will look great with denim.

Bulle in Araucania Toconao Multy

Where books are concerned, I've been indulging in Nigella Christmas - it's such a great way to start feeling excited about all the catering that the next few weeks promise, rather than being daunted by it. On Saturday, a brunch party at our house is followed by a kids' party at a friend's, so what better day to delve into Nigella Christmas? Chestnut soup, mince pies and Christmas morning muffins beckon for brunch, and Parma ham bundles should transport easily to the party (dates stuffed with goat's cheese and wrapped in ham).

It's important to lay down reserves for those daily Arctic adventures after all.

yarn along :: in brief

There aren't enough hours in the day at the moment. And I know that it'll only get more frantic next month. In lieu of a well-considered, pithy and thought-provoking yarn along post (still working on those things), here's one of this year's projects in use this morning.

In short; I'm knitting an age seven Bulle, using this wool, and I'm really excited about it. So far it feels like the best quality garment I've ever made. Which might be because I'm taking my time and doing it properly, swatching for gauge, alternating my skeins and everything. Also, I'm totally engrossed in reading this amazing story. Recommended by a member of our book group (apparently the author is a friend of a friend of a friend or something) the jacket blurb made me think no, this is not up my strasse at all. But I went for it anyway, and I'm enjoying the long lazy 4am nursing sessions with my wee Kindle light on more than I can tell you. It's awesome.

our lives in stripes

The Puerperium (below left)
The first two tiny weeks. I'm a sack of spuds high on adrenaline. Waddling rather than walking, whilst substantially and absorbantly padded. Afterbirth pains - nobody told me about those. Breastfeeding agony - I knew all about that. He is staggering and beautiful and perfect.

The first Beyond Puerperium (below centre)
Walking is back to normal. Astonishing Pammy A sized ta-tas. Visits to the bathroom no longer feel like a violation. He continues to be divine, gaining a pound per week. But my decreasing adrenaline is inversely proportional to increasing tiredness, reaching a perfect storm around week six, during which things may be said and later regretted. Mummy, what does "flipping" mean?... Why did you call Mr Funny Bunny "that flipping stinky rabbit?"

The following week brings some personal progress, and a routine begins to emerge. And baby giggles. Lots and lots of giggles.

The second Beyond Puerperium (below right)
Who knows what the next phase will bring, but those colours spell Christmas...

Joining in with Yarn Along this week - though I'm afraid there's been no time for reading round these parts. Must try harder...

but baby it's cold out inside

Having only paid fleeting visits to freezing climes over the past few years (each time singing "yah boo sucks frosticles, we're catching the next SQ flight back the poolside" over our shoulders at the top of our lungs) we've forgotten what Winter is like.

Turns out it's like this:

1. Bloody cold outside the house.
2. Can't afford carpet on the ground floor. Artic breezes sweep up through the exposed floorboards.
3. Ergo, bloody cold inside the house as well.

And the worst bit? You know that thing where your sock wrinkles down inside your welly boot and ends up snarled around your toes, and it only ever happens on one foot which almost makes it more annoying? You know that thing? Yeh well, that never happened in Singapore.

We're starting to miss the sunshine a lot, and there are reminders everywhere. The Boss' new best friends at school are Malaysian and Indonesian. I've been reading the beautiful Booker nominated Garden of evening mists by Tan Twan Eng, and I'm craving a fatty bowl of mee with deep fried wonton from my favourite hawker. (Those last two aren't related in any way.)

So in an effort to avoid "grass-is-always-greener" syndrome (something in which I'm prone to wallow like the grumpy hippo that I am), let's focus on the great things about being at home in the cold. Because there are lots of them (and secretly we're thoroughly enjoying this autumnal babymoon).

The best things are, in no particular order:

1. There are no cockroaches or poisonous snakes.
2. My Mum can come to stay without spending a grand.
3. I can have beautiful discontinued wool like Araucania Toconao in my hands within two days.

Isn't this sweater (inspired by Ginny's one) going to look awsomesauce in that wool?

Joining in with Yarn Along and once again seeking your help: Does anyone know a mail order source of Araucania Toconao Multy in shade 406? (AKA the most beautiful yarn ever made what were they THINKING discontinuing it?) And what did Araucania replace Toconao with in their range? I can only order online and I can't be sure what comes up similar to the Toconao. Thanks for any hints  x

ladies, get a hold of your uteri...

...because there's some serious cute coming up.

Not many words for Yarn Along today, as I have my hands rather full. But I wanted to show you that the eight extra days I was kept waiting for the little dragon (or 'xiao long' if my grasp of preschool mandarin/the Din Tai Fung menu is anything to go by) were not wasted days.

(Please excuse the phone photos.)
Stylecraft luxury merino in Mulberry and Cafe

I took inspiration from Anushka's lovely Pompom Papoose, and then completely changed it. I changed the shape (from a simple rectangle to a tapered foot-end), added a button band, and improvised a little leafy autumnal ornamentation. In fact, I haven't even got around to the pompom bit yet, and might omit it altogether, or perhaps make some leaves instead.

So, my hands were not idle. But here's the question: how much does a pattern have to change (and this one was changed utterly) for it to become a new pattern? I'd love to write all the details down and share it with you some time, but wouldn't want to step on any toes.

snug as a bug in a ... papoose

I have read almost nothing during the past week, but have been dipping in and out of the first edition of this new magazine that my friend brought me. It's rather beautiful and references a lot of blogs that I already follow and shops that I already use/lust after. So I'm excited to see that issue two is out tomorrow!

Got to go and address a small nappy now. Happy days!

yarn along :: stuff that shouldn't be happening today

.
Picking the first and only sweet peas of the year... in September? That's just bizarre.

I shouldn't have had time to finish the raspberry Rubble sweater.

I wish I hadn't heard the words "it's discontinued" this morning, with respect to my most favourite wool EVER. Especially at a time when I can't afford to bulk buy all the remaining stock in the local craft shop.

I shouldn't have had time to start a Pompom Papoose in the aforementioned favourite fantastic wool (inspired by lovely Anoushka's version).

I wish I hadn't spent so much time searching through hunnerds of photos (of our recent sandy recreation of DunBroch Castle) for all the porpoises that were frolicking in the background... didn't manage to catch a single one on 'film' sadly.

I shouldn't have needed to recharge and replenish the hospital bag Kindle already, without it ever having been near the hospital bag (now stocked with some Alexander McCall Smith and Chris Cleave btw).

: : :

I should be having a baby today. I don't seem to be doing that. It's bloody annoying.

.

yarn along :: new

Posting a little early for Wednesday's Yarn Along, just in case...

The enormous new blanket that won't fit the dragon baby's bed 'til it's three is finished (dimensions = 97cm x 123cm in the end).

four colours of Rowan wool cotton striped together
(nearly... ahem... 16 balls of the stuff. Please don't tell)

I've invested in new slippers in preparation for my first Scottish Winter in three years, and the amazing Mr Breadwinner shocked me with a final, surprise constituent for our hospital bag: a Kindle. With a beautiful cover that matches my phone perfectly - so chic. I love my new toy. So does our bookshelf. If I could've jumped up and down with excitement I would've. Sadly that'll have to wait a while.

currently reading "Charlotte Street" by Danny Wallace and "Simplicity Parenting" by KJ Payne.
"The Gift of Rain" by Tan Twan Eng is queued for those first weeks of endless infant feeding.

Meanwhile I treated myself to some Cascade 220 for The Boss' new winter jumper (thank you for all your recommendations last week). We consciously keep pink in moderation, and I can confirm that being mindful of princessification during the first formative five years of my daughter's life has worked so far, pink isn't an overbearing issue in our house. But this looked soft and pretty and cosy, and we wouldn't dream of banning the colour altogether. (We're not total bampots.) A pink jumper will be something new, both for me to make and for her to wear.

details: 3 skeins Cascade 220 Heathers in Framboise, destined to be an age 6 Rubble,
using a ChiaoGoo 60cm 4.5mm circular needle (my favourite needles of all time)

So, come on new baby. We're SO ready for your close up now.

37 weeks expectant acrophobe stands on a chair

A few weeks ago I joked that I was making a baby blanket big enough to swaddle my coffee table. As the accompanying photo proves, this is now a reality. 

Definitely no longer a baby blanket. You'd lose a baby in that thing.

Anyway, these are the final three balls of yarn, so the epic 99,000-garter stitch project is at last nearing an end. It'll look all kinds of chi chi on the end of the (double!) bed in our spare room, recently painted in fancy schmancy shades of grey.

I'm at that point where I'm pretty sure I'll go in to labour as soon as the final end is woven in (hope I haven't jinxed that now). Mind you, to get this photo I had to stand on a chair (and I consider standing on a chair cause for having my mobile set to 999 even when I'm not at full-term). I shan't be doing that again. Promise. Anyway, hope that explains the slightly out-of-focus squinty photo. Give me a moment while I wipe the beads from my brow...

So, time for a new project for after the baby arrives. It'll have to be something for The Boss. She's pretty nonplussed about all her handknit garments (to a five year old a jumper is a jumper is a jumper after all, blissfully ignorant as they are to those evenings of cursing and frogging) but I need to make something for her just so that I know. Do you get what I mean? If there's a metaphorical kiss in every stitch and all that, then the dragon baby's been hogging a lot of the stitches, and it's not even born yet. So I need to remedy the imbalance for my own state of mind.

Yarn Along saves the day again with Greer's photos of this edible little sweater (and edible little girl) which have completely whelmed me over. In another browser window, I'm searching Loop for just the right shade of worsted yarn as we speak. Quince Lark stock is running low but there is enough of some colours left. Cascade 220 would work out cheaper. Or should I stick with the Brooklyn Tweed stated by the pattern? Tweed isn't always a favourite look for little girls.

I've never used any of them before - any advice?

And for reading, there's another something you can maybe help me with. There's a been a book doing the rounds and mentioned on several Yarn Along posts over the past few months that I am longing to get a hold of. I've commented to that effect on lots of your posts... and then promptly forgotten to write down the details (blame baby brain). It's non-fiction about organising/simplifying family life (I don't mean 7 by Jen Hatmaker, but Tracey's post about that today made me think of it...)

If you have any idea what I'm babbling on about, please let me know.

Oh, and it was Tracey who won my giveaway last week of the lace-weight shawl kit - hurrah! Couldn't go to a nicer lady, and I do so like making brown paper parcels :-)

yarn along giveaway :: when the going gets tough...

... the cat hits the crack pipe and my thoughts become increasingly haphazard. Don't say you weren't warned.

It seems that if you completely gut much of your house, you also obliterate all of an old cat's pheromone spots (the things she rubs her chin on so happily). If you move her food and litter trays, wash her bed, and put away those deliciously wiffy brogues that have been getting in everyone's way for six months, you're probably just adding insult to injury. The result? Unhappiness. She no longer rubs her chin on anything and cries a lot. At 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am... you get the picture. I know we're awaiting the arrival of a newborn, but this level of preparation is ridiculous. So my stinky old shoes are back under the coffee table, and a pheromone plug-in (aka: the cat crack) has been installed. I hope to God it works.

I tell you all this as a way of (emotionally) fiddling while (my personal) Rome burns.

I now have only 100 minutes left to kill before I'm allowed to go and pick up The Boss from her first day at primary school. Her hand has never been held so tightly as it has been this past week, as I desperately try to cling on to the last few hours of me'n'her.

The 'A' team.

Five-and-a-half years spending most of every day together, just us.

Now there's school and an imminent sibling - surely it can never be quite the same again? Naturally she has responded to all this frantic maternal warmth by being simply adorable, only making the lump in my throat larger with every gulp. Only 95 minutes to go now.

Thank goodness it's Wednesday and there's Yarn Along. The 0-3m cream and ecru puerperium (that I started months ago) is finished, all but the buttons. But the only thing I'm more hopeless at than choosing buttons right now is choosing names, especially the male variety. So my reading material is limited to the boy section of the baby names book for the twentieth time.

On the subject of yarn (and because I want to keep that clock ticking on) I'd really like to give some wool away to a more suitable home. I found a Laughing Hens crochet shawl kit during our recent migration.x.renovation marathon - it was a gift a few years ago from a generous relative who doesn't know the difference between knitting and crochet (and doesn't realise that I cannot crochet to save my life). The kit contains two huge lumps of merino lace yarn (one cream, one teal), a hook and a shawl pattern. I'd much rather spend a few pounds posting it to someone who will value it than stash it away for another few years. There have been so many beautiful lace-weight pieces on the blog circuit this Summer that I figured, even if you don't want to make this particular pattern, perhaps you'll find a use for the wool?

So, if you would like it, do the usual sorta things:

• You can follow on Google 'friend connect' if you like (though it's not necessary to take part, in real life I don't ask for stuff in return for company so I'm not about to start now).
• Please do make sure I can contact you directly by email though; either leave your email address in your comment, or make sure I can find it on a 'contact me' blog page or via your blogger profile (in other words: please switch off your noreplyblogger thingummy, even just for the duration of this giveaway. If I can't email you to get your address then I'll choose the next person.)
• Leave a note in the comments section here saying you'd like to take part before 2200 BST (British Summer Time) on Friday 24th August. I'll pick someone using a random number robot.

Only 90 minutes to go. Instagram will take care of another five...

the ones on the bottom left?

Frill-edged shawl kit giveaway

the reluctant addict

how did this happen?