Too much!!

I know I know, two posts in a week!

I'm determined to inflict every stage of this project on the world at large (well my half dozen or so followers at any rate!)

So the next stage is choosing designs.

This wool struck me as being Kauni's big brother. It's softer than the Kauni, but seems to have a similar colour range, so I've spent an hour or so sifting through my bookmarks to find a few possible charts. I really want this bag to be a work of art.

I've looked at everything from hexagon piecework to entrelac to Scandinavian two-colour charts and so far here's a selection. For anyone who's not heard of Kauni before, I recommend googling "Kauni Damask" for photos of the striking vibrancy possible with these rainbow wools. I don't want to get into copyright bother but cutting and pasting pictures direct.

So anyway, here are a few colour chart possibles: first the damask chart looks like this: then there are other charts taken from my favourite Scandinavian resource, Jessica Tromp:
Rainbow yarns can give an absolutely stunning effect when one ball is started off at a different phase from another. Kauni Damask is a fabulous example of this, but there are other contrast patterns that work well too. The important thing is that the "pace" of the colour changes in the two balls being worked stays the same, and this in a way dictates the choice of chart to be worked. So ideally the pattern chart will have equal numbers of main and contrast stitches, and there won't be one row where one strand of yarn travels across umpteen stitches that are knitted from the other ball - quite aside from the tension problems this can create, there will be more yarn used in the knitted stitches than in the carried yarn, with the result that the colours will get out of step with each other.

But having said *all* that, it might not matter too much once I've worked out the final bag shape and dimensions, and decided which colour panel goes where. I intend to use two or three designs for contrast; the jury is still out though whether I am brave enough to attempt to sew in the zip, or even to attempt the felting.

I feel a tension square coming on.

And now for something completely challenging...

My Ultimate Knitting Bag: Part 1

For yearsnyearsnyearsnyearsnyears I have been in search of that elusive perfect knitting bag. And it's eluded me because I never really understood what it was that I wanted from it. Finally, after much analysis, I've come to the conclusion that what I want doesn't really exist so I will have to have a go at making it myself.

Now I read other people's knitting blogs and find myself wondering just how they can find knitting *that* interesting to write about it so much. Me, I'd rather knit than type about it. So now really isn't the time to admit that I've just deleted 6 long and tedious paragraphs about what makes the perfect knitting bag...

So anyway, here's the bare bones (and here's where I curse my camera for not having caught the sheer vibrance of the colours involved). The yarn is a sample of 15 balls I bought from China courtesy of Ebay - pure wool in the most gorgous array of colours. The handles and magnetic closures are red leather with punched tabs for stitching into place. The handles, zip and closures are all finished in the same antique brass as the feet. The silver bar affair is a Gladstone closure fitting so the finished bag will hold itself open as needed, and the white plastic aida will form the base and bottom few inches of the sides of the bag. Finally it's all laid out on a really vibrant scarlet needlechord material I bought for lining - tough but very soft, and at £3 for 3 metres, also very cheap!

Ends and beginnings.

I finally have to admit that I am giving up studying. I'm doing my best to see the current course through, but it's unlikely I'll even finish it. After this, no more courses with OU, at least until I am physically fit enough to be able to sit down for a day without it impacting on my health and wellbeing for a week afterwards.

I know that sounds barmy, but I have been realising lately, and it's made me feel incredibly sad, that a day spent studying = a day of less moving than I need to do; a day of all my spoons spent and then some; and then a week or two of studying will equal a month of afternoons in bed. It's just so bad for me.

So I'm trying to bring my weight down; I need at least 2 sessions a week in the gym to give me the kind of energy boost that means I can get on and live a normal life. For me fibro plus a combination of different arthritises means that for every hour spent in bed one day, I will spend an hour and a half the following day. Fatigue, in my case, really does beget fatigue. So I need to fight it. And that means giving up something I've loved (and sometimes hated) for a lot of years now.

I won't get my graduation picture on the mantelpiece - and that thought, bizarrely, chokes me up. It's what I've always yearned for, since almost failing my A-levels 30 years ago. But you know what, now I have new dreams and new ambitions. I just need to aim at them now.

Who am I?

I am:

Strong; persistent; funny; warm; caring; capable; intelligent; cuddly; maternal; musical; amazing; busy; supportive; kind; generous; witty; friendly; outgoing; helpful; honest; happy; content; crazy; interesting; liberated; liberal; broad-minded; loving;



Obstinate; easily thrown; indecisive; lazy; acquisitive; boring; egocentric; wasteful; boastful; smug; cantankerous; bitchy; hot-tempered; negative; shy; introverted; defensive; bewildered; crazy;

I am not: energetic; quickthinking; alert; mistrustful; distrustful; disrespectful; careful; perfect.

Storm-tossed

I feel as restless as the gale rocking the house (no mean feat - the house is terraced. The whole row must be shaking). So I've decided to record one of the saddest and yet most life-affirming days of my life.

This afternoon - yesterday afternoon I suppose - I attended the funeral of the mother of one of my best friends from school, one of my longest-standing and definitely my most steadfast friend, who has never, over the years, forgotten me; never given up on me; never let me go.

It was an afternoon of memories, tangible and ethereal, bittersweet but without recrimination. It was an afternoon I don't think I will ever forget. I don't want to ever forget again.

It was the Afternoon-of-the-Not-For-A-Long-Times. Not for a long time have I visited the particular church where the Requiem Mass was held; my last memory of being there, although I know I visited it many times after, was as a bridesmaid at the first wedding of my eldest sister. Not for a long, too long, time, have I seen the friend I want to hug tight from across the church. Not since I sang it as a solo for my own father's funeral nearly 19 years ago have I sung the hymn led by my friend and her family. Not for the longest time have I felt the comfort of ritual and of familiar words I thought I had lost forever.

Not for 38 years have I crossed the threshold of what used to be the infant block of my Primary School before it moved to new premises. Arriving some time before the majority of guests, I have time to wander with my phone and snap away the intervening years - this is the room where I dance to Music With Movement as a five-year-old in vest and knickers; these are the boys' toilets that I walk into by mistake on my very first day at school, not knowing any different - a toilet is surely a toilet? - and get my first educational telling off. Actually, musing on that, I've been straying into men's toilets ever since. That's what I call true equality. But no - today I refrain from entering what are now the men's toilets in what is now used as the church hall.

Some parts I no longer recognise. The main hall itself I am sure used to be partitioned into possibly 3 classrooms. Of course the cloakroom has gone, and I don't recognise Miss Pullen's class, the first classroom I know, that I can still picture to this day. There are new structures, new doorways, but still the same Victorian decoration. Long gone is the dinner hall, which used to be across the road. I stand and gaze at the relatively new (well probably 30+ years old) mechanicky garagey affair that has taken its place - but I can still see the original building, feel the hand of another child in mine as we crocodile across the road every day for lunch, and yes the smell of cabbagey custard is still there. I swear.

Outside - there are the bullseyes we use for ballgames. The bars (aka climbing frames) have gone. But there is the corner I stand in for a whole term because I am terrified of being knocked over by bigger kids. There's the spot where I first redecorate my face, when - what was her name? It's lurking behind the boxes in a dark corner - an older girl who has adopted me, spins me around so fast that I let go, nearly break my nose and black both eyes on the tarmac. There is the alleyway between church and junior block that I walk on the day I take my First Communion. Surely these playgrounds have shrunk? They should be huge. But strangely they're not.

My friend and I can't stop hugging. We live no more than 20 miles apart, but I have been just about as flakey as a friend gets over the years. None of that seems to matter now, we are back in touch, and I can't believe that after all these years she wants me there on such a special and sad day. It is a true celebration of life, and the people-memories are just waiting to tap me on the shoulder. Our families seem to have been intertwined for many years - her cousin was at school and close friends with my older brother, and I am hugged and hugged and hugged by other cousins we also shared our school days with. The reactions are actually quite funny. I smile at someone I once shared so many hours of so many days with; they smile politely back; double-take; shriek "I know that FACE". I decide I will never, ever commit a crime on cctv because even with a balaclava, half of Essex will scream at the tv set - "THAT'S JENNIFER WIGLEY!!!

Even funnier is that more recent friends of my friend have taught my son, and so I seem to know half the people, where I expected to remember two or three. It underlines to me how life twists and slips away from us - people I've known for 6 years or more meet my friend of 36 years once a month - and I don't realise.

But the best feeling in the world, the saddest, the most comforting, the most wonderful, is when another of our original group of friends comes over and we hug like we will never let go. And then all three of us sit and talk as though it were yesterday that we last met. I show photos of Rob. I feel as though I have rediscovered part of my own family.

Back at home, the October winds lash the house with a plaintive song that fills my head and wets my cheeks. So much love, so much acceptance, so many memories. I probably won't sleep tonight, I've already tossed and turned so much in tune with the storm, and I don't want to disturb the workers. I'll dry my tears, wipe the sniffly nose, and smile.