With Grace.

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, Grace Kelly, 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Most moving moment: I have to say, seeing this picture did make us stop in our tracks.

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.

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.

Whoever you are kind lady, I wish you good Karma.

So, 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.

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 Gustave Dore). The tent was used also for characters to appear and disappear through, and for the three witches to wreak havoc among the audience.

This production is very, very 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.

I recently bumped into the lovely Ruth Saberton 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.

Here's hoping "Katy Carter Wants a Hero" makes it onto TV. It would be perfect.

Guess what? I've got a signed copy of the book to give away.

Share your funniest dinner party stories. Make me laugh 'till I spurt my tea out of my nose, and the book could be yours.

Proof, if proof were needed...

...that something needs to be done. Seriously.

Behind this tower is a wardrobe.

To the right of the tower is my side of the bed.

To the left of the tower is my shoes, all neatly packed away, that I can't quite get to.

At the foot of the tower is more stash which, thankfully, you can't see. Same with the junk on the bed.

All I want is a tidy house, a tidy bedroom, a tidy stash.

A tidy life.

Not going to happen. (Sigh.) On with the motley.

There's a Crocodile in the Water...

...and no-one believed me.

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.

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 (gulp) 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.

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 Swamp, 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.

"Because it's funny", was his reply. Fair enough.

I believe no trip to Freiburg is complete without a visit to Das Kartoffelhause. 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 with Meat, Potato with Fish, and so it goes on.

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.

(Note the unusual gargoyle found on the side of the Munster. Love it.)

The shops were closed for most of our short visit, but on Monday morning bright and early, we found ourselves at the Welt der Handarbeit, 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.

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?

Stash. 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.

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.

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.

I must admit, I was a little worried at how Studley might react to seeing the stash in all its entirety.

"Babe, " he said at last, "you might need a couple more crates." Is that it? That's all?

Apparently, Studley has no problem with it, and he calmly explained why.

1. 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.
2. Yarn doesn't go off and smell bad.
3. 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.
4. 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:
5. Complaining about the amount of my hoard of collectibles, may mean at some point I will start complaining about his hoard of collectibles, so it's better for him to keep his mouth shut.

"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?"

"Erm... these are my clothes. They're just not finished yet".

"Babe, you need to knit faster."

WTF...?

He thought it would be funny.

He wanted to see the look on my face.

He bought me this for Valentine's Day.

He will pay - oh, yes, he will PAY!!!!!!!!!!