Back at work again for the last week – snowed under due to a Maths teacher’s sick leave and the dopey Yr 11s not sorting out their work experience – and before that a fortnight in Ireland which was anything but restful. Every time I go home I come back swearing I’ll never set foot there again, and then I forget how awful it is and go back.
It wasn’t too bad when I was single. Going “home” meant being shunted around parents and siblings living up to 50 miles apart, cross-border. Lots of travelling by car. Fine if I had no plans of my own. Things got more trying when I left to live in Birmingham: then, when I came “home”, I also wanted to visit friends, sort things out at the bank, etc. The former caused my family to throw a collective fit – why was I bothering to come home at all if I wanted to see other people? The latter rarely happened, and business had to be sorted out by post and the one branch my bank has in Birmingham. Then I met Tiny Husband. Foolishly brought him home one Christmas to meet the family, on condition that we were left at the coach station on the 27th to go to Belfast to meet his family. We finally got away on the 29th, driven up by my pissed-off sister, having spent the intervening time on the farm where there’s no phone and no satellite cover. TH’s mum was frantic.
Now, with the ba, it’s a bloody nightmare. It’s not safe for a city baby who doesn’t realise that tractors AREN’T just big toys, there’s never any food in any of the houses we go to (probably all eaten by my big fat rellies), and I’m not even consulted about where we’re going to be dumped, as when my sister walked off and left us on the farm overnight with no bottles, one nappy and no clothes after taking us for a “short visit”.
Really, never again – not without a car, and preferably a hotel reservation.
Although on the plus side I did larn maself how to double-knit, and put together some patterns for blankies, with a little help from Jessica Tromp, of which more anon.
While in Ireland I handed over the Drops Norwegian sweater and hat to new nephew Adam, 6 weeks. Stupidly, I didn’t take a photo to put up here, but I plan to make another for my wee man, so that’ll have to do. I did it in blue (MC) and yellow (2nd) 2-ply laceweight, with a 4-ply natural as the third colour. The laceweights I doubled and re-plied with my Daruma Home Twister, a fabby gadget. Okay, I could live without the re-plying function, but I love those funky fat centre-pullcakes. The sweater looked terrible while I was knitting it up, very cottony-ribbony and cold, but when I wet it for blocking, the fibres bounced up, almost felt-thick, yummy.
Adam’s mum will not let him wear it, of course. I made the 6-month size, so it should fit him in a month or two, but SIL is obsessed with proving her children are BIG. The older boy, at 7, is wearing teenage clothes, although keeping the clothes on him involves rolling up hems, rolling down waistbands over belts and wearing 3 or more layers of t-shirts etc to fill out the massive sweaters she has the poor boy in. He looks like a badly stuffed scarecrow. He’s certainly tall, but not teenage tall – maybe 10-year-old height. So undoubtedly I’ll hear shortly that the sweater was too tight to go over Adam’s head (despite one shoulder being a button-through). I sent her over a 6-12month outfit when Adam was born, which “dudn’t fut hum” as a newborn. Yeah, right. Madwoman. I told my sister to tell SIL if she didn’t want it, to send it back to me because I could sell it for $75 on Etsy, heh-heh.
I’ve also – finally – been inspired to make Tiny Husband a sweater. We’ve been together for five years, so it should be safe enough! I’d selected the pattern yonks ago when I was thinking about trying Aran knitting again and wanted something easy to start with – but then went and made something more complicated in the meantime. TH is of course gothically-inclined, so the usual wools in naturals, creams and beiges were out. Not that he wouldn’t like a white Aran sweater, but he’d just never have occasion to wear it. So the hunt was on for something darker.
I bought some grey wool off eBay, but when it arrived it was a marl (*spit!*). Fine for him, he’ll wear grey and navy at work, but – quite apart from my fear and loathing of the coloured-up wool – I just don’t think marls work for Aran. The beauty of the technique is in the sculptural stitchery: the wool is just the vehicle, and shouldn’t detract attention by being interesting in itself. Would Michelangelo’s David be quite such an eyeful in a mottled green marble? No. I said NO. Peasants. I also got some Welsh Black (aka brown), but it is very rough. Hairshirt rough. I may Aran something from it yet but it requires further thought. I’m still on the look-out for navy or dark blue wool, although just looking for the evilness of blue hurts me in the core of my soul. The sacrifices one must make for love…
However, few months ago I bought some mystery wool in the Bull Ring. No bands, but cheap and with a very pleasant hand to it. It’s one single ply of many filaments, very thick, soft and warm, but lightweight and slightly fluffy. I thought it might possibly be wool, maybe a merino or something, but as soon as I’ve decided it almost definitely is wool, it starts looking synthetic, like what polar fleece would be like to knit with. It’s coming up chunky, 14st to 10cm – the moss-stitch panels look like bobbles! It isn’t pilling as I knit, which is unexpected if it’s synthetic.
And just for fun I decided to muck about with the pattern – as usual. I’ve been reading Elizabeth Zimmermann’s Knitting Without Tears and was inspired to try knitting it in the round without seams, apart from a bit of grafting under the pits. It’ll mean a possible rethink of the neck – how do I continue the Aran with the decreases? but I wasn’t too thrilled with the plain collar any way… So I shall keep this updated.
The free knitting machine is lacking a carriage. But, hey, it was free. Doubtless the universe will see fit to send a carriage my way eventually, in that really unnerving way it does from time to time, just to make me think someone IS actually watching me…