tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71957872315090333692024-02-19T07:51:23.996-08:00Hand Wash Dry FlatJust because the label says so, doesn't mean you always have to. Does it?Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-820300260468246672013-09-02T07:36:00.000-07:002013-09-02T07:36:18.847-07:00Reader, I Married Him.<br />
'Moving on'. A stupid phrase, with so many negative implications, don't you think? When I hear people talk about moving on, it's always about dumping things, dumping people, dumping situations, and in a lot of ways, it is about all that. The things cluttering up your home that you've held on to, yet never really liked. Clothes that don't fit, or never suited you anyway (what was I thinking when I bought that yellow suit?).<br />
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Those so-called friends who were really a bunch of miscreants whose only source of entertainment was to make your life a living hell, with their bitchiness and dramas, gossip and interfering.<br />
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The misery, the sorrow, the grief. Dump it all, let it go.<br />
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Instead of investing time and emotion on the negative aspects of my life, I choose now to focus on the important things, the things that have made me happy over the past few years, those moments of joy that have kept me going through - adversity I suppose, for want of a better, less worn-out word.<br />
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I have wonderful memories of my mother that will stay with me for the rest of my life.<br />
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I have family who love, value and respect me as much as I do them, and I cherish that.<br />
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I have friends who bind me to them with their good sense and humour, their bravery, their companionship and love.<br />
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I have pictures that remind me of happy times, and souvenirs of a life well lived.<br />
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I have clothes that make me feel good, confident and strong whenever I choose to wear them, and the books on my shelves and music on my iPod stimulate my heart, soul and mind. <br />
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My knitting and cooking fire up my passions and move me to create, even if the end results are a pile of crap, I still love and enjoy them so very much.<br />
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As well as these, and so much else, I have a partner in life who has held my hand, kissed my lips and loved me unconditionally for seventeen years, through the good, bad and woeful of times.<br />
<br />
"Babe", he said to me one day, "let's get married".<br />
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And so we did.<br />
<br />
As many of our friends and family that could, came together at a registry office in Jersey, Channel Islands, and watched two confirmed batchelors - or so we thought - solemnly(-ish) declare to love and care for each other for the rest of our lives, signing our marriage certificate to the strains of 'Stone Cold Dead In The Market'. A wholly inappropriate song, I suggest you look it up for confirmation. Much later at the reception, we watched as guests laughed, ate a shed-load of cake, swam in the pool and, in the case of our younger guests, beat the living crap out a fish-shaped pinata. Yes, there were tons of pictures. No, I don't have any of them. I'm hoping to see some at some point, if people are kind enough to send them in. I'm told that some are absolute corkers.<br />
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What a wonderful bunch of people you all are, I am still overwhelmed that you came, and send you as much love and best wishes as you sent to us.<br />
<br />
The next day, Studley and I packed up our stuff and sailed off to the island of Sark, where we walked a lot, talked a lot, laughed and ate (a lot), and fished in the sunshine, and for the first time in a long time I was truly, completely and ecstatically happy.<br />
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And so it is that I - that is to say, <i>we</i> - move on with a new sense of selves, a new feeling of belonging. All the things, the situations, that made us unhappy in the past will never completely disappear, we would be foolish to think they ever will. Crap comes along, it brings its' mates and sometimes eats at your heart. That's what crap does, right? It takes up space in your mind and screws with you from time to time.<br />
<br />
But things feel different now. I feel different now.<br />
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I'm happy. Happier than I have ever been in my whole life.<br />
<br />
I married my best friend.<br />
<br />Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-29733380709306146912013-07-01T18:18:00.000-07:002013-07-01T18:26:26.951-07:00One Year On...Dear Mumsie,<br />
<br />
Well, here we are. One year ago, you passed away. I can't help but think you're looking down at me, knowing just what a shitty year it's been, and being extremely disappointed at how I've dealt with it.<br />
<br />
All through your illness, I was the strong one, or so I thought. Supporting you through the chemo, the radiotherapy, cleaning your house, cooking your meals, getting you to your appointments and dealing with the hospital, the doctors, the nurses, the home care, all meant I had to be strong for you. After four years and finally seeing you up and about, able to go to church, visit family and friends, even to go on holiday and enjoy a birthday party, I thought I was doing it right. I thought I was being strong and doing what I was supposed to do.<br />
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And yet, I feel like somewhere along the line, I took my eye off the ball. Immersing myself in the routine of taking care of you, I somehow managed to miss that moment, when the cancer returned.<br />
<br />
I blamed myself, and it's because I blamed myself that my year turned out to be so shitty.<br />
<br />
It's all well and good being told that I did the best I could, or that no-one else could have done more. I know I did the best I could, but will always wonder how much more I could have done. I'm naturally an intra-punitive person, I will always think like that.<br />
<br />
Your final diagnosis seemed to break me in two. I fought so hard for you, but when things were taken out of our hands, I felt my spirit dissipate, and then I would cry, loudly, and for so long that I'm sure you wouldn't have recognized the lost, broken and snotty pile of uselessness that I became as someone you had raised to be a hell of a lot better than that.<br />
<br />
I failed you, Mumsie. I forgot what it was to be strong. I let myself be consumed by the anger and the darkness that came with the grief.<br />
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Even now, one year on, I can still remember the warmth of your hand in mine for the last time. The pain of losing you still runs deep within me, and I feel like all the strength I had just fell away.<br />
<br />
I haven't been good to your memory since then, Mumsie. I haven't been good to myself, and I haven't been good to Studley (actually the truth is I've been almost too good to Studley. So good, in fact, that he's feeling smothered, and plans to take up fishing to get away from all the attention I've transferred from you to him. He preferred it when I was always out).<br />
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With my routine gone and with you gone, my life changed forever, and for a long time, I found that some heavy shit to deal with.<br />
<br />
I need to find a way to fill the emptiness that doesn't involve drinking my body weight in alcohol, or having a mid-life crisis that involves PVC miniskirts, tattoos, weeknight clubbing, or burlesque classes. I'm about a couple years away from a hip-replacement as it is, and my bone density measurement is nothing to be proud of.<br />
<br />
Give me a little more time, Mum. I promise I'll get my shit together. I love you.<br />
<br />
Being a middle-aged orphan really sucks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-68689186553217826152012-07-19T06:00:00.000-07:002012-07-19T06:00:06.786-07:00Evelyn Smith, 1934-2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iSKqJXzi_OU6nau_PA5mnY413mmarb0o631dlfoSQhrI23LoyAalvVJZuEPvZY95YTmg2vRWkB-1cT6jGej0Y1LB9eDvLq_LFXPkEpVZ9Vx2SsCqkhNMAkZXhrYPHSe45MqF7CxOpHk/s1600/Mum,+1961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iSKqJXzi_OU6nau_PA5mnY413mmarb0o631dlfoSQhrI23LoyAalvVJZuEPvZY95YTmg2vRWkB-1cT6jGej0Y1LB9eDvLq_LFXPkEpVZ9Vx2SsCqkhNMAkZXhrYPHSe45MqF7CxOpHk/s320/Mum,+1961.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<br />
Darling Mumsie was a fighter. Her whole life was a series of challenges, most of which were faced head-on. Behind her quiet dignity was a steely determination to surmount any obstacle in both her way, and in the way of every one she loved. Some of the decisions she made changed the course of my life. Mum didn't believe in good or bad decisions, just decisions, and life was about making them, living with them whatever the outcome, and moving on.<br />
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Mumsie was a giver. In both her working and her personal life, she cared for people. She helped babies into the world. She helped shape young people into responsible adults, and maintained lifelong friendships with a quiet and gentle demeanor.<br />
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If there were any regrets in her life, she never voiced any but one. That there wasn't enough time. My mother had plans. There are birthdays she wanted to celebrate. There are weddings she wanted to attend. There is a sister who needs her love and support. Best friends to phone up, or spend time with. There is a beautiful new baby girl waiting for a cuddle from her great-grandma. <br />
<br />
Mumsie loved a cup of tea. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than sitting down in a comfy chair, with a cup of tea in hand. She liked to watch her favourite programmes, or talk with people, or just sit alone enjoying a good cup of tea and a little something to nibble on.<br />
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Mumsie's funeral was yesterday. The church was packed with people who knew and loved her: friends, family, former work colleagues. So many people came to pay their final respects that we ran out of copies of the Order of Service. So many young men offered themselves as pall-bearers. So many words of condolences to stop and listen to. So many cards. So many hands reaching out to us, so many hearts reaching out to us. There are no words to explain how much we appreciated them all.<br />
<br />
My darling Mumsie, it was an honour - a pleasure - to have spent so much time with you. Even through the worst of times, we found something to talk about, to laugh about, over a million cups of tea. Whatever will I do with all my days now, I wonder?<br />
<br />
While I feel like my heart is breaking right now, I know you bequeathed me your special brand of strength, courage and humour to help me through the worst of times.<br />
<br />
I love you mum, and miss you desperately.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
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<br />Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-91943189801309294222011-12-25T03:20:00.000-08:002011-12-25T04:34:36.073-08:00Christmas Day, And I'm All Alone...<div><br /></div><div>... and all is well.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a long time coming, so let's fill you in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Studley had the operation on November 3rd. At 8.30 in the morning, I kissed him goodbye, and watched him go into surgery to donate a kidney to his bro. I went off for an hour to have breakfast, then returned to the hospital, took a seat and picked up my knitting. </div><div><br /></div><div>And there I sat, knitting through my fears and worries, a silent prayer in every stitch. Hours passed, so many hours. People came, people went. I met a couple of people, knitters drawn in by the colours of the yarn. They sat with me a spell, and talked knitter-talk. I will be forever grateful that they took the time out of their lives - out of their own worries - to talk to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>At 7.15pm, Studley finally arrived in the ward, and found me sitting at what was to be his bedside. Still in a lot of pain, he was nonetheless surprised to see me waiting for him. His first response was "did you get a lot of knitting done?". Too right I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>On finally leaving Studley's side, I went immediately to see how his bro was doing. I have no idea how I got onto the ward, as there was a quarantine in place after an outbreak of Noro virus. You'll be pleased to hear that the kidney fired up almost immediately, and the difference in him was obvious. I was able to visit him every day until Studley was fit enough to leave hospital, and everyday he was looking better and better.</div><div><br /></div><div>My biggest pleasure was when I got home from the hospital that first night, and phoned Studley's parents - known as Nearly-ma and Nearly-pa, living out in the Peculiars - to let them know that both their sons were doing okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which sort of explains why I'm all alone on Christmas Day. Looking after Studley at home was far easier than I had at first feared, and it didn't take long for him to be fit enough to pack off to spend Christmas with his family in the Peculiars. Nearly-ma, like any other mum, needed to see her son, to hug him and know for herself that he's fit and well. It was the very least I could do for her. </div><div><br /></div><div>While this year has not been the best for us, I will take this time out to look to the future. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have no immediate plans, apart from work. There are no priorities, either. What I would like to do is sort out this blasted laptop - it died recently, taking with it the first chapters of the book that I'm working on. It took three hours at the Apple store to get it up and running again, and all my work retrieved. It was both a relief and a joy that they were able to do that for me (and for free, too!). Hopefully, I'll be able to get the photo-thingy to work too. Watch this space.</div><div><br /></div><div>Knitting? Well, this year it was all about the socks, and perfecting my techniques. Next year I'm adding hats. It seems to me that it would be one of the quicker ways of reducing my yarn stash. Plus I have a plan to make something really special - Studley's owed a sweater. And it will be a gansey.</div><div><br /></div><div>Personally, I need to get fitter. Next year, I'm going to be 50. Yes, really. I think it's important that I be in the best health possible, and I have everything I need at my disposal. Weights - check. Supreme 90 Day Workout dvds - check. Zumba fitness kit (with the shaky-shaky hand weights) - check. Tosca Reno's Eat Clean cookbooks - checkity check check. This time next year, you should be able to bounce a penny off my round and perfectly formed ass. I will still be making cake. But I won't be eating as much of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wow. Long post, huh? That's another thing. It wouldn't have been so long if I was a regular poster. I need to sort that out, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before I go, I would like to take the time to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas, wherever you are. If you are spending the day alone without family and friends, get up, get dressed and get out there. Take a walk, smell the air. There's no traffic on the roads, so it will be a lot cleaner. If you are with the people you love, why not tell them? They probably don't hear it often enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and it wouldn't kill you to eat some fruit today, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you all for being there for me and Studley. For caring about us, and supporting us through this very trying year. I'm going to work hard to make next year so much better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully with photos.</div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-65648401921869766462011-09-20T04:15:00.000-07:002011-09-20T05:18:49.086-07:00Tough Times Ahead At Hand Wash Towers...<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hello all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not one for baring my soul. The past few months have been full of ups and downs. I like to keep most things to myself, and wrap myself in the "Duvet of Blue" when times get tough. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not about me this time, or mice, or knitting. It's about my darling Studley.</div><div><br /></div><div>We took off on a trip recently, to Paris. It will be the last time we go away together this year. </div><div><br /></div><div>Studley has a brother in need of help. He's young, married with a beautiful child and another on the way. All was lovely, and then his kidney started to pack up for no discernible reason. He's not a drinker or smoker, and leads a clean life. Now he needs a kidney.</div><div><br /></div><div>Studley stepped up to the plate, before he was even asked. He's donating a kidney to his bro. After going through a barrage of tests, and with one more major one to go, a date has been set for the operation. It's really going to happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have never been prouder of my wonderful man. Or more scared of what is to come next. We have put off planning our wedding, which is why we were so evasive when people asked for a date to pencil into their calendar. I did go looking at dresses, but frankly right now my heart just isn't in it. Now you know why I get so frustrated about all the cleaning - Studley will need about 3 months of proper care at home after the operation. I need to make sure that Hand Wash Towers is spotless, germ and mouse free. It's up to me to do everything I can to facilitate a healthy recovery. I have to have it done NOW, so that I can devote time to care for him when - for the first time - he <i>really</i> needs me. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the past few months I've done nothing but worry. I want everything to go well. I want both Studley and his bro to be properly cared for, so they can both get up and happily get on with their lives with the people who love them. I worry that Studley's mum is worrying more than me - and quite frankly, she doesn't need the stress. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that a date has been set, it all seems so real and happening so fast - but of course it's taken months of discussions, meetings and tests to get to this point. Lots of information has been flying towards us, so we are clear about what's going to happen next, what's to be expected from us, from the hospital. So much information, I won't go into it. I'll just cry. Again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I apologise if my postings have been so few and so far between. I tend to post on Twitter from time to time, and maybe on Ravelry when I get a chance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to you who follow me patiently, even though it may seem sometimes that I have fallen off the face of the earth. Those of you who've been waiting for photographs and news and knitting and cake, and stuff - I will try to get on it. I'll check in once in a while, but don't expect me to talk much about this. I'm finding it all so very scary.</div><div><br /></div><div>And Studley, if you <i>are</i> reading this (even though you claim you don't), know that you are best part of my world. I take my responsibility to take care of you very seriously. I love you so very much, and will do everything to get you safely up and about again after the op. Just don't take the piss, alright? I'm not going to feed you your body weight in cake, burritos are limited, and I'm not going to come running every time you ring that blasted bell. ; )</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-13659576293682011122011-07-21T04:30:00.001-07:002011-07-21T05:10:35.600-07:00What, No Pictures?<div><br /></div><div>Okay, here's the story:</div><div><br /></div><div>Not long ago, I had to relocate from my sit-at-a-desk computer to an inherited-from-Studley laptop. Which is fine, if I want to surf the 'innerweb' from the comfort of my bed while eating biscuits and watching Loose Women. But, when Studley had the laptop, he ditched the software he didn't need as he wanted to get more of his music on, so he got rid of all the games except chess, Garageband (which, let's face it, is not really useful unless you <i>really are</i> planning an assault on the pop charts) and iPhoto, with the promise that, should I need either, they would be easily re-installed using the disks provided. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was not important until <i>now. </i>I want to show you pictures. Of Cake. Of knitting projects. Of me with Anne and Emily at Knit Nation with Jeanette Sloan. Of the skein of Knitglobal yarn and the sock kit from Rennaissance Yarns that I bought. I can't show you <i>any</i> of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stood over Studley while he tried to re-install iPhoto. It wouldn't work. </div><div><br /></div><div>He tried again. Still no joy. By this time, there were beads of sweat on his brow. </div><div><br /></div><div>I threatened to withhold his dinner. Nada.</div><div><br /></div><div>I threatened to withhold other things (yes, now <i>is</i> the time to waggle your eyebrows). Zip.</div><div><br /></div><div>To top it all off, I can't go back and blog from my desk computer, as it's not connected to the internet (don't ask, but it has something to do with our recent visitors, the little blighters).</div><div><br /></div><div>I did lose it, but in a very British way. I held out my hands, my eyes rolled upwards, I shook my head, and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of tea.</div><div><br /></div><div>This afternoon will probably be spent erasing his music collection from said laptop (and into oblivion, you have no idea what this man listens to) in an effort to create enough space to re-install iPhoto.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime a<a href="http://youtu.be/AxttAghqrv8"> musical interlude</a>, in the form of an example of the kind of music Studley listens to. My fingers hover over the delete button...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-89368625601427677522011-06-19T11:09:00.000-07:002011-06-19T13:33:25.368-07:00Good Housekeeping, I Love You......I honestly love you.<div><br /></div><div>While life itself is full of hit or miss days (like watching the corpulent opera singer slide off the bonnet of a car on stage - hit. Or stepping outside for a cigarette, then realizing firstly, that you quit smoking and, secondly it's pissing down with rain - miss.) there is one constant in my life that has never let me down, and that is the Good Housekeeping Cookery Compendium, 1955 edition. There is so much about this book that I love, the thousands of pictures, the style of presentation, the introductions to each section, the detail, Detail, DETAIL that makes each recipe seem achievable, however complicated it may look. The best thing? Hundreds upon hundreds of recipes for old-style cake, pies, puddings, deserts - oh, my goodness, my heart, my stomach, my weight!! </div><div><br /></div><div>This particular edition is literally three books in one. Part 1: Basic Cookery, starts just like it did in my first cookery class in school - with cutting a grapefruit in half and serving it with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast. So totally idiot-proof, this book holds your hand and leads you through the simplest of meals with the most basic ingredients. While most of the meals are not for the modern palate (lard and beef dripping, anyone?), the first part is excellent as a foundation in cookery, telling the novice cook about shopping for food, cuts of meat, types of fish, food storage, how to use equipment, foundations of soups and sauces, and basic bread, cake and pastry making. On its own, this part is worth its' weight in gold.</div><div><br /></div><div>Part 2, Picture Cookery, for the more adventurous cook, ramps up the techniques and attention to detail required for when "wifey" has to entertain her husband's boss. How to clean fish, prepare shell fish, joint poultry and rabbit, more soups, more sauces, jams, pickles and preserves and even more cake, it just gets better all the time. I made a Game Pie, using hot-water crust pastry, following the step-by-step pictorial guide that was so delicious, I ate the whole thing myself (sorry Studley). Plus, this section includes instruction on how to use a Pressure Cooker! (Scary things, but I feel confident I could handle one now.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Part 3 - the best bit - is all about the cake making. This part goes through all the equipment, ingredients and techniques you need to make any kind of cake. Let me say that again - <i>any kind of cake</i>. Plain cakes, fruit cakes, jam cakes, buns, traybakes, biscuits, pastries, gateux, icing and sugarcraft, up to the big one: The Wedding Cake.</div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot even begin to tell you about the deep joy I get from reproducing the food from this book, even from just turning the pages, looking at the pictures and admiring the font. I look at this book everyday, whether I choose to cook from it or not. Visitors to this country (and foreigners who have <i>never</i> visited) like to taunt us with the myth that British food is bad. These people are so easy to dismiss because they obviously don't know where or what to eat, but when it comes to "afters", I do believe the UK is the real deal. We are unbeatable, we are nonpareil, <i>sine qua non, </i>and this beautiful book is proof, if proof were needed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I had the pictures to show you. I wish you could smell, taste and appreciate the good old fashioned traditional British fayre that comes out of this book. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish you could see how much exercise I have to do to allow me to indulge myself the way I do (just kidding - although I do a Zumba class twice a week)! </div><div><br /></div><div>While most of my diet is, in fact, clean, we do allow ourselves the odd indulgence of the baked goods variety, otherwise Studley is a very sulky boy.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-81035109822444340662011-04-07T11:39:00.000-07:002011-04-07T13:48:37.178-07:00And If That Wasn't Enough...... I've given up smoking. As of 1 April 2011. It hurtz me. Serious.<div><br /></div><div>It's not enough that I was putting myself at risk of cancers, I discovered that smoking was contributing to my worsening eyesight. <a href="http://www.allaboutvision.com/conditions/amd.htm">Age-related Macular Degeneration</a> is exacerbated by bad diet and smoking, did you know that? Neither did I, so it was a surprise when this was my diagnosis on a recent trip to the Optician. Early signs, they said. I just thought I was getting old, and this, along with loose pelvic floor muscles, is what to expect when you're getting old. </div><div><br /></div><div>Except I'm not that old, yet. And my pelvic floor is fine, in case you were wondering. I hope you weren't.</div><div><br /></div><div>I just realized that deteriorating eyesight will prevent me from doing too many of the things I enjoy - knitting, sewing, reading, cooking. I would be dumb, bored, and thin.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm cleaning up my act. I've registered with a counsellor - Annette (and guess what? She's a knitter!) - who will take me through the first six weeks, and after that, I'm on my own. My new best friend <a href="http://www.toscareno.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=frontpage&Itemid=1">Tosca Reno</a> will help me to eat better. I hope she won't mind me calling her my new best friend, but I have been using her books and learning to Eat Clean, plus when I had an issue I e-mailed her office and got a personal reply. I love the fact that she's so famous she could have had an assistant reply, but chose to contact me herself. Plus her body is aspirational. Tosca, you are now my first Girly Crush, nudging <a href="http://www.angiedowds.com/">Angie Dowds</a> into second place. (Angie, I still love you, okay, but being Canadian and having impressive Bolt-Ons, Tosca is more exotic, you get me?)</div><div><br /></div><div>As to the last post, we have had no further vermin activity since we plugged up all the 'points of ingress' that we have so far come across (I love that phrase, don't you?). Our home still looks like it's been burgled, as we continue to launder, clean, vacuum and toss out our stuff. Studley took a box of my shoes and put them in storage (Your Honour, can he <i>do</i> that?), while I am desperately trying to locate a package for <a href="http://www.sistahcraft.typepad.com/">Sistahcraft</a> that has mysteriously gone missing, and I am too embarrassed to tell her. (If you are reading this - please forgive me, sistah friend - as soon as we locate it I will add something special to it and send it right along.) </div><div><br /></div><div>I am tired, people. I want to <i>stop</i> cleaning. I want to <i>stop</i> exploring the properties of peppermint and tea tree oils. I want to <i>end</i> my weekly treks to the local charity shops to drop off more stuff. I want to <i>stop</i> picking slivers of steel wool out of my fingers. I want one day <i>without</i> the drone of the washing machine as my background muzak every morning. I want to stop listening for mice activity every night.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to use <a href="http://www.homeroutines.com/">Home Routines</a> to keep on top of stuff, but this is way more wife-work to do every day, and - to tell the honest truth - I would rather be in a job, or knitting in front of a DVD and, right now, I can't do either. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to stop now. I have no time to whinge or whine, no time to cuss or cry, and my big-girl panties are in the laundry.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Sigh</i>. On with the motley.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-6450800661382777632011-03-20T11:12:00.000-07:002011-03-20T12:26:01.199-07:00The Sucky Side of LifeSometimes Life is good. It's as if Life appears to you in human form, and hands you a pair of steel testicles, imbued with special powers enabling you to conquer your personal world with courage, humour, fortitude - you know the deal. Just when you're about to exhale a breath of contentment with the way your personal world is somehow in a happy and peaceful order, Life creeps back again, in the form of a mean, evil little bugger in hob-nail boots, who proceeds to kick the life out your shiny steel balls, denting them, tarnishing them, and at the same time destroying your personal world, turning it on its' head, making it worse and harder than it was before.<div><br /></div><div>No sooner had we returned from Rome, all loved up and engaged, without even having had the chance to unpack our luggage, than we discovered we had Unwanted Lodgers. Studley reached into a bag to get a snack, and pulled out part of a snack, full of little bite marks. On further investigation into the said bag, he found a collection of - shall we call them 'out-goings'?</div><div><br /></div><div>We have mice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I bounded into action, placing humane traps everywhere, and we finally caught Mr. Mousey, three weeks later. I took him to a park a 45-minute bus ride away and let him take his chances there. We breathed a sigh of relief. Bad move. </div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't long before we realised that we were housing a family of the tiny vermin, who seemed to have taken refuge in Hand Wash Towers to escape the terribly cold winter. So far, neighbours have caught 8, while we have bagged 12. Studley spent a very unhappy time throwing out a pile of his clothes that were used as a nest. I followed a trail of droppings into a closet which I was in the process of turning into a craft area. Holes in the floor and skirting have been filled with steel wool, and I am still praying that they haven't gotten into my yarn stash, as there are still a few boxes I haven't had a chance to investigate, as...</div><div><br /></div><div>...while I was moving said boxes, I felt a strange pain, looked down at my engagement-ring clad hand, to find my little finger in a position that little fingers should not go.</div><div><br /></div><div>A trip to the emergency room confirmed dislocation, luckily no break or fracture, but it hurts like the very Dickens, I can tell you. The swelling was quite bad, and luckily again, I had taken my ring off just in time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got home to take a look at my surroundings, all our stuff everywhere except where it should be, and both of us powerless to fix it. Studley is himself out of action due to a small operation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Neither of us can get a good night's sleep because, although we have had no further evidence of mouse activity, we still stay up most nights listening for it. Or rather, I will. Studley only woke up once when a baby mouse got caught in a trap near the bed. I had to take it out to the park. He went back to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I should be crying. I should at the very least be swearing. The extra wife-work is wearing me down. It seems insurmountable. The laundry pile is now ten times bigger than it used to be, as all the bedding, all our clothes, everything has to be washed again in case the mice have been amongst them. All the furniture has to be moved and checked for nesting material. All the skirting needs to be checked for holes and filled. All the carpets and rugs need to be cleaned. All the cupboards need to be checked and cleaned, and it all has to be done <i>now. </i>I don't have time to cry. </div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as I can get the strapping off my hand, as soon as the swelling and the pain go away - as God Is My Witness - I will go straight back to mouse-proofing my little home, hopefully before the little furry monsters have a chance to breed again. </div><div><br /></div><div>And checking my stash. If I find so much as a single dropping in my yarn...</div><div><br /></div><div>This ain't over, people.</div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-23391303315825342042011-01-04T03:32:00.000-08:002011-01-04T04:08:55.995-08:00An Announcement: Just The Facts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiAb7tAxej7beoZx9CM7ulYb2U98fI5VSQzgqRN3LEIXz9dn6Us3rTxO_opC73iunw29KQdV83vpcFbt1B7DhPWG1Y-fD69CzWs-xKh9R6BXvT0tImYY7L5yXQp_ra3toJ2uDM960CxQ/s1600/Thering.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiAb7tAxej7beoZx9CM7ulYb2U98fI5VSQzgqRN3LEIXz9dn6Us3rTxO_opC73iunw29KQdV83vpcFbt1B7DhPWG1Y-fD69CzWs-xKh9R6BXvT0tImYY7L5yXQp_ra3toJ2uDM960CxQ/s320/Thering.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558293080030462242" /></a>Who: Me and Studley.<div>What: Got engaged.</div><div>When: 14 years (yes, really) to the day that we met.</div><div>Where: Front pew of the Pantheon, Rome, Italy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why: Now, there's a question that's hard to answer. Studley had been planning this for a year, apparently. Let's see...</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it was the<a href="http://www.weddingbee.com/2006/02/16/engagement-chicken/"> engagement chicken recipe</a> I cooked a few months ago. I did it as a joke, but maybe it really worked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or perhaps he decided to lift the dreaded <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweater_curse">Sweater Curse</a>. I had refused to knit him a sweater for years, citing the curse as a reason. In truth, he's not had a sweater before now because I'm actually a lazy, selfish knitter, and would rather give him a hat or a pair of socks. Far quicker, and more likely to fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or could it be (and I'm going out on a limb here) that the man loves the very bones of me, and decided after 14 long years of looking after his every need, that I deserved a bit more than a box of chocolates and a peck on the cheek, and because I love him so very much that I am prepared to put up with the sort of stuff that would drive any other sane woman completely around the bend?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well whatever the reason, it's done. We're officially engaged, and that there is a picture of my ring. Don't expect the <a href="http://www.etiquettehell.com/content/eh_wedding/bridezillas/ebridezilla.shtml">Bridezilla</a> act just yet - I'm not prepared to even contemplate the stress of planning a wedding at the moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope everyone had as wonderful a Christmas and as happy a holiday season as we did. I wish you all a brilliant new year. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-88030955683786057882010-09-29T08:22:00.000-07:002010-09-29T08:58:51.840-07:00Head-scratching Moment: Opera vs. MusicalI'm not usually a big fan of first night performances, and the first night of the opera <a href="http://www.eno.org/see-whats-on/productions/production-page.php?itemid=585">Faust</a> by the ENO at the Coliseum was no exception. Surrounded by the great and the good, all of whom don't know me so there's no small talk and getting pushed out of the way on the red carpet by Paps, as they try to get a picture of Someone Famous. Everyone is on their best behaviour, the wine at the party is awful and no canapes were forthcoming after a half an hour wait.<div><br /></div><div>The performance itself, however, although good - I stayed awake throughout, which was more than could be said for <a href="http://www.classicfm.co.uk/on-air/presenters/david-mellor/">David Mellor</a> - left me confused. It was a bit too Musical Theatre for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong - I love Musicals. I saw Legally Blonde recently and thought it was splendid, so here is the confusion - at what point does an opera become another musical? Both have singing, both have dancing - the only difference I can see is the type of music, and the way that music is sung. I don't understand what other components come together to constitute an opera as opposed to a musical. I came out of the theatre thinking more about what on earth it was about this particular production that made it so different to other operas I had seen. Not better or worse - just different. This production blurred the lines somewhat.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to review the show, but to anyone who has seen it - or will see it when it transfers to New York, whenever that is - contact me and let me know what they think. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe, it's just me...</div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-85142186437412881742010-09-16T02:14:00.000-07:002010-09-16T02:58:05.335-07:00Weekend Trolling...Over to Blackheath, a two + hour journey across town, courtesy of the transport system, to the opening of <a href="http://theinkcorporation.co.uk/">David Owen's</a> exhibition, currently on show at the Stark Gallery for the next month. I mentioned this artist in the last post, so I've just added the link here, so you can check on this and whatever else he's getting up to - oh, and the fab trailer for the '5000 Morris Dancers' show by Rob Curry is on there as well, which is worth seeing, although I should warn you now there are lots of flashing images. I loved this show, and this mixed-media artist throws up a lot of images that make you laugh, think and - in my case - covet. Studley sent me off with a view to buying one or two of his pieces, but by the time I got there, I was already seeing the little dots appearing - you know which ones, the ones that mean 'sold'. but it was still great to see these pieces full size.<div><br /></div><div>The next day, I rocked up at the IKnit event at the Royal Horticultural Halls, to find it a very subdued afternoon. All was decidedly quiet. And slow. For the first time in my recollection, the people ran out before the food. I had no trouble walking up to meet Alice Starmore, no one huffed and tutted in a queue behind me as I had quite a long chat with the celebrated lady of Stornaway, and as she signed my copy of the newly-reprinted '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fishermens-Sweaters-Alice-Starmore/dp/1843405970/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1284629660&sr=1-2">Fisherman's Sweaters'</a> I was gently chastised for my pronunciation of one of her earlier books, '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Celtic-Needlepoint-Alice-Starmore/dp/1854700707/ref=sr_1_17?s=STORE&ie=UTF8&qid=1284629757&sr=1-17">Celtic Needlepoin</a>t' which has pride of place at Hand Wash Towers. A momentary lapse, it won't happen again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The ladies of <a href="http://www.fyberspates.co.uk/">Fyberspates</a> were in good spirits, and there was much fondling of yarn, and cooing. I like cooing. I also like spending, so after picking up a skein of something quite yummy, getting a human hug from the Silklady (Rav Name) I wended my way home, stopping briefly at Westminster Cathedral to pay my respects and see the procession of Our Lady of Victory commemorating Malta Day, which seemed to have a far better turnout that IKnit, although I could be wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>The following day found me at the <a href="http://www.duckpondmarket.co.uk/duckpondmarket.co.uk/Welcome.html">Duck Pond Market</a> (yes, I do like to pack in a lot into my spare time). Hanging out with friends on their lovely stall, featuring beautiful hand-dyed yarn by Shamu (again, a Rav Name). It took a lot to keep my money in my pocket, and I worry that I may become a collector, the colours are so gorgeous and vibrant. The market itself was very quiet, there being only five or so stalls out this particular venue, but it's a great market, and I see myself being a regular visitor.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-58413441209058174982010-09-08T07:40:00.000-07:002010-09-08T09:35:22.329-07:00Don't Mess With Morris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS8naPXj7mNoqKeMpQxWME8hUtduR8PJqH-icfdTM8tEd1xxKTZaEsAEJyz8IVFBvc4MbucTqgF69qUA8pio8Yhc0NBLaaUUEl1J8APP2yxOOxq06Tqrx4kUrVA4ASJ99OWEPTqokoJE/s1600/Morrissey.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XETJvdJJtUXoCw91jl-rNDDa-lPbSNJbeK_uRwN0FVRRHfvrfB_lsnb1e8bVUxIkJosLohV2TDUedQs_uRZxqIejJNxxqbccg1_mGJcMqfCJLocAJ_EHwH6uA6LbkYaGCvu2Y4YAHaY/s1600/Clockwork+Morris.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XETJvdJJtUXoCw91jl-rNDDa-lPbSNJbeK_uRwN0FVRRHfvrfB_lsnb1e8bVUxIkJosLohV2TDUedQs_uRZxqIejJNxxqbccg1_mGJcMqfCJLocAJ_EHwH6uA6LbkYaGCvu2Y4YAHaY/s320/Clockwork+Morris.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514553313538274098" /></a>An off the cuff remark made by Sebastian Coe set in motion an amazing chain of events, culminating in a weekend the like of which will never be seen in London again. And I was there.<div><br /></div><div>Now, Seb Coe can be a twat at the best of times.</div><div><br /></div><div>When asked what entertainment he would like to see at the 2012 Olympics, Mr Coe jokingly replied "5000 Morris Dancers". Ha, bloody Ha.</div><div><br /></div><div>"5000 Morris Dancers" became a celebration of folk music and traditional regional Morris Dance held over the weekend at the Southbank Centre. Outside on the Queen's Walk, the public were treated to 100 of the best Morris Dancers from across the country, both male and female teams demonstrated a diversity of styles. Hammersmith Morris Men, pictured above, are not your typical Morris Men, oh no. They are the best at what they do, and they didn't come to mess around. The Blue Boggarts turned out in full force with their painted faces. Entertaining, and I found one of them strangely attractive. There are pictures, but Studley does not want to upload them. Feeling a little jealous, I shouldn't wonder.</div><div><br /></div><div>Inside, more delights.</div><div><br /></div><div>Live traditional music in the Queen Elizabeth Hall, then the premiere of the documentary "The Way Of The Morris" by Tim Plester and Rob Curry, which charted Plester's relationship with his family and his village, and his own roots in folk music and dance. A beautiful film, a love letter to his village, its history and traditions, with a P.S. that said "I'm coming home". Here's hoping this film gets a wide release, I wish everybody could see it.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few canapes, much wine and a dalliance with a Morrissed-up Star Wars Stormtrooper later, and we were back in the Queen Elizabeth Hall for a one-off concert celebrating "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morris_On">Morris On</a>", the 1972 album to which all other folk/rock albums before and since have long been compared. This time the album was performed from start to finish by some of the best of the British young folk artists - Jim Moray, Saul Rose (who happens to also be on the right side of gorgeous) Sam Sweeney, Sam Carter, Jon Fuller, Dave Burbage and Jackie Oates, with a Conversation With Ashley Hutchings, one of the musicians on the original album.</div><div><br /></div><div>Add to that the superb artwork of visual artist David Owen lining the walls:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS8naPXj7mNoqKeMpQxWME8hUtduR8PJqH-icfdTM8tEd1xxKTZaEsAEJyz8IVFBvc4MbucTqgF69qUA8pio8Yhc0NBLaaUUEl1J8APP2yxOOxq06Tqrx4kUrVA4ASJ99OWEPTqokoJE/s320/Morrissey.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514566557349622306" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>it was a weekend like no other.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now don't get me wrong. Folk music is not my favourite genre. Morris Dancing may or may not be the closest thing Britain has to Capoeira, but it is not a joke, to be treated with derision, to be ridiculed or maligned. To mess with the Morris, or to be blunt, fuck with the Folk, is to dismiss a large chunk of this nation's people, who are keeping traditions alive. Folk music is Soul Music and it speaks of all the things that we should never dismiss: love, longing, politics, fantasy, sex, storytelling, history and dreams. I respect and salute those who continue to sing it and who breathe new life into it. </div><div><br /></div><div>That sounded a bit like a rant, didn't it? Good.</div><div><br /></div><div>Huge thanks to Terry O'Brien of Playpen Management for producing, and inviting us, to this fantastic event.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pictures will follow, once I soothe the savage Studley.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. Seb Coe is still a twat.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-89855086097969542722010-08-22T04:11:00.000-07:002010-08-22T04:33:29.169-07:00Supremely Divine...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPi6UMTvkIr5O9E-Z5uhVAuL_jehAY89koLwWvaLmzQAqfO_nKWJjEoTaJuUH6kVmQMzZqXL1pii3egPVBphhvWR4qSDbVjJKuGpkpZjbn-bJBybp89voxMnqjxeMay1sH5fL6ie5YvME/s1600/PIC_0042.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPi6UMTvkIr5O9E-Z5uhVAuL_jehAY89koLwWvaLmzQAqfO_nKWJjEoTaJuUH6kVmQMzZqXL1pii3egPVBphhvWR4qSDbVjJKuGpkpZjbn-bJBybp89voxMnqjxeMay1sH5fL6ie5YvME/s320/PIC_0042.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508193283407480034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBO-a3XZie_6WOayeHjmIqtkdtuvFnbSPjDVuWMleWdLme4IcFQ0dwS-vrJKxshCFxcJSb2grzrPHfTdYjpbYUHJD24qTwvOZ3fBgULJo2EmCoNA97oDQr2Pu3pW7gKfEq2meSXaHnWP4/s1600/PIC_0039.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBO-a3XZie_6WOayeHjmIqtkdtuvFnbSPjDVuWMleWdLme4IcFQ0dwS-vrJKxshCFxcJSb2grzrPHfTdYjpbYUHJD24qTwvOZ3fBgULJo2EmCoNA97oDQr2Pu3pW7gKfEq2meSXaHnWP4/s320/PIC_0039.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508193275531144514" /></a>Some more dresses from the Supremes Exhibition. Do you know you can click on them to enlarge for more detail - on some you can even read the signs?<div><br /></div><div>Go to ITunes U - look for V & A Theatre & Performance for an hour long podcast interview with Mary Wilson, who was kind enough to bring the costumes over for the Exhibition.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's very rare to be able to go to a show and be allowed to take photos these days, so big thanks to the V & A for letting me take these and share them with you.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86qIqxa84362P5ElvKkPyLaO2YQNOLBci5Qw7eGShc4ikhHxv3zUZahEvf724SeK5dZr9atLOAGIrj57J8tq9yfQeJzlP4s3ut1CMkluXSBeErHP3ejy_GLUT_L_ygCDnfUNCbz6YPjE/s1600/PIC_0034.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86qIqxa84362P5ElvKkPyLaO2YQNOLBci5Qw7eGShc4ikhHxv3zUZahEvf724SeK5dZr9atLOAGIrj57J8tq9yfQeJzlP4s3ut1CMkluXSBeErHP3ejy_GLUT_L_ygCDnfUNCbz6YPjE/s320/PIC_0034.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508193265434527842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8OGzYbRPPY6uzJ-xyQU0P4clWQ8h6d7bHh3y_zgaFRKuVt8YaX_Q5L04_HvHXWW-1dbHwAFqY3r26ys7aY6Ak8ZnnN6j2flKKhmZHmKCSLPpT_7cWcygF57RytQttmSPoK1pUjKWyn0/s1600/PIC_0033.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8OGzYbRPPY6uzJ-xyQU0P4clWQ8h6d7bHh3y_zgaFRKuVt8YaX_Q5L04_HvHXWW-1dbHwAFqY3r26ys7aY6Ak8ZnnN6j2flKKhmZHmKCSLPpT_7cWcygF57RytQttmSPoK1pUjKWyn0/s320/PIC_0033.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508193256421880610" /></a><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-36599163115677559242010-08-16T03:42:00.000-07:002010-08-16T03:59:37.333-07:00Motown Memories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8xlW63CUt2AQIL3qHrhq94si1d345Xr7a3mv4JqLCuA8-wVqjoETI_Z-YQJ96FHcjQCw0zznuyeqv2Pudid9Te6lrTNxQDMTPRaDmJUVr-o_KM2XEXyMaSR96LTx1hXHkyKIjsiau-A/s1600/PIC_0031.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8xlW63CUt2AQIL3qHrhq94si1d345Xr7a3mv4JqLCuA8-wVqjoETI_Z-YQJ96FHcjQCw0zznuyeqv2Pudid9Te6lrTNxQDMTPRaDmJUVr-o_KM2XEXyMaSR96LTx1hXHkyKIjsiau-A/s320/PIC_0031.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505958824262412914" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXQV2GvhKJl0UFMpz0zuzAFBzl6XuJ3cr4hmTufL66mjKospgmaeXDftNFp1oTMvqzzlRYfK03r03EESm7AqY-zBVUAoKgdoaZ_BLc4XT8T_Z0-4Qh2VgI_8-qM4r05n3uaJLahdYVzA/s1600/PIC_0030.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXQV2GvhKJl0UFMpz0zuzAFBzl6XuJ3cr4hmTufL66mjKospgmaeXDftNFp1oTMvqzzlRYfK03r03EESm7AqY-zBVUAoKgdoaZ_BLc4XT8T_Z0-4Qh2VgI_8-qM4r05n3uaJLahdYVzA/s320/PIC_0030.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505958815771019218" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBDISTHA0ptjqPxLEFvQ5adRmUyKsQJZYefmWRuQlYzNGTz7SdHUP2MpSwAbJBkljXy8UHH8YiFkjfr8EpAHVjmuuHUkNE3eYSKnEwe3uSWKcyxZbDcP8zewd9TPmWG1se0QGHEDhvms/s1600/PIC_0027.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBDISTHA0ptjqPxLEFvQ5adRmUyKsQJZYefmWRuQlYzNGTz7SdHUP2MpSwAbJBkljXy8UHH8YiFkjfr8EpAHVjmuuHUkNE3eYSKnEwe3uSWKcyxZbDcP8zewd9TPmWG1se0QGHEDhvms/s320/PIC_0027.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505958811167755666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDKxrlkhx-SkjPhsFnje_bakEoZMnPSHzgJGoXCQMTfxTAiL7Nd0TGPtccBUKmQPYqCsHUYCPNCsmuES8p7RGzKncu232rJy18D8rCt143u6sgs-xL0ais5u8AfnRnxkPlKX7NmuaiAI/s1600/PIC_0025.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDKxrlkhx-SkjPhsFnje_bakEoZMnPSHzgJGoXCQMTfxTAiL7Nd0TGPtccBUKmQPYqCsHUYCPNCsmuES8p7RGzKncu232rJy18D8rCt143u6sgs-xL0ais5u8AfnRnxkPlKX7NmuaiAI/s320/PIC_0025.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505958807004444690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHm0mINHFentDf6-xjxf7LSNdDXVq9VfqWrag2KYi91YNgOxeQ8g0cFbEmidl2wB_xwZk_FcUb584ZbDr9YxEbQ5LY7U80VvB4aT8PXsC7FCPfADI_JB0N3UrfjbJ097sAr_6Ovw17bk/s1600/PIC_0024.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHm0mINHFentDf6-xjxf7LSNdDXVq9VfqWrag2KYi91YNgOxeQ8g0cFbEmidl2wB_xwZk_FcUb584ZbDr9YxEbQ5LY7U80VvB4aT8PXsC7FCPfADI_JB0N3UrfjbJ097sAr_6Ovw17bk/s320/PIC_0024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505958795760681394" /></a><br />I have had many requests - okay, three - from some new friends on a Rav forum to post some pictures of a recent exhibition of Supremes costumes at the V&A Museum. Enjoy.<div><br /></div><div>Let me know if you want to see more.</div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-41170454472602074552010-08-01T01:13:00.000-07:002010-08-01T02:08:09.789-07:00Time Flies.Time flies indeed. <div><br /></div><div>The last two months have simply whizzed by, so many good things have happened, alongside things so bad that to relate them here will send me back into a tailspin of depression so deep it has taken this long to climb out of. Sometimes when bad things happen, I merely shrug my shoulders and move on. Whatever is, is. Other things I may never get over, and will have to live with for the rest of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, Crappy Temp Job allowed me the opportunity to forget recent troubles and concentrate on something so mind-numbingly boring that it was a welcome relief. or it would have been, had they remembered to pay me. They've booked me for one more week, so hopefully they will have sorted out the problem, before I feel the need to peer at the Line Manager over my glasses and give him the kind of talking-to that could peel the skin off his blazing red cheeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Studley, as ever, has been wonderful, trying to find ways to keep my spirits up, even while away working in Finland. When he returned, he displayed the kind of knitter-enabling behaviour that should be cloned by scientists and distributed throughout the members of Ravelry. Thanks to him, I am also the new owner of a iPod Touch. </div><div><br /></div><div>The other night -when I returned from Knit Nation, actually - I got home to find him in playful mood. He had been to a charity shop, and spied some books he thought I might be interested in.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I couldn't get you on your phone to find out which books you had, so I rescued them all for you," he said, as he sat me down. </div><div><br /></div><div>Are you ready for this? Deep breath, then:</div><div><br /></div><div>Scandinavian Knitwear by Alice Starmore</div><div>Designer Collection by Jean Moss</div><div>Glorious Knitting by Kaffe Fassett</div><div>Family Album, by Kaffe Fassett & Zoe Hunt</div><div>The Handknitter's Design Book by Alison Ellen</div><div>Knit Design by Betty Barnden & Gabi Tubbs</div><div>New Directions in Fair Isle Knitting, by Patty Knox</div><div><br /></div><div>In all, he had found 12, some of which I already had, but - what a haul! I was already tearing my hair out over where to put my stuff. HW Towers has been undergoing a serious re-organisation of storage space.</div><div><br /></div><div>More importantly, 12 knitting books - and only one was a paperback - are <i>really</i> heavy! The man went above and beyond the call of duty. This has seriously racked up his Brownie Points.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I love you, Studley." I could feel myself welling up. "You are mine, and I shall keep you forever."</div><div><br /></div><div>His eyes twinkled. "That's the plan, Babe".</div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-88623487884737282642010-05-16T04:55:00.000-07:002010-05-16T05:41:45.810-07:00With Grace.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERQ78pDGCmbXyWhDoSyZFXICYFUGHk5SdK7KMZ86mP6kyocrUc9CHImxH709wSZ0lO7yvhDzlQBfEK547YXKx21mmyQ8JLU90bFmeIWUcXRWFm4_PxJu0FxIMBy-M9bAAPv5Kip2MxgQ/s1600/kelly_1613527c.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERQ78pDGCmbXyWhDoSyZFXICYFUGHk5SdK7KMZ86mP6kyocrUc9CHImxH709wSZ0lO7yvhDzlQBfEK547YXKx21mmyQ8JLU90bFmeIWUcXRWFm4_PxJu0FxIMBy-M9bAAPv5Kip2MxgQ/s320/kelly_1613527c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471835707309657122" /></a>To the V & A. The plan was to try to take in two exhibitions in one day: the Quilts show, then the exhibition of clothes from that great style icon, <a href="http://www.vam.ac.uk/collections/fashion/gracekelly/exhibition/index.html">Grace Kelly</a>, except that as usual I had left Hand Wash Towers far too late to beat the crowds, so one show had to do. But which one?<div><br /></div><div>I stood in the queue, trying to decide. The quilts were really what I had travelled across town to see, but Grace Kelly's was, at £6, slightly cheaper than the quilts' £10. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, my mind was made up for me when a lovely lady offered me her spare ticket the the GK show, as her friend was at the last minute unable to attend. So in I went. For free.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a small show featuring several key pieces, starting with outfits first worn on her engagement to Prince Ranier of Monaco, and ending with clothes worn during her short movie career, mostly designed by Edith Head. Funnily enough, my favourite dress turned out to be the one pictured, which turned out to be a simple black flowered dress made from a McCall's pattern, which Kelly wore on her first official meeting with the Prince in Monaco in 1955. I love this dress because, at the time, her fans and followers could buy the exact pattern and re-create the dress for themselves. I know some pattern companies have been re-issuing some of their vintage and retro patterns, and I hope that this will be available again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think I'm speaking ill of the dead, but Grace Kelly appeared to have big feet. Lovely shoes, but they were boats.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2010/03/16/article-1258314-0833954D000005DC-960_634x375.jpg">Most moving moment</a>: I have to say, seeing this picture did make us stop in our tracks. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The lady who gave me the ticket was with me for most of the show, and we ooh-ed and ahh-ed our way round but, somewhere towards the end she disappeared. I had stopped to watch one of the newsreels but, at my height, it is a little hard to lose me in a crowd. </div><div><br /></div><div>A shame because I had bought her a set of the postcards and had offered to take her for cake and coffee as a thank-you for her kindness. As it was, she bought her tickets with the Senior Citizen discount, so her kindness only left her £4 out of pocket.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whoever you are kind lady, I wish you good Karma.</div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-4133117795115431902010-05-12T05:13:00.000-07:002010-05-12T08:30:58.208-07:00So, Tell Me About The Lobster...I was going to mention this ages ago, but I got really busy over the last few weeks. I realize a lot of my friends think I spend most of my time knitting and eating biscuits, but there is a lot to do at Hand Wash Towers. That mould in the bathroom doesn't go away by itself, you know.<div><br /></div><div>Press Night at the Globe, to see Macbeth, was a jolly night out, made even more interesting by the rather unusual form of audience participation. The groundlings' area around the stage was shrouded in a tautly pulled tent-y thing with holes in it for the audience to put their heads through to watch the play, supposedly to represent the frozen Lake of Cocytus in Dante's Divine Comedy (here's the image, by <a href="http://uuiuu.net/blog-img/gustave_dore_dante_cocytus_traitors.jpg">Gustave Dore</a>). The tent was used also for characters to appear and disappear through, and for the three witches to wreak havoc among the audience.</div><div><br /></div><div>This production is very, <i>very</i> gory, so much so that the audience were dropping like flies. Studley and I counted four (all men) being wheeled away by the St. John's Ambulance during the course of the play. We found out later at the Press Night party that 15 members of the audience flaked out that night. I call that a success.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I recently bumped into the lovely <a href="http://www.ruthsaberton.co.uk/RuthSaberton.co.uk/Welcome.html">Ruth Saberton</a> while out shopping, who was busy signing copies of her new book "Katy Carter Wants a Hero". Ruth is a funny lady, with a passion for all things pink, and her book is a good quick summer read, full of good people, bad people and a lobster, a facsimile of which she brings to her signings. He is quite an important character in this story of a London teacher who aspires to be a novelist, whose life is changed forever after a dinner party from hell. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's hoping "Katy Carter Wants a Hero" makes it onto TV. It would be perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>Guess what? I've got a signed copy of the book to give away. </div><div><br /></div><div>Share your funniest dinner party stories. Make me laugh 'till I spurt my tea out of my nose, and the book could be yours. </div><div><br /></div></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-11504276291289261592010-04-21T02:37:00.000-07:002010-04-21T02:50:44.398-07:00Proof, if proof were needed...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dWNhe9CN7-ejXlM8hBZx5PpSnBgjG7W-QEdQrMwSrbYJh-QkbbO_fIl6NYDfjQVO2uuUtYYBG43mwaia8XtonRy6Ibee_KlU6gIhIAlCGByKYYVyJnfFFLJgSqwGtV-u-fteUzYCCck/s1600/PIC_0131.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2dWNhe9CN7-ejXlM8hBZx5PpSnBgjG7W-QEdQrMwSrbYJh-QkbbO_fIl6NYDfjQVO2uuUtYYBG43mwaia8XtonRy6Ibee_KlU6gIhIAlCGByKYYVyJnfFFLJgSqwGtV-u-fteUzYCCck/s320/PIC_0131.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462523307713459330" /></a>...that something needs to be done. Seriously.<div><br /></div><div>Behind this tower is a wardrobe. </div><div><br /></div><div>To the right of the tower is my side of the bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>To the left of the tower is my shoes, all neatly packed away, that I can't quite get to. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the foot of the tower is more stash which, thankfully, you can't see. Same with the junk on the bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>All I want is a tidy house, a tidy bedroom, a tidy stash.</div><div><br /></div><div>A tidy life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not going to happen. (<i>Sigh.</i>) On with the motley.</div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-28470234977241067862010-04-18T03:41:00.000-07:002010-04-18T04:45:01.638-07:00There's a Crocodile in the Water...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4opA1ia0rveTlZI_UoLbei5iLQPuzDpRRQYCJSPO8UID4WkBjU6v19Bf7uiZ1xaOzhVl4ORMHnWA14EsnUDFnrv4fpJF_79mKmpsfNUD5CJNkJqvqX4Tk_H3QZk9IFbOBek3393dBeZw/s1600/PIC_0012.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4opA1ia0rveTlZI_UoLbei5iLQPuzDpRRQYCJSPO8UID4WkBjU6v19Bf7uiZ1xaOzhVl4ORMHnWA14EsnUDFnrv4fpJF_79mKmpsfNUD5CJNkJqvqX4Tk_H3QZk9IFbOBek3393dBeZw/s320/PIC_0012.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461426551646588994" /></a>...and no-one believed me.<div><br /></div><div>The flight to Basle was thankfully uneventful. Security thoroughly checked my hand-luggage - why yes, as a matter of fact I did pack my bag myself, the Butler being on his day off - and casually waited until we were airborne before reaching for my contraband stash...of knitting.</div><div><br /></div><div>It must have been my body language or something, but no-one batted an eyelid when I started work on my little sock. Nobody seemed to think it was unusual or dangerous or - perish the thought - forbidden. Either that, or one little sock on a 2.75mm/40cm circular metal needle is considered less of a terrorist threat than say, a lace shawl or (<i>gulp</i>) a sweater on two straight needles. It was the same on the return flight, although the pilot was kind enough to circle Heathrow a couple of times, no doubt to give me time to divide my stitches and make a start on the heel flap. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, on from Basle to Freiburg, Germany, me tagging along behind Studley, who was there to work. I was there to see what the dear man does for a living, and to meet his friends (who are all lovely by the way). I must say, the Germans know how to have a good time. Cheers to Chris Cravens, formerly of Preston, currently the DJ at the <a href="http://www.swamp-freiburg.de/">Swamp</a>, a great bar with a cracking atmosphere, but not for the non-smokers among us. So good was the hospitality, the crocodile in the canal in the centre of town (see above) did come a bit of a surprise. But why is it there? I asked F. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Because it's funny", was his reply. Fair enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>I believe no trip to Freiburg is complete without a visit to <a href="http://translate.google.co.uk/translate?hl=en&sl=de&u=http://www.daskartoffelhaus.de/&ei=-uXKS5iyA4_00gSa2oS5BA&sa=X&oi=translate&ct=result&resnum=2&ved=0CA4Q7gEwAQ&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dder%2Bkartoffelhause%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DX%26nfpr%3D1">Das Kartoffelhause</a>. This restaurant is a cathedral to the humble potato. What these people don't know about how to cook a potato is frankly not worth knowing. They boil them, fry them, chip and mash them, bake and croquette them. They headline every dish on the menu: "Potato <i>with</i> Meat, Potato <i>with</i> Fish, and so it goes on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Portions were generous (as was the service). I ordered a meatloaf which appeared to have the taste and texture of SPAM, if you like that sort of thing. The waitress brought a sauce to go with it (knowing the British have a thing for gravy) which was like a warm brown sauce. Meatloaf is different all over the world, and this was new to me. I like new, I like different. The mash that came with it was to die for. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTg50nfEY1mQoF3xYIDXCUZWVcviS1OKeCJLZD3hT9FGcMOqhLoGlOk6FFgpNQZN8FCR84orVnWCx4U_lgyK6F7L8fGYrLV7IG5FtHsg9Tl5sKhl7v2edc8KhMgP8GBhIWPGN76mIjqdQ/s1600/PIC_0006.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTg50nfEY1mQoF3xYIDXCUZWVcviS1OKeCJLZD3hT9FGcMOqhLoGlOk6FFgpNQZN8FCR84orVnWCx4U_lgyK6F7L8fGYrLV7IG5FtHsg9Tl5sKhl7v2edc8KhMgP8GBhIWPGN76mIjqdQ/s320/PIC_0006.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461433022387079714" /></a><div>(Note the unusual gargoyle found on the side of the Munster. Love it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The shops were closed for most of our short visit, but on Monday morning bright and early, we found ourselves at the <a href="http://www.hotfrog.de/Firmen/Welt-der-Handarbeit">Welt der Handarbeit</a>, Salzstrase 37-39, 79098 Freiburg. A couple of balls of Regia World sock yarn in both GB and GDR national colours later, and we were dashing for our flight.</div><div><br /></div><div>A huge thanks to F (thinking of you and we send our love) and K (K, we shall always be friends) for looking after us so wonderfully well, to D and U, who could argue the merits of croquette potatoes over roasties all evening, and to the beautiful town of Freiburg. A beautiful town with it's own brewery. What's not for a girl to love?</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4sDiAUTWJy_7W01ed_BB54qqlvsBJsjesMa7qDjWKEXJNXaaVZ0AAGSa6WLF2jwCmFVl1MfEtkCD3hLB-hGe-5R48l3PRDfe4YSS2VtxI58v04B1YCeXmrGU87e6_QINDgGljZ_o-bpw/s1600/PIC_0001.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4sDiAUTWJy_7W01ed_BB54qqlvsBJsjesMa7qDjWKEXJNXaaVZ0AAGSa6WLF2jwCmFVl1MfEtkCD3hLB-hGe-5R48l3PRDfe4YSS2VtxI58v04B1YCeXmrGU87e6_QINDgGljZ_o-bpw/s320/PIC_0001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461441650812137106" /></a>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-26385053165091450422010-04-07T03:23:00.000-07:002010-04-07T04:07:52.102-07:00Stash. I Haz It.Hand Wash Towers is currently a hot bed of activity. Spring has sprung and with it the need to clean and reorganize, re-prioritize and basically get my life and home into some kind of order. Spring cleaning this year coincides with the annual "Yarn-Toss", a necessary endeavour to ensure that my stash remains moth-free and useable. <div><br /></div><div>This year, however, I have to re-organize my storage space, which meant that my whole stash had be be brought out of all its' hidey holes and stored separately in its own collection of plastic crates, bought from Ikea especially for the purpose. While checking for moths and nasties, I took the time to list what I had (or most of it ) on Ravelry to help me keep track.</div><div><br /></div><div>While Studley knows I have a stash, and is even known to contribute to it once in a while, he had no idea of the actual quantity of yarn hidden around the place. He came home, walked into the bedroom and silently surveyed the tower of plastic crates standing some six feet high in front of him, with more boxes and bags of the fondlesome stuff sitting at his feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>I must admit, I was a little worried at how Studley might react to seeing the stash in all its entirety.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Babe, " he said at last, "you might need a couple more crates." <i>Is that it? That's all?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Apparently, Studley has no problem with it, and he calmly explained why.</div><div><br /></div><div><ol><li>Yarn may not always remain yarn. It may become sweaters, hats, scarves, socks, etc. Therefore it will never just sit there in the tower of crates forever.</li><li>Yarn doesn't go off and smell bad. </li><li>Yarn is not pointy, or sharp. It is in itself not dangerous, and does not bite or growl, or need a litter tray, or even a daily walk in the park. It also does not need expensive medical treatment.</li><li>The yarn, however much you pay for it, gives more hours of pleasure than the same amount spent on other entertainment, like a night out or a West-end show, making knitting a cheaper and cost-effective form of entertainment. And finally:</li><li>Complaining about the amount of my hoard of collectibles, may mean at some point I will start complaining about <i>his</i> hoard of collectibles, so it's better for him to keep his mouth shut.</li></ol><div>"You do realise", he added, "that you can't get into your wardrobe for all the stash. How are you going to get to your clothes?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Erm... these are my clothes. They're just not finished yet".</div><div><br /></div><div>"Babe, you need to knit faster."</div><div><br /></div></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-65958534135379316142010-03-01T02:24:00.000-08:002010-03-01T02:25:29.928-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVej7-T8k07RDsNKx823DG02QQQ7hxZwa5uuEj15P7UBCWOO85o31vEeE3nDrqUWjEBWKowFm72ngLdPG4IyA8Zd48lpSFyTgeohPislZJXxazQFffJGdIPgDEB125jb0H03IBmx8f3T4/s1600-h/4397311403_e70ff7de3b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVej7-T8k07RDsNKx823DG02QQQ7hxZwa5uuEj15P7UBCWOO85o31vEeE3nDrqUWjEBWKowFm72ngLdPG4IyA8Zd48lpSFyTgeohPislZJXxazQFffJGdIPgDEB125jb0H03IBmx8f3T4/s320/4397311403_e70ff7de3b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443609556445068402" /></a>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-13826064328795051832010-02-16T06:43:00.000-08:002010-02-16T06:46:56.743-08:00WTF...?He thought it would be funny.<div><br /></div><div>He wanted to see the look on my face.</div><div><br /></div><div>He bought me <a href="http://www.rolsontools.com/images/product/large_10021(1).jpg">this</a> for Valentine's Day.</div><div><br /></div><div>He will pay - oh, yes, he will PAY!!!!!!!!!!</div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-68780816936874657052010-02-09T07:11:00.000-08:002010-02-09T08:04:54.065-08:00Eyte and Abite!I love a day off, away from the mould in the bathroom, and the many other things at Hand Wash Towers. While the mould can be fixed, some other stresses never seem to go away.<div><br /></div><div>So I travelled to <a href="http://www.ealing.gov.uk/services/leisure/museums_and_galleries/pm_gallery_and_house/exhibitions/">Ealing, West London</a>, to see an exhibition called "Beware of Embroidery", a collection of works by artists using embroidery as their medium.</div><div><br /></div><div>While the exhibition it self was small, I should recommend it if only for the work of...no, I can't single out one artist, although I have my favourite pieces.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.laurasplan.com/">Laura Splan</a> has two beautiful pieces, a fan and a hankerchief with embroidery designs based on the anatomy of the human eye. Sounds strange, but both pieces were quite delicate.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://web.mac.com/picturetown/TStoneArtistBks/Home.html">Tamar Stone</a> created a series of books focussing on issues in womens' lives. The books themselves were created by embroidery and print on antique corsets, a metaphor relating to constriction, correction, appearance and especially assimilation, the need women have to fit in to certain situations - to be beautiful, a good wife and mother, and difficulties many face in trying to break free. Stone is also exhibiting a series of beds that should be seen. In both cases, I suggest that if you want to explore these two series of pieces, ask the gallery assistants if they are available, to show you the different layers/pages of each piece. It is so tempting to touch them, but please, don't.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.louiseriley.co.uk/index.html">Louise Rile</a>y might just be my favourite of the whole exhibition. Working with yarns, fabric, mattressess and even a tree, Riley created pieces that made me concentrate on the processes she uses and try to reconcile that with the images of society she presents. Her images are life sized, and in some cases it is necessary to take a step back so as to take it all in and not be swayed by the use of texture on texture and colours interweaved. Look for the installation Mother of Pearl, a mattress suspended by ropes in an ante room. </div><div><br /></div><div>A short exhibition, but if you are interested in contemporary art, you might get something out of it. And, it is free.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7195787231509033369.post-68852847658524366962010-01-26T04:17:00.000-08:002010-01-26T04:58:55.645-08:00Thank You!My 13th Anniversary took me out and away on a lovely train journey to meet up with Studley for a long leisurely lunch, after which we took a little walk around a pleasant town with a charity shop selling these:<div><br /></div><div>"The Complete Book of Traditional Knitting" <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Rae Compton</div><div>"The Complete Book of Traditional Aran Knitting"<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Shelagh Hollingsworth</div><div>"The Complete Book of Traditional Fair Isle Knitting"<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sheila McGregor</div><div>"Traditional Knitting in the British Isles"<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Gwyn Morgan</div><div><br /></div><div>Chuck in "Knitting in Vogue", volumes 1 & 2, plus a copy of "Mary Thomas's Knitting Patterns", all in pristine condition I might add, and I happily passed just under £25 to the salesperson. To heck with the fact that I already own three of the seven books.<div><br /></div><div>And then I thought, "Oh, no, <i>more</i> books. He'll tell me off. He'll make me give them <i>back</i>!"</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But I can't possibly. I rescued them. They're mine.<br /></i><div><br /></div><div>I struggled to Studley's side with my haul. I goo-goo eyed him. I told him the price.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Babe," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "you've got some bargains there. Would you like me to help you carry them?"</div><div><br /></div><div>What a treasure.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Hand Wash Dry Flathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05662533383146845208noreply@blogger.com0