After Saturday morning’s cat-knitting emergency and some swift multi-tasking (emptying the washing machine and cat litter whilst colouring my hair for example) in the afternoon I went to the cinema with H to see No Country for Old Men, the latest film by the Coen brothers. Don’t read anything about it if you want to see it. It’s almost undoubtedly better approached without prior knowledge. It’s a wonderful film, Fargo-esque but bleaker. The cinematography is absolutely stunning, the ending (controversial I understand) puzzling but ultimately satisfying, the acting (particularly Javier Bardem and Tommy Lee Jones) excellent. It takes a bit of digesting though. Definitely not a quick-fix no-brainer film.
Afterwards a beer in a pub with a large number of mice scampering around the floor, then off to Sainsburys for the evening’s essentials – champagne and cat litter. The former for a birthday party, the latter for, I’m sure you’ll be astonished to hear, the cat. Who still lives, not yet stabbed through the heart with a knitting needle, but has a smaller stash of remaining lives.
There is such joy in making things for people. I’m sure I’ve drivelled on about this before but that doesn’t make it less true. Here are A’s birthday arm-warmers and J’s thank-you socks, both now despatched to their recipients.
A’s party was wonderful. Fireworks banged and sparkled, champagne popped and fizzed, conversation scintillated, seeds were planted, party poppers, er, snapped and showered golden hearts. On top of the earlier beer went ginger champagne cocktails, straight champagne and caipirinhas made with an unusual additional ingredient – champagne. Even the cake was in the shape of a champagne bottle.
I walked home in the crisp darkness under the twinkling stars considerably more steadily than you might imagine. Progress was marked by the metronomic ringing of the metal tip of my kitten-heeled boots on the pavement which echoed off the pavements and walls of the dark and silent streets. About a third of the way along my own street I heard footsteps behind me. Quiet, furtive footsteps. I stuck to my unhurried rhythm and didn’t look round. The furtive footsteps got closer, faster. The unknown person was now running. I had no bag, no valuables, nothing but my front door keys and phone.
Clang, clang, clang went the unperturbed rhythm of steel on pavement. Then a man appeared, attached to the running feet, who whirled around in front of me and said “lovely weather isn’t it”. Clang, clang, clang went the unchanged beat. I glanced at the sky. “There are no clouds” I replied. Clang, clang, clang. “So, how are you?” he asked. “I’m absolutely fine thank you very much” I said. At that he turned and loped away, back in the direction from which he had come. Clang, clang, clang said the unhurried heels to the pavement.
Sunday morning was bright, beautiful and entirely without hangover. I met Jean
and we went on a lovely walk, with cameras, to Battersea Park
and the Peace Pagoda
neither of which I had visited before. The light was absolutely fantastic.
Well what’s a girl to do? the stockings are rough-going and I need something to ring the changes now that all my other projects have been finished. And besides, the yarn is fair trade and I shall be contributing to the health and well-being of Peruvian children. It would be churlish not to. Thus it is that I shall shortly be casting on the lazaro sleeveless top using hacho yarn shade 303 (coral reef). I managed not quite to hear Jean’s muttering about my cupboard full of wool at home.
Photographs of the day are here.