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A small day of huge delight

On the way home white paper birds flutter in the breeze near the Interplanetary Society. I turn and snap them quickly with my phone.

paper birds

On the train a discarded newspaper tells me a paper plane is to be launched from space.

This morning I popped in to F’s for a quick cup of coffee after dropping Secondspawn at school. Didn’t leave til three. Oh the delicious companionable delight of a kitchen table, gourmet food rustled out of the air, T joining the coven, the dogs trying to out-fart each other beneath our feet. The talk, the laughter. The knitting. Oh yes. The knitting.

Home to deposit the out-farted dog and then down to my first ever I Knit London weekly knitting club. A panicked mail to knittingdiva Pixeldiva expressing social inadequacy and fear of strangers had elicited sympathy and a companion experienced at these events.

Oh joy. Oh happiness. The tiny shop has hanks of multicoloured yarn hanging from rails on the ceiling so full is it of juicy multi-coloured fibre joy. The smell is a faint, subtle but unmistakable perfume. Of wool. And dye. And spun delight. The shop concentrates on hand-dyed yarns from small British producers as well as some of the standard brands. Everything is edible.

First I have to undertake my urgent and important mission – buy sock needles for F. Then the far more difficult task of not buying vast quantities of yarn. I succeed, mostly. I get (as I had planned and allowed myself to) a hank of the most divine alpaca/wool mix aran in a colour called “twilight” for a planned present for a friend and the needles to go with it. But then weakness crept in and so did a completely unnecessary skein of sock yarn. Hardly any time remained, after the transports of delight, for actual knitting before I had to rush to transport of a more prosaic variety in order to get back home before the children returned from their father’s. Which I very nearly succeeded in doing.

On the way back I gazed at the unbelievable colours, stroked the incredible texture and marvelled at the priceless pleasure something as simple as three friends and two skeins of wool can provide.

So. To sum up. Today I went round to a friend’s house and met another at a wool shop. Then I went home.

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Sense and suitability

So. You have dry skin. Very dry skin. You are prone to eczema in the winter. You decide to make, of all things, a pair of knitted stockings. Out of wool, that fibre so well known for its not-soothing properties. You have the opportunity to choose something called “4 ply soft” which is, as its name implies, softly fluffsome. But no. You choose something called “4 ply tweed” which is as itchy, scratchy and close to barbed wire as its name might lead you to believe.

I believe that throughout history women have suffered for this and that thing (amongst them beauty) but voluntarily to construct, at great expense of time and effort, what amounts to a nether garment of ground glass seems a bizarre thing to do. But in life, as they say, one must take the rough with the smooth. It makes little sense, but is a suitable project (on the theme of “pairs”) to knit while listening to Emma.

stocking top

I have made a start on sorting out the drifts of detritus with which the house is infested. Sorting out and culling the vast numbers of books, videos and cds for a start. Ruthlessly. In this process I came across handfuls of photographs from various lengths of time ago and distances away. Some I’m keeping in order to embarrass the children at a future date but many I’m chucking. However the ruthlessness faltered on discovering the ancient school exercise book, carefully covered in plastic, containing a detailed history of my first ever dog, Vicky.

vicky

The home-made height and weight chart is reminiscent of those one is obliged to keep for babies but I recall enormous levels of anxiety about the health, nutritional status and well-being of my new puppy and not batting an eyelid over those of either of the babies. Maybe the one had prepared me for the other. Certainly for the first few days of puppy care I went to bed in fear and terror that she’d die in the night, probably as the result of some mistake on my part.

It is extraordinary the overwhelming rush of physical sensation that picture provoked. I recalled, instantly and vividly, the exact feel of hugging Vicky while she sat in that attitude, the dimensions of her neck and the texture of her fur. The “rough” in rough collie (in contrast to the smooth collie) refers mostly to the abundance rather than texture of the fur. And indeed compared to Maizy’s her fur was smooth indeed, long overcoat over a dense undercoat of softest fleece. I loved to bury my face in her ruff. I loved brushing her from the tips of her ears to the tip of her tail. Which was fortunate really since the breed requires regular and thorough grooming. I remember lying on the grass on my stomach in the summer reading a book and the heft of her as she lay on the backs of my legs, the press of her as she lay next to me with her nose against my arm. Hers was the only physical contact I had and all the sweeter for it.

I love to watch the children building up their own sense-memories with the cat and the dog. Both boys were, for a long time, much more keen on doing so with the cat. Who can blame them. The appeal is obvious. Quiet, phlegmatic, soft as angora and manufacturer of delightful sounds of cuteness. Maizy, on the other hand, is a hyperactive small yappy-type dog of uncertain temper and, least forgivable of all, coated in fur akin to coconut matting.

However my wise words about beauty being more than fur deep appear to be bearing fruit and both Mario and Maizy are now appreciated for more than merely their surface charms. “One has,” I intone sagely and no doubt in a highly irritating fashion, “to make the best of both the rough and the smooth”. I point out the extraordinary utility of rough shaggy fur for a dog in an uncertain climate in which rain and cold predominate. And how this means she doesn’t have to wear a wussy knitted coat when out and about. Unless at some future date I choose to make one and force her to wear it for reasons entirely unconnected with protection from the elements.

Hmm. I wonder. Perhaps there is a way in which a pair of extra-long scratchy socks might be adapted… but no. I have a cunning plan with respect to the stockings-of-sandpaper. I have various pairs of sheer, brightly-coloured and, most important of all, smooth tights which I can wear beneath the unsuitably textured accessories and thus both protect the over-delicate skin and provide added visual interest as the under-colour will show through the (deliberate) holes in the pattern of the stockings. And I shall hold them up with a ribbon in a suitably toning/clashing shade. Always assuming, of course, that I actually finish them.

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Swapping needles for lenses

How glorious to go out and about with the camera again. All Neha’s idea, and a superb one. Despite the gloomy weather, damp chill and dull light not only did we not get rained on, we also saw sights of tropical brilliance which cheered the eye, warmed the heart and generally brought a glow to the day.

bold peacock

There were peacocks! scritching, scratching around in the damp earth, bounding over fences and, best of all, utterly silent.

feathers

None of the adult males gave us a full-on tail display but even folded and trailing along the ground the colours, patterns, sheen, all are breathtaking.

This shyer male was preening under the shade of a large holly bush. It must be rather exhausting dragging that train around even if individually its components are, er, light as a feather.

shy peacock

Round a couple of corners, into a formal garden and there, hanging from a pair of bird feeders, were enough parakeets to be defined as a flock. We played a cautious game of “how close can we get before you fly away” but luckily they only went as far as the branches above if we disturbed their equanimity.

bugger off and let me eat

Neha’s description of the parakeets is so much better than anything I could say.

oy I got here first

Now obviously they’re pretty birds. But they were utterly monopolising the feeders and large numbers of other species were left hanging around, hungry. Their days in the UK may be numbered since they threaten native species.

Ecologist Tony Drakeford said: “They are very pretty and exotic birds but are having a serious impact on our woodland tree-crevice nesters.

“There is no rightful place or ecological niche for these birds.”

“Something needs to be done with immediate effect but the options are complicated. In the past we have managed to control the rapid growth of other wild animals. With Canada geese we pricked the eggs to prevent offspring and with grey squirrels we dished out the birth-control pill. But these types of solution just won’t work for the parakeet. There will be a tremendous outcry if we cull them but it may be our only hope.”

Grey squirrels on the pill? it doesn’t appear to have worked particularly well.

The day’s pictures are here.

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Yoohoo! Mr Darcy!

mr darcy, where are you?

The Austenesque is complete. Now where’s Colin Firth got to?

Many thanks to: stylist – Neha; location scout – Neha; fashion adviser – Neha; photographer’s assistant – Neha; photographer – Neha.

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Miscellany

The other night I dreamt that the second and third toes of my right foot fused together into one toe. The same was happening to the corresponding toes on my left foot but I managed, painlessly I think, to peel them apart before they fused as seamlessly and irrevocably as the others had done.

Also in the same phantasmagorical interlude Maizy had open heart surgery and I disturbed her as she was coming round from the anaesthetic, her entire body a mass of huge stitches, she was in pain and I was told to leave because it was my fault. It was also revealed that a dear friend from university was best friend to a former colleague whom I disliked intensely; from this latter I learnt, in the dream, much about my own lack of humility, overabundance of judgementalness and the importance of right livelihood.

The foot thing is highly likely to be related to the current sock-knitting and the acquisition of a pattern for a knitted tabi, the Japanese foot-covering with a separate big toe designed to be worn with thonged shoes and traditionally sewn from cloth. Could the multi-pierced Maizy be traced back in some way to the weekend’s re-encounter with the nightmares in stitches of Louise Bourgeoise?

Or perhaps the whole technicolour experience was due to the consumption of an entire family-sized packet of jelly babies shortly before going to bed. They, after all, have fused toes and are no doubt full of enough noxious chemicals in sufficient quantities to disturb the brain chemistry of even the unsusceptible let alone the susceptible to such imbalances.

It is only recently that I have been able to look a jelly baby in the face, much less insert one into my own. As a very small child (probably between the ages of three and six) my father used to drive my brother and I for what seemed like several days across the country to pay dutiful visits to his aunt. My mother, needless to say, refused to go. I hated it. Hours of excruciating boredom on the way there, hours of excruciating boredom once we arrived (apart from the very few minutes of entertainment provided by Billy the budgie who didn’t talk and bit).

Worst of all was the appalling sickness on the way home. I was always sick. I was always sick for the same reason. Because my thoughtless and horrible great aunt always, without fail, gave me a humungous box of jelly babies and I always, without fail, ate them all in the car on the way home. And it was clearly her fault. It was also her fault that my brother didn’t open his box for days, ate them in small but regular quantities and taunted me with his sweetfulness and my lack thereof for weeks afterwards, which made me very sour indeed towards both of them.

Thinking about this childish shift of responsibility and how prevalent it is in various forms in people of all ages as well as organisations, governments and entire cultures led me to the wikipedia article on locus of control personality orientations which has made interesting reading.

Internals tend to attribute outcomes of events to their own control. Externals attribute outcomes of events to external circumstances. For example, college students with a strong internal locus of control may believe that their grades were achieved through their own abilities and efforts, whereas those with a strong external locus of control may believe that their grades are the result of good or bad luck, or to a professor who designs bad tests or grades capriciously; hence, they are less likely to expect that their own efforts will result in success and are therefore less likely to work hard for high grades… Due to their locating control outside themselves, externals tend to feel they have less control over their fate. People with an external locus of control tend to be more stressed and prone to clinical depression.

Indeed. It’s something else I feel shifting.

So what else? I’ve been doing a great deal of knitting at home, on the bus, in cafés, round at friends’, whilst listening to an unabridged reading of Emma etc. I’ve added a widgety bit of javascript to the sidebar showing recent projects and their progress. Down on the right, below the twittering. A piece of gorgeous goodness from Casey the code monkey at Ravelry.

My father seemed highly gratified with his birthday socks; I started a pair for myself, one of which posed with some art at the weekend; started and finished a very pleasing beret and finally, finally, just a few minutes ago, sewed in the last end of the Austenesque. I’m thinking of modelling it and asking Neha to take a celebratory picture of it when we meet up what is now later today. But I think I need to get hold of a corset first, somehow.

So in the absence of a picture of the charming garment here is a picture of my charming creatures being aaawsome. Taken by the charming and aaawsome Alistair. On his iPhone. Jealous? moi? overcome with uncontrollable capitalistic acquisitive gadget lust? No, no. Of course not.

my creatures are aaaaawsome

This is also, incidentally, a wonderful example of how not, according to all the best advice, to write a blog post. But what do I care? I am half-woman, half-vegetable. Curly kale to be precise. And I’m very happy this way.

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links for 2008-01-15

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Love and Attachment

I went again to the Louise Bourgeois exhibition at the Tate Modern yesterday. The moment I saw this sculpture I thought of the Buddhist concept of attachment and non-attachment.

give, take

Please read Beth‘s post of the same name, including the comments.

I have long been wondering how best to illustrate the idea of non-attachment visually since Alistair first told me Joseph Goldstein’s explanation which completely revolutionised the way I conceived of the notion.

Now I’ve found the perfect pictorial co-relative, and don’t have to write an exegesis since by the serenwebity of the internetting Beth and her commenters have done it already!