Oh well. It was just a run down of how quiet Christmas had been (other than the last verse of Hark the Herald, which achieved an impromptu 4 part harmony at midnight mass – and was particularly impressive given that it was nearly 1 am at that point. The vicar likes to chant, which is why it took a congregation of 70 about as long as it takes a congregation of 200 for mass).

There has been some rather nice presents, some sploshing round getting lost running near my parents’ (note to self, do not allow Dad near muddy trainers if you don’t want them to be, literally, dripping wet by the time he’s done), a trip out to see Dad’s canal works on Boxing Day, and not enough knitting. In fact, there has not been any knitting.

I did try knitting today. It hurt. So I’m still sewing. And frustrated by it. I do have some rather nice quilting to do, and I’m finishing off Em’s cross stitch sampler. I sewed and mended while at my parents’ too, and, all in all, the sewing basket is looking remarkably healthy. But Oh! I want to KNIT! And it just hurts.

And, on that note, I’m going to go and order an inflatable TARDIS for a guiding event. As you do.

xxx

This is what happens when you have an altercation with a baked bean tin (stupid office tin opener that did not work is now in the landfill), think to yourself that you must be careful, and then lacerate your thumb to the tune of seven steristrips in A&E and almost fainting. I’ve got another 3 days and then I can take them off and really inspect the damage. It’s right over the tip of my thumb, and down, and curvy (I’ve had a little look). And, because my thumb hasn’t been washed in a week, it’s a little stinky.

So we went off to Iceland, and saw the Northern Lights (yes, you can just see them on the right hand side of that black picture, if you look closely. Mostly, I decided to look at them rather than try to photograph them), and fainted at the price of food, and walked across a frozen lake, and visited some museums and went up to the top of the church tower, and decided, basically, that it’s a pretty cool place. We’ll hopefully go back in the summer and visit the lagoons. And not try and go away on a Friday, because, as per usual, there was the usual panic that always seems to happen when I go away – this would be the parents not bothering to pick up the messages regarding the fact that I wasn’t there, and PHONING while I was away. Having been told in three different ways (letter, email, text) that I was away. It rather took the edge off the holiday. This is why I dislike being away on a Friday night. Something always happens.

It was a lovely break. Plus, three days away meant that the poor thumb had a chance to heal without having to deal with day to day life. It was a little interesting washing my hair, I’ll give you that, but I had help, so that was fine. I’ve now managed to work out how to get the rubber glove more-or-less sealed while hair washing. More or less. I did like all the lights in the windows: they were so pretty and bright and cheerful, which is necessary in a place with a scant four hours of daylight in the depths of winter. I rather wish I had a functional windowsill for one of these:

The flat is now partly reorganised – the knitting stash, and the sewing stash, have moved into the spare room. It’s also functioning as a drying room, which means that the sitting room isn’t so damp, and that there aren’t drying racks occupying half the floor for most of the week. This is the first time since leaving home to go to university that my living space has not been occupied by drying racks. Even at university, I never quite managed to get everything dry in the laundrette, so there was always something hanging up. My peak flow seems to have stabilised in the last week as a result of this reduced dampness. Much happiness. As long as I don’t have a bath. That seems to dampen things somewhat. Ho ho.

I had coffee with L & K this evening, which was lovely and peaceful, and we put the world to rights, wondered about how people design the covers of the books they publish, concluded that certain publishers have no artistic clue, and then headed home. I went via Charing Cross Road. For once, the very first book shop I entered had precisely the books I was considering buying – the second two volumes (and not the first) of Pat Barker’s Regeneration Trilogy. The first and last of the Trilogy are in the 1001 books you must read before you die list (I’m about 1/3 of the way through that. Proust counts as one book. As does A Dance to the Music of Time…). I bought Regeneration in September, and it’s stay up late reading brilliant. It’s not often that the books that are for sale in the secondhand bookshop are the ones you are looking for – usually, I end up going in and out of several shops without joy but with distraction. This time, though, I was very lucky. They cost £5 for both (and, considering that new they’re £8.99 each, I am very pleased).

xxx