It maybe that I’ve lost my mind; it maybe that I’m beginning the end; it may even be that Nathan Lowell’s Trader Tales space opera about the life and times of Ishmael Wang has me too captivated. I honestly don’t know, but whatever the cause I’ve taken up crochet.
When I was knee high to a grasshopper—admittedly a very large boy sized grasshopper—my dad had a bad back and was consequently laid up in bed, where he taught himself to knit (that the sweater he made was too heavy and too large to wear is for another blog). The point is: knitting captivated him for a while—or was that his bad back? No. He was a captive in his bed and started knitting. Yes, that’s the way it was. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The next point is: he wasn’t worried about people sniggering at him.
And neither am I. I’m inordinately proud of my chain, and those three double crochets. You have no idea (unless you crochet, too) how hard that achievement was to achieve: bloody hard, that’s how hard it was. There’s miles of discarded wool lying around in small heaps all over the house, as well as a lot of blue tinged language littering the ether and heading for Proxima Centauri.
So, if you’d like to listen to some excellent Sci Fi that might—or might not—get you drooling for a ball of wool and a crochet hook, then download Nathan Lowell’s stellar podcast HERE. The one that starts you crocheting is ‘Half Share’, but best to start at the beginning with ‘Quarter Share.’ I can almost guarantee you’ll listen to them all—and maybe even start crocheting, too. 🙂
The full moon was on the 7th, but either it was cloudy or I was deep, deep dreaming. Last night it seemed so bright that whatever I did I couldn’t avoid being woken by it. Some might say I should have pulled the curtains, and maybe so. But I didn’t: I opened the window, shoved my phone out and got this evocative—werewolf howling—snap.
Yonks ago—when I was knee high to a grasshopper—I worked on a film shoot for Vauxhall Motors, in Wales. It was a lot of fun, but what I primarily remember was the grip (a chap in charge of moving the camera and of camera dollies and track) parking his van too close to the sea in an area where the tide came in faster than you could run.
Somewhere, I have a series of photographs starting with his van parked on dry beach and ending with the grip swimming out and attaching a buoy to his submerged van’s wing-mirror.
Laugh? We nearly paid our license fees. And the van? The van was swept several miles down the estuary out to sea, and ended up on a sandbank. The grip got a new one on his insurance.
Needless to say we all got a bollocking from the local coastguard for stupidity.
I’ve always wanted to fly, though I’ve never had enough money to get a private pilots license. I do, however, drive. I enjoy driving a lot, and the faster the car the better. It’s probably why I follow F1, but I digress. Flying and driving without having to have both a car and a plane. It seems very far fetched – very Flash Gordon, but it’s not!
This, of course, doesn’t obviate the need for shopping. One simply has to trudge and bear it—which is better than beering and staggering it, I suppose. And much, much better than Vodka and crawling. Me, I’d stone and float it if I had a choice, but I don’t. Waaay too long in the tooth for that sort of malarkey. Also, I don’t know anyone to turn me on. Sad, but true.
One thing that does turn me on and is totally without the need for a dealer (unless, that is, you count Murdoch’s Sky as a dealer), is F1. All the big teams (except Mercedes) have released their cars now, and all of them, except McLaren, have an ugly step down just after the monocoque and before the nose. Simply speaking the McLaren is beautiful and none of the others are: which is worrying. It’s worrying because I’m now thinking maybe McLaren have gone done a boo-boo. Maybe the hideous step is vital: after all, Red Bull have one, and they’re hardly slouchily slow. Oh dear. 😦
There are squirrels and birds of all wild varieties, and cats and wee snow beasties, too. Of course you can’t see them as it’s a still photograph, but they’re there.
And now. Now I have to go to the shops for to purchase comestibles of all sorts (which doesn’t mean liquorice all sorts, though it could if I happen to stumble across a packet). Pity me, for it’s cold and wet and bleak, and did I mention cold?
It’s just past 2:30am on the 5th February and it’s snowing!
I love snow. For the first few minutes it takes me back to my childhood and snowdays when school was cancelled and I could get wrapped up warm, go outside, thunder about building snow-men, get soaking wet and come back in to sit infront of a fire and have a hot bath. It’s good to get all snowed up and then, wuzzly warm, go to bed. And it’s especially good, nay, it’s the best, if it snows on Christmas eve: Christmas morning with fresh deep snow is wonderful! There’s nothiing like it. It’s special, magical, and produces wonderful memories.
So, I love snow … for the first few minutes. Then it becomes a pain in the arse. Plans change. Life changes, and quite possibly Swiss Buns double in price.