More Morris pics, less rugger pics. None of us wants to see hairy-legged men.

I'm sorry?  You think that Morris doesn't involve hairy-legged men?  What planet are you on, mate? (there is manic updating going on here, as I really don't want to be cutting and sticking photos for Guides). It is, of course, de rigeur to sit and work out who has the best calf muscles.  Yes, the ones at the back, in the green silk, belong to a woman.

 

 

Left to Right, Gorgeous Gordon, Delectable Diane and Gregarious Guy.  All proving that, yes, morris dancing gives you calf muscles that will rival those of football players.  Personally, I just find it makes it difficult to buy knee high boots to fit.  However, I have dinky feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of, course, if it's a slightly fairy-like party, you have to dress up in the spirit of things. Jameson is quite, quite wonderful, and got me safely home despite a bit of an accident involving some red wine, and all the compromising photographs.  I haven't posted all of them. 

 

 

Meanwhile, the wand was something that every girl wanted to pose with.  And every boy was mesmerised by.  I mean, it sparkles and flashes (and falls to bits, but that's beside the point.  It is now held together with sticky tape. I still love it to bit.  Yes, the girl standing in the background having a drink is wearing a wedding dress.  I mean, you have to get the wear out of the things).

 

 

This wasn't to say that a degree of debonair sophistication wasn't lent to the proceedings (when I wasn't learning the rude version of "Green Grow the Rushes", or enjoying the best, close harmony, version of "Oh you'll never get to heaven" that I've ever sung, ever ever ever.  And probably ever will).  Even if we were eating asparagus.  Some men know how to open champagne bottles.  They're born knowing how.  You'll have to just believet that it's champagne. An empty bottle of Coats do Roam got in the way.

And, then, there's the Rugby.  Totally out of chronological order.  For which I apologise profusely.  Here.  Have some knitting (Friday night) to distract you from all those hairy legs and what has been described as 'the best bunch of bums I've seen in ages'.

 

The best bunch of bums that Fiona's seen in ages (this is one of the few bons mots I can remember).

 Just look at them.  The whole point of rugby is that it's kinda like male mud wrestling (Eff's description this morning, with hangover, bravely trying not to get hypothermia.  It was a little heavy for both of us, drink wise, last night).  There's a distinct lack of mud here.  Today, there was lots of mud. Lots of falling over.  I did not take pictures.  There was no point.

 

 

However, I am considering an alternative career in sports' photography.  I got some corkers, and without the benefit of a long distance lens.  I rock.  I am amazing.  I hope that my photos are featured on the team website, or in presentations, or something. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OK.  The photo pixies were with me.   Sometimes.  The bottom photo is one of those ones where I think the pixies ought to have been with me, but when they blatently weren't.  The sun had gone in at that point (minature cloud).  It was cold.  It was colder today.  And it started raining after I left.

 

OK.  I must stick things down.

xxx

 

 

 

 

This was, I orginally thought, a date with two blocked U-bends, but the U-bends themselves proved to be surprisingly gunk-free.  Not so the outflow from the dishwasher, which was a little more manky, but, by the time I'd unscrewed and screwed back every single connection under the sink, I'd come to the following conclusions.

1. That the issue my sink has with draining (it is incredibly slow) probably has more to do with the horizontal pipe next the wall than the u-bends themselves


2. That said pipe requires the localised application of "something caustic" in the shape of some Mr Muscle Drain unblocker and not my sense of humour.  There is manky stuff in there.


3. That said pipe could do with being raised at the end nearest the washing machine


4. That the u-bend under the smaller basin in the sink, into which the dishwasher feeds, could do with being lengthened a little to reduce the amount of water that flows up into the little sink when the dishwasher runs.


5. That sink plunging may well go a little better if we temporarily detatch the washing machine from the pipes, and stick a cap over the end of the pipe that it would be attached to, and then go at it with vim and elan.


6. That I need to go to the plumbers' merchants reasonably soon, so that I can indulge in home-plumbing part deux.


7. That I've managed to retrieve most of the lost 'magic balls' from the u-bends.

I had a really rather nice evening.  I got to the armhole shaping on Joy (I'm considering some short row shaping and a three needle bind off on the shoulders).  I ate macaroni cheese (vastly improved by the addition of a little mustard and some strong cheese to the wheat free sauce).  I ate chocolate ice cream and jelly beans (look, my hormonal little stomach wanted everything).  It was all going beautifully until Jo and Andy got back from whateveritwas they were doing, with some leaflets about speed dating at the Lush bar tomorrow (have they not grasped that Wednesday is Morris Night?) for me, and embarked on a discussion as to whether Benton Fraser is gay or not.  I say not.  You know, it doesn't seem to matter what we're watching, but Andy has to say something caustic.  Maybe I should stick him down the horizontal pipe at the back of the sink.  Nah.  He's all hairy.

Anyhow.  I must get on.  My PA's just absconded on holiday to New Zealand leaving me with several tons of information to collate.  It is very much in my interest to collate this.  It will make planning so much easier.  Plus, since he's not back for a fortnight and then some, I've just realised that I can eat his Turkish Delight with impunity.

xxx

To KIP, perchance to make dreams come true?

There is something to be said for knitting in public, and, on Saturday night, at the long bar in the Crucible Theatre, long after the show was over, I had one of the most positive responses yet.  This guy, who was understudying in this play (this is me giving context here, not name dropping. I think photos may help) pottered over, as the bar was closing, to ask me what I was knitting.  And why.  So, I explained about the Knitting Olympics, and my general figetyness.  Then we got onto what we'd come to see, and Liz and I explained that we were up from London, and getting the bus back at 1.45 am, and, do you know what?  He invited us to go for drinks with a small, select band of actors (and this included some of the ones that had been cavorting on stage in the altogether.  Nude cartwheels are not recommended) and crew.  So we did.  Until the coach departed at 1.45 am.

This is the sort of thing that you dream about, but which never happens in real life.  That you'll go to the theatre, and hang about in the bar, and that someone from the cast will come over to talk to you, and that you'll get to go out drinking with them after the play.  That, if you so desire, you can talk drama schools and auditions to them.  That, you can sit and debate wardrobes, and knitting for the theatre (must sort out Business Cards, and tout my services).  That one of your best friends ('cos I have lots) can find her milieu, and feel normal.  That you can be invited to start a new clan by the Scotsman (bless him, although he was slurring by that point).  That someone will leave their pineapple behind.  That you'll find out that tulips and honey are edible.  That you'll explain computer memory and hard drives in a manner that everyone will understand.

The coach journey home was on the dire side.  The drivers didn't seem to grasp that one brakes for the corners, not while going round the corners, having realised that, perhaps, one is approaching said corner at something above the suggested speed.  They also didn't seem to realise that turning the lights on and off randomly wasn't well received, and that the temperature on the coach veered between boiling and freezing.  I had hoped for three hours sleep.  I got about one.  I feel asleep on the platform at Euston.  I didn't care.

Photo to follow of knitting.  When I'm awake, at home, have taken a picture of it, and so forth.

xxx

---

  This would be the knitting as it stands now (and as it stood at the end of Sunday.  Yeah.  More knitting required).

And, from left to right (I am so bad at taking pictures), QuietGuy, the Biscuit Fantasist, and the right arm of SweetChelseaSupporter.

Note the apparent cordiality between QuietGuy and Biscuit Fantasist as they prepare to down shots of Peach Schnapps.

I am so glad I remained sober.

 

 

 

 

 

Kilt hose and Entrelac Scarf blocking on a bath towel.

 

xxx

 

p.s. I think I've received my entire ration of Valentines already.  One from Mum, one from Dad (I could tell it was Dad.  He used a 2nd Class Stamp, despite finding someone in the pub to write the envelope...)

 My brain, meanwhile, was in the sort of semicomatose state that not even The Darkness could broach for the entire ride in.  Don't ask me how I managed not to get run over.  I don't know.  Let's put it down to nice traffic and possible overkill regarding the amount of brightly coloured and reflective gear that I was wearing (I have the coolest reflective ankle bands, courtesy of Heather and Kerri.  They're slap-band-bracelets, and fab).  I'm just being appalling at sleeping when I'm supposed to.  When I am not supposed to be asleep, I'm away with the fairies.

Last night was spent in degrees of knitting preparation.   At Liberty's, I finished off the super-attenuated-caterpillar scarf (photo when recipient has received it.  Yes, that's right.  I might stick up photos.  Stay with me), and completed two more cables on my Rib-and-Cable socks, in the Lorna's laces sent by my Secret Pal.  These are knitting quickly, I'm using 2.5mm needles, and because there's only 60 stitches per round, it's fast.  They will be house socks, and possibly under-pink-DMs socks.  Must check length of DMs vs length of sock so that I can establish the number of repeats.  I'll be doing a heel flap (think it's comfier, but I don't like the way it looks) and possibly a short row toe, if I can work out how to with a top down sock.  I've heard interesting things about the way the socks are constructed, so I've gone off pattern now that the cables are established (and this includes totally repositioning where the heel is, because, as far as I can tell, the top of the foot will be wrongly patterned, IMHO, if I do it Nancy's way.  If, however, you put a cable down the middle of the front of the sock it all looks even).  I'm hoping to have spare yarn enough for some anklet socks. 

The other thing I did last night was thread approximately 3000 beads onto balls of yarn.  Joy's pattern says "thread enough beads onto each ball", which is not helpful when one has 10 balls, 5,300 beads and knows that a. not all the yarn's going to get used, because this is Rowan and they're generous like that and b. not all the cardigan is beaded.  I've gone with '800ish' beads on 4 balls so far, and I've told myself that, if I don't have enough on each ball, I can thread them on the other end.  If there's too many, then I shouldn't have wasted too much time.  I think I might need more beads. What with upsetting the bead pot (accompanied by traditional loud and clear utterance of "B*gg*r!" which is the default exclamation for upsetting the bead pot, and really upset my Mother when she witnessed it), and breaking the yarn a couple of times, mostly in the middle of the great loops of beads, this took far longer than it should have. Since I will miss the entire Olympic Opening Ceremony, mostly due to Brownies (and then due to the fact that Sundowners, aka free-alcohol-at-work is going on an hour longer than normal, on the wrong day of the week, so I can have reviving white wine after Brownies), I count this as 'training' in a manner akin to swatching.  It's not as if Friday night is being entirely given over to wild, hedonistic, behaviour.  I've got to teach the Brownies about Broken Bones first.  And do the Recovery Position again.  Since the Opening Ceremony is 6 pm - 10 pm, I will not be there for it.  I reckon that threading beads on during that would be more amusing than threading them during Question Time too...

Am wearing that Synnwch eich hun top again.  Let's hope that we don't have a repeat performance of last Friday's confusions.

xxx

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Just another Friday in the office then:

Remark the pink fluffy fairy lights, and the lion with a ribbon in its hair.

xxx

My only regret here is that I didn't manage to photo-document the episode.  However, halfway through consuming that calming mug of hot chocolate with whisky, I was taken by a sudden urge to de-scale the kettle and the showerhead.  Yes, I had been influenced by a shower that veered between boiling hot and freezing cold by turns a mere ten minutes earlier.  Not healthy when one is trying to wash one's hair.  Not healthy full stop, unless one is the sort of masochist that thrives on this type of iniquitous behaviour, and, like James Bond, enjoys the change between boiling hot and freezing cold.

So, I detached the shower head, plunged it into the jug, poured on the descaler, poured on hot water, turned on the cassette player and bopped to the Levellers a while, waited around for a bit, realised I had more descaler, and decided that the only sane thing to do at 12:40 am was perform a similar operation on the kettle.  Boiled the kettle, poured in the descaler, watched it fizz, nearly got high, and continued this pathetic foray into the world of household cleanliness by de-sooting my bedroom.  More or less.  I'm seriously considering glass doors for the bookcases, there was too much soot there for my liking.  Anyhow, everything had a good wipe, and then I rinsed out the shower head. 

The amount of scale that fell out (over a five minute period too) has convinced me that I ought to go shopping for a new shower head this weekend.  The thing is entirely gummed up.  Part-way through the de-gumming process, and seriously fed up with the yeuch that came out of the shower head, the timer went off in the kitchen to tell me that the kettle was done.  Poured remnants of kettle descaler over the really scaly tap in the bathroom.  No impact made there (I followed it up with some "Shiny Sinks" and I'm considering some "Civit Bang", however, I shall apply the Civit Bang when I'm not tipsy or sleepy, because the high from the Shiny Sinks was much stronger than that from the kettle descaler).  Cleaned the glass shelf below the mirror in the bathroom because it was streaky.  Wondered vaguely about the fact that I appear to have dyed the shower head blue.  Decided not to worry.

At this point, boiling the kettle to rinse out the remnants of the descaler, I was moved to attempt to clean the kitchen window.  I got one pane partially done, before realising that, perhaps, one o'clock in the morning on a school night was not the most healthy time at which to do this.  For starters, I couldn't see what I was doing.  It being dark outside, and all.  And, it's a bit of a stretch to get to the window over the sink anyhow.  Plus I wasn't using the correct cleaning materials (i.e. soggy wet newspaper) and lacked the wherewithal to summon the will to apply the appropriate amount of elbow grease.  Thoroughly rinsed out the kettle instead.  Sent Jo a text to warn her of all this descaling activity.  Just in case. Wouldn't want to poison her or give her strange burns in the shower.  Don't think I would, since I spent a reasonable amount of time rinsing... but, one can't be too careful about these matters.  It would be embarrassing to explain it at A&E  "Well, my flatmate indulged in an entirely uncharacteristic episode of cleaning, and now I've got acid burns in my oesophagus".

Figured that I could only maintain the moral high ground with regard to neighbourly noise by not hoovering my bedroom floor (lateness of hour has not stopped my downstairs plumber neighbour from using the bandsaw.  I think his record was half-past-midnight).  Besides, the scarf was still blocking.  It's just about dry now.

Retired to bed, still full of beans and wondering just why housework is supposed to be a cure for insomnia.  Unsurprisingly, I did not want to get up this morning.  Had a slight panic about remaining an old maid for the rest of my life while a peculiarly soppy song came onto the radio, and then reminded myself that my Mum didn't meet my Dad until she was 29, and that this was late by the standards of their era.  Decided not to panic, and to try getting up instead.

And, so, here I am at work, and rather wishing that I were still asleep.

xxx

Seven minutes, twenty nine seconds (it's a really long clip, it takes about three days to load, however, I think you'll appreciate the pain of this all - the page loads well before the clip does), and there is yours truly, probably drunk, dancing with a complete weirdo  stranger with an interesting beard while out for her 25th Birthday. 

I think I might possibly have to go into a nunnery now.  I have shared too much and should hide myself away.

I promise that this year's event will be a more refined affair.  Unless the Incredibly Strange Film Band gets its act together and sorts out a gig, in which case, well, shall we just pray that the Japanese guy with the video camera and the Pat McGarvey obsession isn't on holiday over here again?  If you go up a level on the tot-channel website, you can at least see some clips with Jo's Andy in them.  Anything which is Santos or CoolHand.

(I can't stop revisiting that clip... the horror.  The horror.  Maybe a small drink to soothe me to sleep.  Hot chocolate plus whisky).

xxx

I suddenly twigged that the staff-student rugby team have a match this morning approximately five minutes walk from my front door.  Men in exceedingly short shorts, all running round, and getting muddy.  All those hairy legs.  Wow.  In the interests of some sort of social decorum, I'm not revealing where the match is, or what the team is.  If the pictures come out, you can guess then.

This is why I'm up at this hour.  I need the blog fodder.  I also need to wash and dry my hair (look, it's too cold to not dry my hair in this weather: normally, I wouldn't bother and let it air dry, but I think I'd get frostbite....) prior to departure.  Hair being at that uncomfortable point between 'clean' and 'not so clean' at this point.

One may as well be prepared, right?  Being prepared will also involve thermo-nuclear underwear, very very very long socks, my fantastic wellies, more socks, possibly the gloves-on-strings, and multiple layers.  Dit is ace koud vandag.

I'm not attending this affair to pull.  Oh no no no no no.

(Question: why did one of the Desktop Team, while he was giving me a lift home last night, feel the need to interrogate me over my relationship with my PA again?  I do wish this non-affair would cease to be so interesting to them.  One or other of us will have to find a boyfriend/girlfriend, and flaunt them).

xxx

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Well, as blog fodder goes, it wasn't anything particularly special.  Kick off was delayed by a good half hour, because someone had forgotten to bring the rugger shirts.  My guess is that there was a mad car chase through London to go and get them, based solely on my knowledge of the Park, and the entrance used to bring the shirts in.  The particular pair of hairy legs that I just happen to be interested in wasn't present (I don't know what he did to himself, but according to the scary students that I was eavesdropping on - I was too scared to approach, since I was reasonably sure, and have since verified, that one of them happened to be one of those bete noire types who creates vast amounts of work for me, regardless of how much I try to prevent it - according to the scary students, he got whipped off to hospital after the last match), so I didn't stay too long.

But I did stay long enough to take this:

I was then almost brained by an out of control ball, and decided that departure was the better part of valour.  My head has had enough abuse recently, without going looking for it.  Plus one of the scary students was the one who reminds me of Charlotte's gay friend in Sex and the City, and I've run into him before.  He's nasty.  In a squeaky sort of way.  {Edit: we won, 36-5}

Now.  I have a question.  Gentlemen, were you to receive an anonymous Valentine card, how would you react if you worked out that it was someone that you weren't entirely sure you wanted a card from?  I'm merely asking before I make a total prat of myself.  I'll still make a prat of myself, since the idea in my head is too good not to be allowed out and sent.  I make take a photograph.  I may not.  Who can say? 

xxx

However, this is going to take some beating.

In the past 10 minutes, I have slightly scalded myself just below my right eyebrow while using the hot water machine (I have applied a cold compress, although this was wildly complicated as it involved removing my glasses and I can't see jack without my glasses.  I blame the rest of my friends for making accidents with hot liquids fashionable this week.  I'm just joining in on the trend), and managed to get a wisp of hair tangled up with my left eyelashes, thereby rendering blinking impossible.

Yes.  You read that correctly.  I tangled my eyelashes with my hair. 

I'm going to go and apply that cold compress again.  I should have known that it was a silly idea to wear a top with the legend "synnwch eich hun" across it (that would be "surprise yourself" in Welsh).

xxx

So, I was at work until about 7.30 pm last night: I got blown out by Eff at the last minute (she got thrown an enormous brief and was told to be in Norwich, fully prepared, by 9 o'clock this morning.  I told her about the Dormouse Bookshop in Elm Hill, to try and make the whole isidious hideousness less hideous).  It was worth staying late.   I'm currently just about on top of things.  Of course, this will disintegrate as soon as I end up skipping lunch for the second day running, which will also totally scupper Morris practice tonight, since I won't have eaten enough to get all the way through without suddenly suffering from a lack of blood sugar and/or blood pressure and feeling dizzy and faint.

{begin mostly incoherent Girl Guide bit} On the plus side, I've relocated my lost QG candidate (or rather, arranged to resubmit her registration forms to the higher ups for the third time) and she'll get her Award.  Yippee!  I'm also chasing the candidate whom I know of in name only.  I only want to say 'hello' and buy her a cup of coffee, and find out where she's at, the same as I've done for the others....  Oh, and get proper contact details from her.  Assuming she still wants to work on the award {End inane Girl Guide bit}

Meanwhile, I've finished the back of Audrey, knittingwise (yes, I know, I need to take a photo), and cast on for these, and ripped right back to the start after 30 rows, since I'd second-guessed myself wrongly, and was nowhere near gauge on 4.5mm needles.  Far too small, even allowing for my teeny tiny wrists.  Will try on 5mm needles, as specified in the pattern, which should work  Since one only casts on 20 stitches to start with, I feel that the glove itself works as good a gauge swatch as anything else.  Made a change from the endless ribbing of both Audrey and the kilt socks.

And, I discovered what the huha going on in the street outside Camden Tube on Saturday night was (far more policemen than normal, plus a bus).  I mostly missed it.  By the time Jo got there, en route to see her Andy after his show, the road had been temporarily sealed off.  Let's not let my Mum know about this particular brouhaha, eh?  Just like we didn't let her know how close I lived to the Camden Ripper.  Or about the time the time I errupted out of the flat one morning to discover the street sealed off, and that I had to make a major detour to get to work since someone had shot at a policeman the night before (can't find a link, sorry), and the buses were fubared as a result.   It is not relevant.  Mind you, I did wonder about all the flowers that suddenly appeared tied to the railings outside Superdrug.  And, concluded in my innocence, that someone had been knocked over by a bus or something ghastly of that ilk.

The squaddie has asked if I'd like to go for lunch with him.  I think I need to find some 'other arrangement' pronto.

My head still hurts from where I collided with the wine rack on Monday morning.  It's Wednesday today, but it feels like it could be Thursday.

Jeepers.  The Irish Wolfhound has just addressed me as 'mon petit biscuit' in an email.   I have no idea how to respond, so I'm maintaining a dignified silence.

xxx

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The biscuit fantasist is getting married in South Africa in about three week's time.  This means that I cannot go to the theatre in Sheffield for 'The Romans in Britain' with Liz - I cannot get the time off, because my assistant's got an invitation to the wedding, and has, just today and after I'd booked my time off, requested the holiday.  One has to bow down to a wedding.  Even if one is highly unamused by the prospect.  Getting oneself back from Sheffield post-performance involves a night bus, which is icky, and I don't fancy Sheffield bus station at 1 o'clock in the morning.  I'm too scared.  Hotels are, in the current efficiency and budgetary drive, just a tad too expensive, and, I'm unsure about asking the member of my Morris Team who lives in Sheffield if she'd like to come along with me, and if I could overnight with her.  I don't quite know her well enough, you see. 

Oh well.  If this is this year's "No, you may not have holiday then" out the way already, I guess I'm doing reasonably well.

xxx