I enjoy making stuff but pricing and sales are completely alien. Maybe bartering with pictures could become a trend? There are times I wish I made useful items instead, although customers would have to wait a while for their second glove or sock.
The photograph of the drawing looks different, the camera sees the separate crayon lines in the shadows.
I’m using my teenage self’s methods that anyone would have expected to have improved by now. Good to see it from a different perspective before tidying it up.
We’re in Aberystwyth, for a month of intensive Welsh grammar. There are verb patterns to remember. That’s quite straightforward, except there are some patterns that wander off in different directions. I’m reminded of School for Scoundrels, where it’s recommended to interrupt any knowledgeable but dull explanation with “Oh, but only in the south…”.
I found a pattern for knitting a flat circle from the centre. Two attempts with jute yarn ended badly. This version was knitted like the top of a beret, decreasing a few stitches every other row.
There was a crochet pattern in a recent Water Aid magazine that arrived in the post. The picture looked like a white christmas tree. I wondered if the water drop would work as a knitted illusion. If I’d used the right size needles it might have looked better.
When you are a little girl with a big brother, you assume that they are some sort of adult. By the time you have become a teenager, they might refuse to be seen outside with you because you wear bright colours. You have access to more music and literature than your peers, though.
When you’re middle aged, after your parents have died, you might find some common ground. We both disliked phone calls, so there were text messages for the last few decades. Mostly these referred to the weather, with a lot of colourful descriptions of hospital appointments over the last couple of years. Allegedly, if you’re unable to get to a hospital two counties away at the crack of dawn, you’re not taking your illness seriously enough. When people are unable to walk very far, it’s unlikely that they could board a train. It’s also unlikely that any public transport system will deliver them to a distant hospital very early in the morning.
There must be thousands of people trying to take their ailments seriously, yet still being criticised by overworked receptionists. Maybe it’s a plot to make symptoms worse and speed up the patients’ deaths?
Observing my brother’s end of life experience brought to mind Roger McGough’s poem Let Me Die a Youngman’s Death. I might plant some more poisonous plants in the garden for future use, rather than waiting around for any indignity at the end.
I was pleased with how this sleeve was going. However, it’s using the same pattern as another cardigan I finished a while ago. The sleeves are too baggy.
It’s better to unravel this version and start again. The rose chart is from a Prima magazine, which is presumably vintage now.
This is the fastest protest sign I’ve ever made. It’s not particularly successful. Nobody will have changed their minds after seeing it.
We went to a place where a Reform group was meeting. They’re popular here because voters feel let down by other political parties. The people were mostly friendly on arrival, some were pleased to see protesters. Others were blatantly hostile and are clearly professional narrow minded bigots.
A couple of elections ago there was a chart showing the similarities between seemingly different types of voters. Everyone wants their children to have a better education than they had. Everyone hopes to be in good health, with access to relevant medical care if they become ill. Many people are suspicious of anyone who seems different. Reform fans claim they are not racist but they don’t like incomers. This is often said by people who have retired here from elsewhere.
We might have been in the wrong place. It could really have been an evening about eating more salads and stretching the muscles more often.
berry daines 