Going like the clappers

When I wrote recently about my brother's pi blanket, I used, somewhat mystifyingly, the phrase 'it grows like the clappers.' I used it to mean that the blanket knits up really, really fast.

This was mystifying because it's not actually a phrase I use in speech, and worse still, it was a bungled version of the actual saying which is 'to go like the clappers', not to grow. So let's just put it down to one of those funny slips and get on with exploring the origins of the saying. I'm doing this because enough of a our American friends raised virtual eyebrows over the appearance of said phrase and it got me to thinking.

Here is a funny aside. I have a very clear memory of the first time I read the phrase and this should demonstrate how bizarre my pop culture memory can be. In the mid-80s, I was reading a teeny-bopper magazine, most likely Smash Hits, and the phrase appeared in an interview with the two boys from Wham. Andrew Ridgley, the other member of the band, the one of dubious talent, explained that he had bought a car for his mother with his pop music earnings. He said that the car he bought 'goes like the clappers' and for some reason, that has always stuck.

I wonder if I am one of the few people on the planet who, having never met Wham's other guy, has something he said etched forever on my memory?

So when I read in my research that 'to go like the clappers' is an English phrase, not widely used outside the UK and considered archaic even there, it struck me as funny that a young guy in the 80s was the last time I could remember stumbling across it.

The best article I found on the saying is here. It makes good reading and covers not only the strongest theory on its origins but also a range of more amusing theories including a reference to rabbits and that thing we all know rabbits do well, although whether they do it fast I don't know. Can't say I've ever watched a couple of rabbits going at it, like the clappers or otherwise!

The most likely origin, the one that gets the most coverage on the various websites devoted to this subject, refers to the ringing of bells. It was most likely coined by RAF pilots in World War II.

From here:

What 'the clappers' refers to isn't entirely clear, although by far the most likely derivation is as a reference to the clappers of bells. An early form of the phrase was 'go like the clappers of hell' and, given that bells have clappers, it may be that it may that the rhyme of hell and bell is significant. RAF pilots were often from English public schools where the ringing of handbells to mark the time was common. Bells were rung more vigorously as the time remaining to get to class/chapel etc. was about to run out. The image of schoolboys dashing to class while handbells were being energetically rung matches the meaning of the phrase very well.

As funny as it would be to think that the saying has reference to rabbits and procreation, I think this one sounds more plausible.

I must ask my mum if she remembers using it. She is, after all, English, and I'm sure that phrases from her childhood and family are a part of the way I and my siblings speak now.

So I hope that's cleared it up for the Americans who were wondering. No, it's got nothing to do with having the clap! Now there's a saying I might go and read up on. What a strange one.

Bells

FO: My brother's Pi Blanket

Today, I was finally able to present my brother with the pi blanket I made for him as a 30th birthday gift. He loves knitted goods. Last year I gave him a vest, not the one pictured below. He apologised when he arrived for not wearing my vest. His exact words were, 'I'm sorry, I've been seeing other vests.'

We were visiting our sister Fee and so decided to have a photo shoot, including Baby Alice, on the lounge room floor.

It was too good an opportunity, really. Here is Keith, with Alice, who decided to wear the cardigan I made her for my visit today. I think this photo will make Keith's girlfriend melt.



And here they are again. I'm pretty sure Fee saw the great potential in a pi blanket as a play space for a baby.



So this is my second Pi Blanket (pattern from Elizabeth Zimmermann's Knitter's Almanac, which features a laceweight pi shawl). 

The first, for Sean, was finished almost exactly a year ago. This time, I went for 12ply (worsted weight) Bendigo Rustic (in Red Tweed) instead of 8ply. This one took me exactly a month - April 24 to May 24. It's really so fast, all that going round and around.

As earlier stated, I ran out of wool. Thanks to a helpful Raveller, I managed to get a little extra and it is so close in shade you can barely tell. I thought I had lost the yarn label but I found it today and saw that the donated wool is only one dyelot away from the original. No wonder it's a good match.

Here's me with Alice. Note the hair. It's getting the chop tomorrow. Can't wait.



And a final shot of Alice pointing at her mummy. Too cute huh?



I really can't recommend pi blankets enough. They are pretty, they are fast, they are clever. They grow like the clappers and are wonderfully versatile. Two of these is not enough. There will be more, and of course, no doubt made from the Bendigo Woollen Mills staple, Rustic. It's such a great wool for blankets. Sturdy, warm, washes up beautifully.

Oh and on the washing issue, I really needed this be dry quickly and at this time of year, when it's cold, that's easier said than done. A bit of twittering on Sunday morning when I was contemplating what to do lead to a great tip from Julie. I had always thought that putting woollens in the washing machine on the spin cycle was a recipe for disaster, but apparently not. Think about it, how much movement actually happens once that item is plastered to the side of the barrel? Practically none.

So I washed it in the bath, rinsed it and tossed it into the washing machine. It emerged much less waterlogged than if I had just squeezed it out in a towel. Overnight, in our study on towels, it was totally dry. Can't beat that! 

Bells

Austen-fest

Yesterday, my friend Polly and I spent an entire day and part of an evening immersing ourselves entirely in three of the best Austen adaptations ever made (in our humble opinions).

I arrived at Polly's house, a beautiful country home outside Canberra, around 10am and we promptly declared our Austen-fest for two had begun.

(Polly had the truly awful 1999 version of Mansefield Park playing in the background when I arrived. Just so that we could sneer at it and bemoan the atrocity that is the attempt at re-telling the story of Fanny Price. We turned it off fairly quickly and got on with the quality viewing.)

There aren't many photos. I took a few, but mostly I settled in with Polly for a day of keeping warm and trying not to sneeze and wheeze through the best scenes.

This was my view from the couch in the TV room. It's a gorgeous fountain, isn't it?



The universe gave us the ideal day for our little Austen-fest. It was grey, cold and ever so slightly drizzly. A day when you are very happy to look outside at the beautiful landscape, rather than step into it.

Mostly the day looked like this. Watching Austen over the February Lady Sweater on my lap.



I did step outside for a few minutes in the afternoon, in search of some fresh air to clear my head. I caught this rose on Polly's front porch.



And snapped myself breathing in the cool afternoon air.



So for the Austenites among you, here's a run down of what we watched.

We started with the best Austen adaptation of all. 1995's perfect adaptation of Persuasion.



This really is Austen done well. It's gentle. It's quiet. It's subtle. You believe these people are Austen characters. The lighting strives to be authentic. It's not glammed up. It's my ultimate repeat-viewing Austen. I will never, ever grow tired of this perfect depiction of a sublime novel.

Next we watched Emma, the BBC version which is, we agreed, far superior to Gwyneth Paltrow's Emma. This one stars Kate Beckinsale before she ran away to America and became a Hollywood starlet. I liked her better then, especially in Cold Comfort Farm. But that's just me.



Finally, we laughed and laughed, delighting in Emma Thompson's fabulous and fun adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. Kate Winslet as a 19 year old, pre-Titanic.



It's funny, it's touching and it's impossible not to watch it and remember that in the middle filming, Hugh Grant met Divine Brown and, well, that was not his finest hour. Ah the mid 90s. Seems like a long time ago now.

The day concluded with the viewing of a partial episode of Pride And Prejudice. We had to, really. We needed to look at Mr Darcy's britches. No, really. We did. It was for research purposes. Honest.

Bells

Purple Tangle

As luck would have it, I awoke this morning sick. All that talk of getting on with plans came to a screeching halt with a definite bout of a sore throat and a cold. I'm not dying, but I don't feel great.

There's just one thing to say about this that's good. I will now rest. And knit. And go out little. Can't complain about that.

I was not, however, too sick to start the day with a bit of yarn buying. Before I'd even had a cup of tea, mind you. Ailsa over at Knitabulous has opened an eye-poppingly gorgeous etsy yarn shop. Her dyed sock yarns and lace weights are stunning and I've resisted for a little while, but the delirium of illness made me buy something in vivid purple today. Oops.

After a spot of reading in bed (Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate), I got reacquainted with my February Lady Sweater. If you've made this, you'll know that the yoke for this cardigan goes on forever. Much like the garter stitch edging on my brother's pi blanket (which is finished, I might add. Photos later in the week.)



Between the blanket edging and the cardigan yoke, I'm doing a lot of garter stitch at the moment. Almost an entire week of it.

The afternoon did not pan out so well. I've got a secret knit on the go, which I can't say anything about at all, but I can talk about the yarn. It's Fibreworks 4ply merino which I bought at the markets a couple of weeks ago. It's lovely but I think the people at Fibreworks need to take a bit more care with the way they skein up the wool. I was careful but I messed up the first one. Look.



The last time this happened, a kindly reader called Catherine stepped in and saved me. Today, in a rather forward step, I wrote and asked her if she was keen to help me out again. The crazy woman gave a resounding yes and promised to return it ASAP. It'll be in the mail tomorrow.

The second skein was also pretty messy at the points where it was joined but I was on high alert and managed to avoid another crisis.



After that, I got on promptly with starting the Top Secret project and knocked over a goodly amount of it. Maybe this being sick thing isn't so bad after all. Tomorrow, I head to the country for the day for an Austen-fest. I'm not too sick for that. After all, it's what I'd be doing if I was at home anyway!

Bells

Unstructured Structure

Heading into a week in which I'll be alone at home on leave from work, I find myself doing something I'm sure many, many women do - mentally filling the days with an insurmountable list of things I want to achieve. 

I feel robbed of time already and the week hasn't even begun. 



It's not that there's a lot I need, or particularly want to do, at least not in terms of actual activities or tasks. There's no real purpose to this leave other than to have some time out and take things as they come, but me being me, I'm acting as if I've got a month off, not a week.

I have ambitions that are crazy, like finishing most of my current knitting projects, or writing a short story, or totally overhauling my stash, maybe even cleaning out all my old clothes or doing lots of baking. The list goes on.



Realistically, I can't do it all. Not all that and have a lot of downtime as well, getting the rest I need. So I've come up with an approach that I think might work and should allow me to at least achieve some of what I'd like to do, as well as getting in some good exercise.

I'm calling my plan Unstructured Structure. I know myself, I need to emerge at the end of the week feeling like I made the most of my time, so some structure in terms of plans is good for me. 



But I also know that if I hem myself in to too many commitments outside the home, I'll feel like I had no real choice in the use of my time, no time for being unstructured. It's striking that balance that's the most helpful - and difficult - for me. 

If I spend all day running all over town doing odd jobs or visiting everyone I know, I won't have any rest and I won't have the brain space to have some creative time. But if I get up each day and drift meaninglessly through each day, I'll resent myself for my laziness at the end of the week.



So to help, I'm setting my week up, loosely breaking the days up into categories and each day I'll try to balance out the way the hours pass. 

Creative - this will include knitting, writing, photography, blogging, cooking and reading. 

Functional - this will include work around the house, like tidying up some cupboards, tidying up some messy corners and other daily tasks. 

Social - I have some play dates planned, like a day in the country with my artist friend Polly on Tuesday, some time with my brother and sister on Thursday and a coffee or two. That'll balance things out nicely.

Let's see how it goes. I'm excited!

Bells

Averting Disaster

At some point over the weekend, one of the nightmares every knitter experiences started to loom frighteningly on the horizon. I saw it coming and for a day or two I lived in a state of denial. I tried to knit faster - because we all know that helps.

It became apparent on Sunday that was going to run out of yarn with well over half the border of my brother's pi blanket left. To refresh your memory, I am knitting a fairly wide garter stitch border onto the blanket. It's taking FOREVER.



It turns out I'm knitting it wider than it needs to be. I'm doing eight stitches, which is what Elizabeth Zimmermann recommends but she's also talking about a laceweight shawl when she recommends that. There's a fair bit of difference between laceweight and the 12ply I'm using here.

Duh.

But then, RoseRed, genius that she is, came up with a brilliant idea, one that would save me from having to buy a whole 200g ball of Bendigo when in reality I'd need a lot less than that. I put the word out on Ravelry for someone to let me know if they had any scraps of this yarn left over. Within an hour I had an offer from a kindly knitter in Sydney and tonight, it arrived. Two days after I put the call out.

Here's what I had left tonight. Just a measly 4g.



I was disappointed to think that I might not be able to knit on it any more tonight because I'm truly buggered at the moment and not up for anything more complex than garter stitch.

Then, because Sean had suggested we get takeaway for dinner, I discovered there was a parcel at the front door. I'd missed it, getting home after dark and going in the back door. But there it was, as I handed over the cash for dinner, sitting there on the front step waiting for me.



A whole 118g of Rustic 12ply in Red Tweed. I might just get this finished in the next day or so.



And yes, for the observant among you, I have indeed missed the deadline for my brother's birthday. It was this weekend just gone. He knows there's something coming and I reckon next week, he'll get it.

So thank you to my donor. I am unspeakably grateful. And I reckon she ended up happy to with the little arrangement we came to as part of the deal. But that's another story.

Bells

The Old Bus Depot Markets or Where All My Money Went Yesterday

The 'Celebration of Wool' day at Canberra's Old Bus Depot Markets is now an annual event and one the yarn lovers amongst us build up to with great anticipation. It's held in a great big tin shed that, funnily enough, used to be a bus depot. I don't know when. Certainly not in my (adult) lifetime.

The markets are on every week but they have periodic 'events' where the focus shifts onto something like wool (and other fibres), or other things. I don't know what things. I only get excited about the Celebration of Wool Day. And of course, it is de rigueur to wear something you have made. There were cardigans, scarves, socks and shawls galore and Ravellers from Sydney to boot!



I was reflecting after the event that I can remember the first time I went to the wool day and how far I've come since then. I went along with a friend the year I started knitting seriously. 2004. I was utterly overwhelmed. For a girl who'd grown up on a diet of Patons yarns, all this stuff that seemed not so far from the sheep's back was a bit scary.

I remember seeing hanks of wool that still had bits of twig or grass in them and I wondered 'why don't people clean it up?' Sure, we don't seek out the twigs and grass, but sometimes that's charming isn't it? We love to be a little nearer to the paddock, don't we?

Now of course I know differently. We don't go there to buy the stuff you can buy in shops. We go there to celebrate the people who produce this stuff and bring it straight from their farms or dye pots or spinning wheels. There are days I really, really wish I could smell because I reckon being around all that earthy stuff must smell SO GOOD.

Anyway, onto the day. I met up promptly with a couple of friends. They spent some time deliberating over the stunning Polwarth yarn from a very, very gorgeous farmer called Tom who had some members of our crew all aflutter. He hails from Tarndwarncoort Polwarth Yarns. (No photo of the hot farmer on the site, sadly but you can admire his sheep!)

Kylie and Shelley and the Polwarth.

Pretty much from that point, it was on for young and old. Sometimes, as much as I love going to these things with my friends, it's all so crazy and my mind becomes a whirligig and the next thing I know, I emerge blinking into daylight, realising I spent a tidy sum on some seriously lovely stuff. A few minutes even on my own might help me a little with that whirligiginess!

But I'm not complaining, because I emerged with some beautiful yarn. Like this stunning purple alpaca silk laceweight yarn from Glenora. I remembered these people from last year and knew that they would hold my attention again this year. Oh boy, did they ever. I was restrained, I think.



I only bought two of those skeins - one in purple and one in red. Well, why wouldn't you?



From the same people I got some merino to spin. Not for me, this spinning thing (at least not at the moment). No no, this lovely pretty merino below, called Shiraz (oh, so me) is going to cross land and sea and be spun by Julie. She offered. She said, get something and I'll spin it and send it back to you.



Ok. Sure. Why not. I'm not silly. I know a good deal when I hear one! When she gets it, we'll discuss what it'll be spun into. 250g worth. Yummy.

So that was pretty much it. I also bought some gifts but they obviously can't be posted.

There really aren't enough hours in the day, are there?

Bells

A Pretty Outfit

I've had a lovely but very busy weekend. Visiting family, lots of time with friends, a birthday party and an absolute orgy of yarn buying. You know the rush that's followed by a sudden, overwhelming crash? That's how I'm feeling right now. But I've got some stuff to show for it.

I finished baby Alice's second little set. I knew from people like Kim and George that knitting for baby girls was fun, but until I got the bug, I didn't imagine I'd do a lot of it. Doesn't Alice look adorable in her new hat? Here she is being held by her Aunty Adele who was in town for the weekend.



And here's the full set.



This was a very fun little ensemble. The yarn was a gift, many moons ago, from Generally Gemma. Gemma is in the UK and the yarn is a now discontinued line by indie dyer Easy Knits. It makes me think of candy apples.

The kimono is from The Complete Fabrication. The smallest size is available free but if you buy the pattern you get sizes going up to age three. I reckon I'll make a few of these for Alice before then. Although next time I'll crochet an edging around the neck. It's quite open and floppy on her and I think needs a little stability. Her parents were very happy with it.

The hat is a pattern by Blue Sky Alpacas. It knitted up in the blink of an eye.

I have to say that cuddling a baby in hand knits is pretty close to heaven. Thanks Gemma for the gift, so long ago. I had no idea it would one day clothe my sweet little niece.

Tomorrow, I'll post about the orgy of wooly goodness that was the Celebration of Wool event I went to today. For now, I'm gonna go play with the new additions to my stash.

Bells

FO: Blackrose socks

Are handknit socks sexy? Probably not often, and definitely not if they're the ugly acrylic monstrosities I saw in the window of Sussan today. Lurid colours, saggy and with pom poms attached. *shudder*

But these ones? I'm gonna go out on a limb and declare them my first ever sexy knitted socks.



These beauties are the second pair in my Personal Sock Club '09 and I love them. Let me introduce you.



Pattern: Blackrose from Knittyspin. The original socks are knit from handspun sock yarn. Yeah, like that was ever gonna happen. Instead I chose:

Yarn: Socks that Rock (lightweight) in Ravenscroft from Bluemoon Fibre Arts. I think this is close to, if not my favourite sock yarn. It competes very closely with Koigu because i think they both work up a bit similarly.

Needles: 2.5mm knitpicks circular for magicloop method. This was one of those times that magicloop was a skill worth having. The pattern was written for it in that the stitches sat evenly on each needle and it all went so smoothly except for in the beginning when I stuffed up. Twice. But after that I was ok.

Time: February 21 2009 - April 29 09. They shouldn't have taken that long. It's a dead easy, gorgeous pattern with just a little bit of a lace panel that is practically begging to be committed to memory.

Modifications: None.



They're not quite so sexy on the plain side, but the colours are nice and they wear like a dream. Almost. They gape ever so slightly about the heel but I'm not going to quibble over such a minor flaw when they're beautiful socks, my first for this winter.

Time to dip into the Personal Club stash for the next pair, I think. Oh what fun!

Bells

ps thank you for the kindness and understanding over my Mother's Day sadness. I try not to live in that space but going there is inevitable sometimes.

Autumn Flowers and Mother's Day

Today was one those days that reminds me why I live in Canberra. The words 'clear' 'clean' and 'crisp', although overused, are the words that always come to mind in autumn and winter when the sun shines.

We did a lot of sorting of papers, clothes and other clutter that builds up over time. I hated every minute of it, but of course it's necessary. I soothed myself by wandering around the yard for a while in the afternoon.

I adore my Swan River Daisies.



And the marigolds that I grew from seed last year. Growing stuff from seed doesn't often work for me but this, and the alyssum you can see in the background, both did really well and once the scorching of summer was over, they came into their own.



Here's a clearer shot of the alyssum. I need more of this next spring. I can't get enough of it.



Gazanias are, for me, as gorgeous as sunflowers. They open fully only in bright sunlight so they always seem so happy.



Same with calendula. Another flower that seems to have the sunlight trapped in its petals. I've not grown it before and say this will not be the last time I try it.



And finally, our calistemon, a sentimental favourite for us. It's a native, known more commonly as the bottle brush and I promise to photograph the glorious red flowers when they show up. They're just starting, see the little buds?



It's a special plant for us because it commemorates the loss of our babies. It was planted for the first, and now we think of both of them when we stop and admire it. The fact that in the last year it's grown so tall and strong is a metaphor not lost on us.

I spent a little time admiring it today, and thinking about how Mother's Day is inevitably a hard and sad day for those of us who long to be mothers, and those of us who were, briefly, mothers to little souls who didn't stay around very long. There's no gift card for that occasion.

I suppose that's why I focused on my flowers today. I went to the shops and everywhere there were kids and men carrying bunches of flowers they were taking home to mums. I cut some marigolds for myself and put them in a vase in the bathroom. For remembering. If you are like me, and remembering, I'm sorry. It's important to remember.

Bells

Nibble nibble nibble

After a rather inelegant fall down some restaurant stairs at SnB a couple of nights ago (thanks to new black heels (not high) and a shiny wooden floor), I'm a little bruised and sorry today and so have not done an awful lot in the way of movement.

This is all very convenient, because, you see, I have a rather large task ahead of me. My brother's pi blanket, which has been growing rather rapidly in the last week, is near the end.



I am quite literally nibbling away at the 576 stitches of this blanket, adding a garter stitch edge by knitting together the eighth stitch of the edge with the last row of the blanket. Doesn't make sense? No it didn't to me before I did it for the first time either.

I'll tell you one thing, in Knitter's Almanac, Elizabeth Zimmermann says, 'You will think at first this is going to be an infinite job....' and well, yes, I do think it will be. The knitting itself is straight forward but it's the huge turning and lifting of this massive blanket every time I complete an 8 stitch row that makes this arduous.

Still, my brother's birthday is a week away so I'm well on track. Sometimes, I stop and look at the blanket unblocked and think it looks like some kind of weird lunar landscape.



But this isn't bad for two weeks' work. A day trip to Sydney last week really knocked over the last part of it.

And so despite the finger-numbing pressure I've put myself under to complete this before my brother turns 30, I've still managed to cast on a couple of other smaller things to relieve the monotony of a plain blanket.

Ishbel was in fact begun, despite trying to talk myself out of it. I chose some beautiful alpaca/silk which was a gift from Julie a couple of years ago. I think it's a perfect match. So far, given it's largely stocking stitch, it's been good for bus knitting.



And for fun, I've cast on another little baby project for my niece, Alice. It's the Seamless Baby Kimono from The Complete Fabrication.



I think I've broken the spell of dark colours I was under for a while there, don't you?

Bells

Why I Don't Dance

I don't dance.

I'm inspired to write about this because yesterday I listened to a wonderful podcast by English comedian, actor and writer, Stephen Fry. It was an old episode, since I'm working my way back through his archives, entitled Bored of the Dance. It got me thinking about my own desperate aversion to dancing.

What was so encouraging about listening to Stephen Fry explore how much every fibre of his being loathes dancing is that it made me feel OK about the same trait in myself. I have decided, from this moment, to stop apologising for it and to stop accepting the criticism that this means there's something wrong with me. There isn't. And nor is there with you either, if you don't enjoy dancing. Anti-dancers unite! (Conversely, if you do love to dance, that's great. I'm not here to sneer.)

One of my favourite sob stories to drag out when the subject of why I don't dance comes up, dates back to a school dance in, I think, 1987. So I was fifteen.

Back then, I tried to be like everyone else. I wore a bubble skirt. I wore my hair as big as I could manage. I went along bursting with the kind of anticipation that only a school dance, when you have no other social life, can create. There was undoubtedly some gorgeous, unattainable guy I was hoping would notice me. There would have been a lot of Bon Jovi played that night and I would have loved every power-chord filled moment.

I danced. I am sure I did OK but I was awfully self conscious and no matter how much I loved whatever music was filling the school gym, I was excruciatingly aware of the fact that I could not possibly look as coordinated and rhythmically gifted as the girls who looked like they were born dancing, the girls who looked like they were actually having fun and not just pretending like I was.

Knowing what I know now, probably the gym was oozing discomfort, awkwardness and agonising self consciousness. Undoubtedly, I was surrounded by teenagers struggling with self doubts of their own. I didn't know this. I truly believed my awkwardness on the dance floor was obvious to everyone around me, that everyone was secretly sniggering at my aimless, jerky bopping and laughing. But I tried really hard to pretend it wasn't happening, striving instead for the appearance of ease and enjoyment. A little voice said to me, 'Really, you look fine. Just have fun.' I copied the others as much as I could.

It was all going ok. We were in a circle. We being the girls I loosely called friends, because I don't think I particularly liked them and I'm pretty sure they only tolerated me. That's a whole other story, but at least I had some sort of clan to call my own, even if there was actually no real friendship there. In truth, high school is all about appearances.

What happened next is one of those moments that stays with you forever. You never forget. I'm sure in my imagination there's a great big spotlight over me when I picture my fifteen year old self in a bubble skirt and teased hair.

Kylee was a girl in my group I did not like one bit. She was small and mean. She had a nasty habit of cutting people down, telling them what she really thought as if it was her God given right. You were expected to change whatever it was she deemed wrong. She was right near me and she called out, 'Helen, you dance like a penguin.'

Like a penguin. There's no way that could be meant kindly. She imitated me then, clapping her hands, as I must have been, somewhere in the vicinity of my pelvic region, and soon everyone was joining in and laughing. Public humiliation. I don't remember what happened after that. I may have passed out.

This story isn't the reason, per se, why I don't dance. It's not like I never went on to dance after that. I've tried. Many times. A few times when relatively drunk I've even had a moment or two of something approaching fun, but the moment has to be exactly right. It has to be a song that I simply adore; I have to be with people who I know won't laugh at me; I have to have had a minimum of two drinks. More is better.

But in the end, I just really don't like it. Mostly I dislike very much the kind of music that's played in venues where dancing is expected. I feel just a little bit silly jumping around inexpertly to good music; to music I don't like, it's even worse. It all just feels so pointless. Couldn't I just sit and listen to the music and have just as much of a good time? Yes, I could. And I usually do.

If you say you don't like dancing, people leap to conclusions that you're uptight and in possession of all manner of unappealing traits. Maybe it's true that I don't seem to be able to relax my body enough on a dance floor to it in a way that makes it an enjoyable thing. I probably lack the ability to relax my body enough to jump off a bridge headfirst into a canyon with a big piece of elastic attached to my feet too but I'm not going to lose sleep over it.

Nope. I get my kicks in other ways. I will happily spend the rest of my life appreciating music with my ears and my voice and the rush it gives me without making me feel any urge to tap my feet or wriggle around or gyrate in a way that makes me feel silly. Other people clearly get something happening physically that I don't. And I don't mind. Honest. I'm not missing out. I'm just not wired that way.

Stephen Fry doesn't think he's missing out either, and it sounds as if he loves music as passionately as I do. It's quite ok to love music with your ears and to enjoy the spine tingling and the thrill of a great voice, an amazing chord progression, or melody that stops you in your tracks. Just don't ask me to wriggle about on a darkened dance floor or suggest there's something wrong with me because I won't do it.

Bells

It's polite to share

After the Victorian bushfires, there were all manner of great ways in which people could donate to the cause for helping victims put their shattered lives back together.

One of those ways, of particular interest to the knitters and crocheters amongst us, was to donate to the Red Cross and leave a comment over at Serendipity to say you'd done so. Contributors went into the draw for an astounding array of prizes donated from all over the place. There was much buzz.

I didn't win anything. That's ok. Really. It would have been wonderful but that wasn't really the point.

RoseRed, on the other hand, scored big time. One whole kilogram of cashmere was hers for the choosing from Colourmart in the UK. That's 2.2lbs of cashmere, for the non-metric among you.

And she could choose cones of heaven in any colour or weight combination she liked. You can imagine the discussions that flew back and forth across cyberspace. Days of examination. Hours and hours of agonising. Dreams galore.

And the absolute best part of all this? RoseRed said she was going to share her bounty with me. Is that not the most wonderful generosity?

So the agonising was mine, too. I could choose a cone of anything I liked and so I did. Behold.



This is a 150g/5.2 ounce cone of laceweight cashmere to call my very own. It was delivered by Kylie on the weekend, who took her mission most seriously.

Want to know the yardage? Sure you do.

2103 metres, or 2300 yards. Bloody hell. What's a girl to do with that much laceweight cashmere?

Well for a start, I'm just going to love it. And love it. And love it. And some day, I'll knit it into something really, really big. Just not any time soon. This thing's gonna need some seroius training first. Some preparation. Some build up.

Oh and I might have to finish this black beauty first. And have a little rest. Then, maybe I'll be ready.



For now I'm happy to dream. Dreaming is good. So are friends who share. Thanks RoseRed.

Bells

Three Baby Pieces

This afternoon I spent a delightful hour or two cuddling my little niece Alice in the three pieces I made for her. Here she is when I finally gave her back to her mum.



I made her a jacket, hat and booties and was astoundingly able to get all three pieces out of just two skeins of koigu, each of which is only 50g itself.

I never thought of koigu as having such good yardage, but in this instance, the skeins just kept on giving.



So, the details.

The jacket is Elizabeth Zimmerman's Baby Sweater on Two Needles from the Knitter's Almanac, or the February Baby Sweater as it's more commonly known.

So very simple. I even came to terms with the dreaded Gull Lace Stitch for this one. Not so dreaded anymore. And thanks to George's wisdom, I knitted the sleeves in the round, thereby making it all about as seamless as it could be, save for sewing up the holes under the arms that are inevitably left. That's what make this one so fast.

That took up about 55g of koigu.

The hat was something I decided to make when I realised I had the better part of a second skein remaining. I was with Kylie and Shelley at the time and we tried to figure out the number of stitches you'd need to make a hat from the same gull stitch pattern. We got it wrong. It looked very small but when I got home I checked Ravelry and found someone had worked it all out already. Thank Goodness. And the write up of it, including instructions for the crown decreasing, is here.

When it became apparent that the Koigu had still not run out, I made a pair of the rather well known pattern, Saartje's Booties. I made the larger size. I'm really glad. They'll fit her for quite some time to come, but honestly, I'm going to be making loads more of them I think (although I'll make the seamless version someone else came up with. Not that I found the seaming painful. It was all over rather quickly and the results are scrummy.



Her mum, my sister Fee, was pretty happy with it all too. I get the feeling I've found a great, and appreciated, way to use up lots of my left over yarn - little baby booties and socks!

Bells