Laughing at my own jokes

That'll get me into serious trouble one day, that will. For now, it's just another mildly funny episode in the nightmarish treacle pudding that today has been.

Ever get those nightmares where you know you want to do something really enjoyable, or really important, like take indeterminate children to the beach, or go swimming with someone, only to find that first you have to go to town to buy a costume, only you can't do that because another indeterminate child / pet / person has done something indescribable, so first you have to clean that up only you can't find the disinfectant; where before you know it it's almost midnight and you're still trying to reach the front door... and then you wake up.

Well today was one of those days for real. I decided pretty early on (well for me anyway) that I would go out and enjoy the sunshine rather than stay in the chill house and mope. But first of course I had to have breakfast; but before that I had to write my list of jobs for the day; but before that, I just had to peek a teensy at Facebook. Before I knew it, it was 11, no breakfast and no list. Never mind, the outside world was waiting. So eventually, dressed and slapped up, it's seemed important to straighten my hair. And then of course I had to check Facebook again... summoning all my willpower I closed it down, strode downstairs and...

it was then that I discovered the bills. Quick open, check balances and - what? Oh I need to sort that out. And then something else comes up during the same call. And oh yes, while I'm on, how about a third thing... I transferred a credit card balance over to another one. Good job, big savings to be had. Fine. And what's wonderful is I can't remember the PIN on the card that I'm transferring to but I have the PIN for the transferred out card etched on the insides of my eyelids. Until after 35 minutes of phone call, I realise that it's been so long since I've used this card, that actually, my eyelids have healed over... panic. Oh well, stick it in my purse and go try out what I think is the number in an ATM. With me so far? I know I can remember the digits, but are they in the right order...

oh and what's this other post? My Christmas card kits - only all the stuff I've ordered is out of stock and the order can't be met. Shall I go and reorder something new? I don't have that much time left and I'm a slow worker... No, I need fresh air. It can wait till later...

so now I need another going-out wee as my original going-out wee was so long ago it doesn't qualify as such any more. So I have to do another going-out wee. Never forget what your mother told you - if it was worth repeating THAT many times, it was worth remembering. Then I remember that I've left my sunglasses case in the bedroom - hooray I've saved myself an extra uncomfortable trip up the stairs. However, sunglasses case and purse don't fit into super-slip handbag. Not at the same time anyway - so now I have to transfer handbag contents over. OK fine and deep joy, look I've got £10 vouchers to use against the new jeans I need. Oh yay. And then...

handbag transfer complete, I don hat and gloves to realise that (a) the scarf is upstairs and (b) I'm not wearing the matching socks (I knitted all of them). Oh bugger. Never mind, the socks I cannot be arsed to change. But if it's as cold as it seems I will need that scarf...

Finally I am downstairs, coated, booted, bescarfed-hatted-and-gloved, and all set to go. I remove the necessary baggage off the scooter and manoeuver it over and out the front door....

and I've forgotten the scooter key in the other handbag. I go fetch.

With a feeling of utter blissful relief, I am finally ready to go. I get the scooter down off the front path onto the pavement. I lock the wheels back on, exchange a cheery wave and hello with my lovely neighbour over the road. By now it is a good hour and a half later than I had anticipated leaving the house. And what's more, while the house is freezing, outside is balmy, even the breeze is warm. So I shed the scarf and hat - the gloves remain coz you won't believe what a chill factor can be kicked up at 4 miles per hour. Eager to get going, anticipating the wind in my hair, I turn the key in the lock and

realise I've left the battery in the kitchen where it was charging. I huff and swear and lug the thing, step by simply painful step until it is on the machine. And then - FINALLY - I am off. And the breeze kisses the PIN number magically back onto the insides of my eyelids. Happy.

So what's this got to do with laughing at my own jokes? Well not a lot really. Except that in order to get into town, I have to cross a particularly busy and dangerous roundabout, under which there is an underpass thoughtfully provided and maintained by the council. And each time I go to use it, I smile to myself (inwardly I hope - but possibly not, I do catch people looking worriedly in my direction and cross to the other side of the road) and ask myself - stairs or slope? Almost every time that I'm on the scooter I choose the slope - well ok 100% of the time on the scooter if I'm honest - but always I ask myself the question, stairs or slope. Today, I answer myself sensibly - slope of course - and off I go.

Coming home, arriving in the same location, the traditional internal banter continues apace. Stairs or slope? Slope you mad old bat. OK you mardy mare, stairs it is. Weeeeee - down the slope. Well don't expect me to get it right every time *rolls eyes*. At the bottom, I catch up with a couple of youngsters throwing rechargeable lighter cases down which I have to concentrate to dodge. Unawares, I pass the cyclist who has pulled over to one side to allow me to pass - until she says "you're welcome". Belatedly, I thank her; and then ponder upon the possibility of intended sarcasm? Maybe? in her tone. Kicking myself (again inwardly, I can't have people calling me the scary scooter lady) for not simply answering with an expletive, and smiling at myself for my forbearance - well ok I just didn't think fast enough! - I continue and conclude my trip through the underpass. Only to discover that, having returned home by an alternative route, I am now on the wrong side of the road, heading back into town, and the entire subway journey was utterly and completely pointless and now has to be done in reverse. Actually I decide to turn around and do it frontwards, thankful that Young Master isn't there to remind me that I've always told him I have eyes in the back of my head.

And yes *smug smile* of course I forgot to transfer the money-off vouchers into the handbag I took with me.

Just a perfect day...

On Wednesday, Great Chief White Hair took the day off. It rained - well it absolutely chucked it down - as we packed a few things for Young Master's sleepover, and got ourselves ready for the day and evening. Got in the car, and drove to Mum's to pick up the wheelchair, and sister-in-law to drop off the sleepover stuff; then off to London.

The weather was perfect, a crisp autumn day with so many layers of clouds gadding across the sky on so many different levels, but all against a deep background of every blue imaginable. Looking through the sunroof it felt as though I could fall upwards into the deeps. The road was familiar, and urban, but nothing could be boring today.

We arrived at the O2 arena in good time for a very late 4.30 lunch. We chose Garfunkels from the many different choices, and although I tried to eat healthily, well it was a bit of a challenge! But we chose well, and it lasted us for the rest of the day.

After lunch, we went for a walk - well ok I was on the wheels! - and we did the circuit of the arena exterior. It was a real education - 12 ft high Norfok Reeds on the banks of the Thames in the heart of London? At least 4 different kinds of seagulls roosting and rooting together on the mud flats? The terraces in the river floor where the tide had dropped, the calmness of the scene which was heightened by the small craft and water taxis skimming along the river and not subverted either by the aircraft taking off from City Airport - all these seem to add to the perfection somehow. Sitting looking out across the river, feeling so very much at home in that way you do when something is incredibly familiar, yet so very strange and new at the same time. Listening to my idea of heaven - traffic, boats, planes, birds calling, the wind in the rushes, gulls arguing over a fish one has caught but another will eat, the lap of the water.

Well I know where I want to live when I win the lottery!

And then onwards and back inside for the Main Event. Being in a wheelchair does have its uses - early entry and being allowed into the VIP lounge being one of them! By now I was nervous, and excited, with that child's "is this really happening and am I really here?" butterfly flapping its way around my insides. When was the last time I looked forward to something this much, unconditionally, unhesitatingly, with my life-and-soulmate by my side? When was the last time we talked, non-stop, for what, 6 hours? And laughed so completely, so unaware, so uncluttered.

And then the band came on, and I stomped, banged, sang and sang, and it was just me and them and what, how many thousand other people (but they didn't matter). And laughed and smiled, and was joyous.

If you were to ask me what the meaning of true love is, I'd say it's when someone gives up their busy time to take you somewhere they don't particularly want to go, to see something they don't particularly want to see, without ever complaining that they will have to look after you even more than normal for days afterwards, and smiling and laughing, making it one of the best, most perfect days of your life.

And finally...

The last week I have spent blocking, or researching blocking, or getting together blocking materials. Never having blocked any of the knitted garments I've attempted over the years probably explains the lack of similarity between my finished products and the pictures on the pattern covers! But these lacy nothings were so important, it had to be done right. My first attempt could so nearly have been a disaster; I forgot PR's table centre was shaped, and so pinned it round on the lacemaking pillow. Thankfully it was easy to tweak gently into shape at the end, although perhaps not so well as if I'd gone for the Big Solution earlier. Thankfully DT's doily was supposed to be round, and just fit the pillow.

Then came the square one. I picked brains, looked at countless sites that recommended sticking pins into mattresses or carpets (neither of which would go down a treat with Great Chief White Hair), but finally came up with two sites that had wonderful recommendations. One gave Lego-clear instructions for creating a frame, which could be taken apart with wing-nuts for storage, and which will definitely be a possibility if I *ever* get round to attempting that gorgeous peacock shawl I spent years tracking down the pattern for. But one I mentioned to OH and he immediately gave the thumbs up as both practical and suitable for our domestic arrangements - blocks of loft insulation. This can be taped together for added width, or added to if necessary for huge projects. At £5 per block, it can also be fairly reasonably replaced when no longer able to support the tension needed. To prevent any unwanted water absorption, I lined both pillow and foam with old cotton tea towels. I'll keep an eye out for a lightweight alternative that will be big enough to avoid a join.

The pics above are of the equipment cobbled together for these early attempts. The lacemaking pillow was picked up as part of a tatting set from my local charity shop bought for almost £none, at a time a few years back when I was hunting for new challenges. Needless to say I've never even tried tatting, and intend to put the bobbins on Ebay; but the pillow more than paid for itself this week.

The pins, well I've been a bit naughty with those. I *think* the small box of glass headed pins are stainless steel, as they were bought from a craft shop; but the larger box are almost certainly not; the wheel came in a cheap sewing kit so almost certainly are not; and as for the notice board pins... the only thing I got right for sure were the almost-hat-pins. This is something I intend to rectify for next time - rust would NOT look good on knitted lace. The largest pins are sitting in a soap-dish affair I was most disappointed with - it's magnetised so the pins don't fall off, but although it looks deep (and it is) all that base is full of magnet, with only a tiny shallow indent for the pins themselves. Of course you only discover this when you take it out the blister pack...

Soluble starch was hard to find, that is, until after I'd found it online! Only then did I discover that Lakeland sell it; but I now have enough for the foreseeable future. It's too old-fashioned for supermarket shelves, and decent haberdasheries have gone to that eternal shelf-lined cupboard in the sky. But find some I did, and found it very easy to get on with. All three table centres have been soaked in a starch solution to give the crochet points a bit of solidarity, and again as a first attempt I'm pleased with the outcome.

So now I just have to find a more suitable home for the insulation blocks and the pillow. This I sincerely hope is just the start of my lace adventures - I love it. Fingers crossed that my new den (aka the box room) is ready by Christmas :o) DS will be handing out the goodies on a trip to the old school next week, apart from VH's which will be hand-delivered to her door. Of course there are others that I wished I'd created something for, one in particular I think of as a friend rather than school staff; but then hey, who needs an excuse to create something else that looks kind of beautiful?

Part trois

My third and final gift I have two photos of - I'll try to publish both! This is because although it is my clear favourite of the three, it used a shiny mercerised cotton which didn't give great stitch definition in my opinion, so I've had to do a close-up to get the detail right. Standard 4 ply on 3.25 mm needles (the others were knitted on 1.5mm needles which felt like knitting with straw at first!) This is for VH, who like DS has now left the school. Although she was originally the nursery nurse, then after the nursery class teacher, she has also kept a close eye on DS throughout his years in Junior, getting to know and understand him *possibly* better than anyone else in the school. I miss her! The practice at crocheting chains came from knitting each square individually, then crocheting them together; knitting the border and then crocheting 2 rows of chain around that. Each square took about 2 hours to complete, apart from the ones at the start of each row, because of the crocheting; but I am delighted with the result, and what I learned from the experience.

DS is now at secondary school, having earned a place at the local grammar school. He absolutely loves it, is so confident, and already recognised by his smile. We are so very very proud of him.

Part Deux

Ok so I got a photo in successfully, doesn't mean I know how to do it with 3! I had trouble with DT's (yeah haha) because I didn't know how to crochet, and it calls for a scalloped crochet edging. Nevertheless I taught myself to create almost consistent chains by the simple expedient of undoing them over and over again until they looked right. Then my beautiful sister came over for a holiday and did the rest for me! Suffice to say, all three table centres took rather longer than anticipated, allowing for nights when I was simply too shattered doing nothing all day to pick any knitting up; so the gifts are a tad on the late side. Nevertheless, here is PR's gift. PR and I were at primary school together, and worked for a while as dinner ladies when I was still fit enough to do so. Since then, she looked after DS during lunch breaks, breakfast clubs, and always had an eye open for him when he needed intervention. He really misses her. This is knitted in pastels, the same cotton and the same source as the blue one, but with spring tones. Again I have loads left over. Although I blocked this round, thank goodness the shape of it has come through. This was the first bit of blocking I'd ever done, more on that later! I left the crocheting for this one until after I'd finished the third gift, and am very pleased I did - the extra practice ironed out the tension gremlins, I gained in confidence and discovered that omitting the dcs and just using slip stitch stopped the doily from pinching at the edges. Otherwise it would have looked awful.

Don't tsk me. I've been busy!

Well and so I have. I've been studying (haha) and knitting; I've been poorly, attended OUSA Conference, been poorly, had a poorly mum, and am poorly again. Oh so what, that's life. But there are good....ish reasons for not having blogged for a while.

I've got a very respectable pass mark for my studying, which makes me very happy as studying has not been too successful in recent years. But mostly I'm pleased with my crafting results, which won't bear scrutiny from designer types, but which make me happy :o). If I can work out how to, I'll put photos in - ooo another first!

I decided in November last year that I would create individual gifts for certain teachers who have really and truly, repeatedly if not daily, put themselves out to nurture DS through some difficult times at school. I could have gone to the local, rather lovely, boutique of all things different, but instead wanted to knit something that said "thank you" in every stitch. Not having the brains or finance to buy books, I trawled the web for free sites, my favourite being Knitting Pattern Central, and found patterns for the projects. I can't do individual credits at this stage, as if I manage to put the photos on it will be a minor miracle; however these were all sourced free of charge, and all found through KPC. So I hope I'm not breaking copyright. I started off with one for a male teacher, DT. He's looked after DS through thick and thin since he joined Juniors, and ended up as his class teacher in Year 6. OK so it's a bit twee giving a bloke knitted lace, so I did it in variegated blue (cue screams of sexual stereotyping please!) cotton which I bought on Ebay from Paraguay for almost no money at all. Incredible value, 1000m balls, and I've used about half of one. I'm tempted to knit myself something with what remains, tho I'll probably have to double it up to get somewhere near a 4-ply thickness. Anyway the finished item appears at the top. It looks a bit off-circular because of the colour variations in the cotton, but these actually enhance the flounces in the lace pattern.

From cross-stitch to cross types

Over the weekend I went to the Stitch and Craft Show at Olympia. Big Chief White Hair accompanied, guided, created paths, and generally was a thoroughly nice chap all day despite problems of his own, including an almost pathological fear of knitting needles. I shook hands with Jane Greenoff, who didn't mind being called a cross stitch goddess when fibro fog flared at a most inopportune moment; I LOVED her hair which was curly and silver-fox with lilac tips - she is stunning, it has to be said. And I have to say that while there were the odd incidents of doziness among my crafting sisters, the vast majority looked out for me on the scooter, offered help, showed me stuff on stalls that I couldn't ride up to, and I was overwhelmed by all the hints on how to take people's legs out from under them with my walking sticks! Quite apart from all the lovely crafty and haberdashery-y stuff, it was a very reaffirming day, despite the sore throat and croaking like a frog. I was even allowed to add to my roomfull of stash with some rather lovely South American hand-dyed sock wool.

Saturday was rather contrasted by yesterday; for reasons far too boring to mention, I sat for 4 hours in a hospital bay with other G P referrals having some tests run. The others we sat with had been there for a couple of hours longer than us, and perhaps didn't have my prior experience so hadn't brought any books or magazines with which to while away the time; instead, they talked, mostly about the length of time they'd been waiting, or told jokes. K and I joined in if we felt like it, which mostly we didn't because he had the D S and I had my knitting; but there was something almost furtive about the way the jokes were shared, initially at least. Irish, Essex and blonde all combined to make one joke which I wish I could remember because it would stand scrutiny on my English course - it wasn't a particularly funny joke because I'd heard it several times before, and it hadn't needed anyone in it to be Irish, from Essex, or blonde, to have been very funny the first time around. But this in turn led to much funnier home-grown jokes told for the sake of playing with language alone, and it has to be said made the atmosphere much friendlier and helped pass the time too. But while this humour didn't do enough, sadly, to abate the cross air, when D H had to return home so that the house wouldn't be empty for D S after school, I had offers of help to collect my sticks'n'stuff to walk to the exam room.

So don't believe it when people say chivalry is dead. In the sense of "little women can't turn door handles" it is, and three cheers I say; but what has taken its place is that men and women alike seem to evaluate better what help others need, regardless of their age and sex. Not everyone, not all the time, and maybe not at all in some places; there was an example on Saturday of help not being rendered at all despite D H requesting - and needing - it, apparently and unfortunately based on his age, sex and size. But I do witness frequent offers of assistance from people wherever I go, whether offered to me or to other people, and it belies talk of a community spirit vacuum. Men don't doff hats or hold doors open for women just because they are women; but young people and old alike do look out for each other and offer help because they genuinely think it might be needed.

Of course again there are exceptions, such as the cab driver I shouted at the other day. He sits on a cab rank not far from the house, and if I call for one at a certain time of the day, it would be odds on that he would turn up. And it would go something like this. I'd approach the cab, by which time he'd spot the sticks, be out the door, round to my side and open the door before I could scrabble for the door handle; but then he would grab a part of my body - despite my oft-repeated "no thank you"s - and lever me in through the door (I should make it clear this is a black cab). On arrival, again deaf to my "I'm Ok"s, he would grab a bit of me to pull me out. Now I'm not complaining about his offers of help, just that sometimes they seemed an excuse for a course of action he had already decided to take whether I wanted his help or not.

Anyway, about a month ago - or was it only a fortnight? - he arrived again, and my heart sank. A neighbour was on the other side of the road getting into or out of his car; and the black cab rolled up, just far away from the front door that he could get round to my car door before I got there. And, in a progressively more daring move than he had made before - each prior grab had been just a teensy bit more daring and a teensy bit more close and a helluva lot less appreciated than the one before - he grabbed me by the left shoulder and by my right arm in a one-sided bear hug. And I almost screamed "DON'T TOUCH ME!!!!" It was the accumulation of many such episodes, many such cab journeys with this man, many such tiny humiliations at his hands that I simply lost control - plus more than a pinch of fibro-fog getting in the way of a more measured reply to his hands. The neighbour across the road literally jumped; the driver certainly leapt three feet backward, and I got into the cab under my own steam and slammed the door. The ensuing journey passed in embarrassed silence, and suffice to say that although I have had need of cabs at that time of the day in the intervening period, I haven't seen him since.

I dunno what his motives were. I dunno if he looks at me and thinks poor thing, so young (I'm not!) oh two sticks, I dunno. I dunno if he's a filty letch who clocks my 40FFs and thinks the sticks render me super-vulnerable. What I do know is that however I retell the story, however much hilarity with girlfriends ensues, what was not funny was the shaking I couldn't control for the next half an hour, even talking to D H on my mobile to talk it out. The feeling that being disabled means that people don't have to listen to you any more; that they can touch you wherever and however they want; but most of all that they can ask meaningless questions of you and totally ignore the answers because they have the power.

Not THIS girl, not THIS lifetime.

And Saturday was actually a healing experience.