glittyknittykitty

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November 29, 2007

What kind of pirate are you?

Spotted over at bumblefee's place, glittrgirl came out as:

What kind of Pirate are you? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Captain Jack Sparrow You are definitely quirky and often mistaken for mad but if anyone is truly paying attention they can see there is method to your madness. You try really hard to be bad but in the end you tend to do the right thing. Captain Jack Sparrow 100% Black Beard 100% Mary Read 67% Captain James T. Hook 67% Dread Pirate Roberts 67% Morgan Adams 67% Will Turner 58% Sinbad 50% Captain Barbosa 33% Long John Silvers 33%

Posted by glittrgirl at 9:13 PM | Comments (0)

November 28, 2007

Nanowrimo: seven tears

Last nanowrimo post. Hurrah, I hear you all cry. Actually, you probably won't notice, because let's be honest, apart from the odd post (thanks to those, it made a difference to me), I've been doing this pretty much under the radar. I haven't been involved in the nanowrimo forums, I haven't gone to any of the 'write-ins' and few people have commented on here.

I'm submitting today, so I don't get caught up in the last day's nonsense and crashing servers over in the U.S.. The story doesn't make any sense, and I'm spending today trying to tie the individual stories together in some form, but I have really enjoyed it. It has been truly liberating. I've changed a lot of the names already... and actually, I will keep working on it, that's for sure...

She sits and looks at Dog Robert. Then she had woken up here, in her dress and her socks and her shoes, with her Dog Robert by her side, and it had felt as if she had been asleep for a while. It was a strange awakening because she expected the man who had put his arm around her shoulders in the water to be there, but he wasn’t. There had been brief stormy tears at the thought of her parents, but that soon faded and she thought of them little now. It makes her realise she is finding it harder and harder to remember what they look like. Their faces are slightly turned away, her mother’s hair is blonde and straight, her father’s curly, but she can remember their smell, and the heft of them when they lift her up, when she looks up at them, she can remember the underside of their necks, their bodies looking like columns as she glances up.

The initial tears had been about safety and loneliness, although the latter faded when she realised Dog Robert was there too. And then there had been the evening, twilight, when Eva had walked in to find her sitting on the sofa, her shoes and socks on, legs sticking out at right angles, her hands in her lap, waiting. Rowan had seen some other grown ups, but they had ignored her, and she daren’t go up to them to say anything. She had wandered close and stood quietly waiting for them to speak, to ask her where she was, but no one did, until Eva.

And the next post? That'll be about felt, including pictures of Arnold the Christmas Dipper.

Posted by scumkitten at 10:29 AM | Comments (1)

November 27, 2007

I have FOs. I have no pics.

I had an idea. Maybe the post a day thing might be easier if there was no pressure to have a pic-a-post.

So for a few days I have been writing about my knitting without posting pics.

Interesting.

Not taking a pic has made me write more. And hopefully more descriptively. I did have a comment a couple of days ago when I was entrenched in cabling, that I had written the 'best blog post ever'.....

High praise indeed. Probably not entirely deserved, but made me think.

So.

I have taken pictures of the Gretel and the Hideous Pink Thing. But I am not going to post them. I am going to wait. Perhaps my photography will get better with the luxury of reflection.

Let's see.

Oh.

And I frogged a few more rows of the f***ing fair isle f***ing skulls. GAH!

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:06 PM | Comments (1)

November 26, 2007

Mojo - mo, no

So, yesterday I was on a knitting roll. I finished the Gretel hat and it's blocking quietly round one of my dinner plates. I made it a pompom to finish it of tam stylee, but I will wait until it's dried until I make up my mind.

Then I moved on to the pink eyelash thing. Why is it when you are knitting a pattern and a yarn you like, time speeds up, and when it is something you are less keen on, which engages the brain hardly a jot, that time seems to s l o w r i g h t d o w n........

Anyway that's done too. And I have frogged the fair isle skulls. Again.

Never have I had so much trouble getting a pattern to fit - I have ceased worrying about getting gauge, since it seems to be impossible, and am concerned simply that the damned thing will actually go on somebody's head who isn't either deformed or aged three.

By moving up to aran weight yarn and 3.75mm dpns (my fourth attempt) I am keeping my fingers crossed this time that it may fit an adult male.

So from three rows of skulls, I am back to one row of skulls.

Sigh.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:12 PM | Comments (0)

November 25, 2007

Acrylic eyelash novelty yarn

Sometimes, even a yarn snob like me has to succumb to knitting bubblegum pink acrylic eyelash novelty yarn.

I knitted this for my cousin's daughter, way back when. Poor lass lost the scarf recently and was, apparently inconsolable. She is 7 now. So, dutiful almost-aunty that I am, I agreed to knit another one. It had to be as near the same as I could possibly get it. Even down to the aching fingers and shiny red fingertips that result from knitting this darned petroyarn stuff.

I hate it. And yet I will complete it (even having knitted one ball and my mother frogging and reknitting the whole ball on my behalf, on bigger needles with fewer stitches, to make it go faster and take less yarn - gottaluvvamutha!!!!!). I just hope this second one lasts her as long.....

Posted by glittrgirl at 11:40 PM | Comments (2)

November 24, 2007

Obsession

Cables.

They are obsessing me right now.

I saw knitmonkey's knitted up version of Ysolda's Gretel pattern, and knew right way I had to have one. I bought the pattern, found a skein of wool I had wound a few days ago from some discontinued Rowan Magpie in a grey tweed colour from my stash, spookily similar to the colour knitmonkey herself used, and sorted out a short circ of the Knitpicks Options variety.

I am halfway through this hat, and I can't stop. I want to see the stitches travelling along the crown of the hat, I want to watch as the cables slowly intertwine, move off, and circle around their next neighbour.

I love knitting cables. They are so much simpler that they look, and yet people think that you are such a clever knitter when you practice them. Mistakes are easy to see and fix - what looks natural is actualy quite geometrically constructed.

I suspect I may stay up tonight until the Gretel is complete and I have placed it on my head to twirl, by candlelight, in front of my mirror, admiring my handiwork and yearning for it to be cold enough to wear the thing in the morning.

Ysolda makes lovely patterns and is far too talented for one so young and pretty. But I thank her for making a pattern that has my fingers aching, and my mind whirling, out of sheer desperation to finish.

When my knitting mojo hits me like this, I feel invincible. Unstoppable. I revel in my dogged determination to master technique (not something my personality type or learning style usually supports) in order to fabricate my heart's desire at any given knitting time.

I am knitter. Watch me rule!

Posted by glittrgirl at 9:48 PM | Comments (6)

Nanowrimo: storm

Over 50K!

The second day of the stranger’s stay starts dry and bright. There seems to have been more sunlight since he arrived, everyone is thinking this and looking either at him (he’s started wandering around the cabins’ periphery) or towards the Major’s cabin, where they think he lies sleeping, like a fairy tale. He has a certain look about him, a femininity- ridiculously long eyelashes, for starters. Long legs, that you can see even in the legs of his suit (and some of the viewers wonder when he’ll get something else to wear), and a slant to the cheek bones that give him a Slavic cast. It makes his eyes tilt up as well, and those eyes- again no one can tell if it is the eyes themselves that cast the spell, or if it is their own wish to have someone here, someone who they haven’t said hello to a thousand times, haven’t argued with over the same trivia, shared tea with to pass the time, squabbled over what to do with the last care drop and how to share out the sugar, the powdered milk.

He certainly is carrying more than his fair share of burdensome need and desire, this stranger- the tension is solid following the paths of the cabin artery system, it sits and swims around the village hall, is strongest in each and every home, where people wake up and their immediate thought is of him: what he is doing, where he is, who he is talking to. Only Midge and Phil have noticed that there has been a rapid drop in barometric pressure, their bright yellow plastic barometer being tapped every morning and the changes noted by the once amateur, now professional, fishermen. Whilst everyone else is looking out at the bright blue shining dome of the sky, Midge and Phil catch each other’s eye as they stir sugar into their tea.

Posted by scumkitten at 3:38 PM | Comments (0)

November 23, 2007

Rachel Denny - knitted trophies

Thanks to craftzine.com for pointing us to these fantastic sculptures by Rachel Denny. I love them!

Posted by glittrgirl at 4:14 PM | Comments (1)

revyu.com

Go and have a look at revyu.com. You can review anything there. It's cool. I write stuff there from time to time.

Posted by glittrgirl at 3:57 PM | Comments (0)

What kind of knitting needles are you?

glittrgirl came out as:

Posted by glittrgirl at 8:06 AM | Comments (0)

November 22, 2007

NaBloPoMo

You know, I signed up for NaBloPoMo. However I soon realised that actually, the way I use this blog, is the way I use this blog. Posting everyday for the sake of it just isn't me. However I must say a public thanks to my blog partner, Scumkitten, because her diligence in NaNoWriMo has ensured a daily post, thus fulfilling the NaBloPoMo requirements.

However, today I do have something to say. I have been working up to getting my sewing machine out and getting started on some serious sewing for a while now. Today I had a delivery of two sewing techniques books which I am spending a delightful evening perusing and oohing and aahing over. No excuses. I am a fairly accomplished seamstress, having been taught to sew in weekly classes by my grandmother from about he age of six I think. I know a handsewed a red cotton pinny for my mother at about 6 which she still has.

I have designed my own clothes, cut my own patterns, fitted and finished clothes for many years, as well as carelessly dashing off the odd Vogue very hard pattern the night before a party, until the demands of a full time job and a busy social life ensured I had neither the time nor the inclination to get my machine out except when absolutely necessary.

That is going to change. I get fed up with trying to buy commercially made garments. I have resolved to make more of my own.

Let's see how far I get... I have always got bored with how much prep there is for sewing if you don't have a room where you can leave a tailors dummy out and a sewing machine on a table. Since my lodger left, I now have that..... my spare room will become my craft room! Shelves for my stash(es), a table big enough to work on and where I can leave my sewing machine, and just enough room for a dummy to play with.........

Posted by glittrgirl at 7:10 PM | Comments (3)

November 21, 2007

Nanowrimo: lies

The morning starts with Mary waking up sure of what she needs to do. It is almost as if she had been told in a dream, if she did dream. She’s fairly convinced that she doesn’t- she can never remember any, at least and no one from her previous lives has ever woken her up or said- you were dreaming. She wonders if she just twitches like a dog hunting rabbits in its sleep. Blissfully unaware of what is going on in her subconscious. What would she dream of, if she did dream? What would she want to remember? She lies there, her sheets and duvet pulled up to her chin as usual. When she goes to sleep she likes to pull all the bedclothes up over her head, so that she is buried. It sometimes makes it a little warm and hard to breathe, but there is a comfort there, and a neat calm brown light behind her eyelids. Cocooned in a shell of her own heat, a cave.

Posted by scumkitten at 4:43 PM | Comments (0)

November 20, 2007

Nanowrimo: scrabble

Rowan liked playing Scrabble with Liam. She liked his red and white striped t-shirt and his blue shorts. She liked the fact that he always looked so serious, even when his feet and calves were covered in sand. Most of all, she liked the fact that he was happy to play with her, did what she said, and followed her rules with no fuss. He reminded her of someone she once knew. She had a faint memory, like a twitch of muscle at the thought of doing a somersault on the grass or kicking a ball. But she can remember nothing more than that, because when she tries it fades around a corner, and she only sees the back of it or the space it leaves after it has gone.

Posted by scumkitten at 10:08 PM | Comments (0)

I've got to ask...

My dear Glittr, looking at the Knitting Scout badges shown at the bottom of the page, I'd agree and own up to all of those, except for:

I must know...

What medical injury did you receive that required attention from a Dr or nurse? A metal dpn puncture wound? RSI? What?

I'm agog.

Posted by scumkitten at 9:28 PM | Comments (1)

Keep going

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho.

Posted by scumkitten at 9:55 AM | Comments (1)

November 19, 2007

NaBloPoMo

Sometimes the weather just gives me the blahs. Today was a terrible weather day. I woke up, and immediately went back to sleep as I thought it was still dawn. Then I woke up again and the light was exactly the same. I was confused.

I turned over, and after a few more minutes, a wrong number cal on my phone made me realise it really was morning proper.

I have had lamps on and candles burning all day. I like candles. The lack of sunshine is difficult for me, but candles often make up for the lack of sun.

Not even they could lift today. It was so dim I had to laugh, get on with working form home and then try and get some natural light on my outside for a while.

Dusk was almost a blessing.

On the knitting front, I am knitting another We call Them Pirates hat, in Rowan Magpie (discontinued) and on 3.25mm needles. The fabric is sturdy to say the least. It will be very warm. Rather hard on the hands though, but kind of nicely challenging. I know who is it destined for and can only hope it fits. The gauge on this pattern is all over the place. I haven't heard of anyone who has got it first time round. Hopefully this time I have.

Posted by glittrgirl at 11:21 PM | Comments (1)

November 18, 2007

Nanowrimo: sweet spot

I could have put a bet on the fact that as soon as I said I wanted to hit 40 000 words before Sunday, something would happen to stop it. Nothing bad, you understand: too many glasses of red wine and the opportunity to watch the film 'Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang'. Anyway. Think I'll catch up today. Feel it in me water, despite cooking the Christmas Cake also, and wanting to go for a run at some point.

Babs has been winded and can’t speak, but she’s got enough in her to turn and run down the path, heading for her cabin. The moon is up behind the clouds, its light spreading behind those sitting over the land and then falling free out to sea, forming a translucent road out to the horizon. The path is solid and dry despite the earlier morning dew, but because of her speed, she slews out of the line she has taken down hill and finds herself slipping on the damp grass to one side. It bowls her over and she skids on to one hip, arm out. Mary is just behind her and manages to connect one foot to Babs’ groin, but there’s no strength to it and she succeeds in is in tripping over and rolling down the hill.

Babs picks herself up, but suffers from a sharp biting pain in one ankle, so ends up limping on towards her cabin and, she thinks, safety.

Mary appears on first sight to have vanished in to the night, but if you let your eyes move from the moon lit sea and allow them to adjust to the shadows, you’ll see her kicking against some of the coast path fencing that still exists and hasn’t fallen down the cliff. She wraps her hands in the stretched sleeves of her cardigan and pulling back in sharp tugs, pulls at the fencing, upending one of the wooden stakes and pulling off the rusted wiring. With the wooden stake in one hand, she then starts to trot along the coast path back up towards the cabins, but taking a darker round- about route.

Posted by scumkitten at 11:57 AM | Comments (0)

November 17, 2007

Nanowrimo: tunnel to..

Eep. I've hit 37 000 words and I have the evening to go. It makes me want to get to 40 000 before Sunday. I'm getting competitive with myself. Bearing in mind that none of it makes any sense at the moment (I still have to incorporate a consumptive prostitute and a peppermint pig- the robot is taken care of, at least in my mind), I should get to 50 K way before the end of the month, leaving me some time to try and put at least some transitions in to place. God I'm glad it doesn't matter if its bollocks or not!

How she loved that skirt, and the shape it gave her, and how she loved the fact that she had got changed in the street before the wedding, with her friend Pete, having been swimming naked in the sea, with sand eels sparking around her, sharp green metal. She let her hair dry so that the salt dragged it into natural curls, then she pinned it up by bending down and looking into the window of the car, slicked her lips and eyebrows with Vaseline, sure in the fact that she was bright with sunshine and happiness and didn’t need anymore gilding to have a good time.

That was the night that she had pinned Pete against the wall round the back of the hotel, by the bins, and stood on tip toe, biting his ear and slamming one hand against his skinny neck. He’d not been against the idea, and it was something now that she was glad she had done. No one here would ever think it of me, she thinks, and that makes her smile broadly to her empty bedroom, because everyone thinks they know me, but they are wrong and foolish and know nothing about me.

Posted by scumkitten at 4:23 PM | Comments (0)

Still got parsnips, so...

Parsnip and apple curried soup

Of mine own invention (i.e. what I did have in't cupboard)

1 large onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves (crushed, chopped)
1 tbsp sunflower oil
20 g butter

Melt butter and oil, then add onion and garlic and allow to soften gently.

1 large tsp coriander seed
1 large tsp cumin seed
6 cardomon pods (only the seeds- discard the outer casing)

dry fry the spices until they start to pop. Crush in a pestel and mortar.

Add crushed spices to onion mix, and also add:

1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground tumeric

Then add:

500g parsnips, peeled and chopped
1 cooking apple (about 200-300g) peeled and chopped

Give it all a good mix, and add 800ml stock (again, used Marigold Bouillon)

Simmer for 30 minutes.

Puree and season to taste.

Posted by scumkitten at 1:22 PM | Comments (1)

Fetching

Fetching aren't they?
My first pair of Fetching, pattern from knitty.com. Knitted with 4mm bamboo dpns. The yarn is Brown Sheep Cotton Fleece in Tea Rose. One pair took about half a skein. I knitted them for a colleague at work who always has cold hands, to help her type more comfortably. As this yarn washes so well, I thought they might be nice for her to sling in the washing machine once week or so. She also has skin troubles, so the choice of yarn was dictated by non fluffiness, and least likely to irritate. I do hope she likes them! am very pleased with how the colour has turned out in this photo. I took it on white table, in a cream room, right in front of the window on a pretty dull day really, handheld, no tripod. The colour is pretty true.

Posted by glittrgirl at 1:17 PM | Comments (1)

I can't remember where I saw this first......

How do you like your eggs?
Poached on wholemeal toast with butter and a dollop of ketchup on the side.
How do you take your coffee/tea?
Tea, Earl Grey or English Breakfast, medium strength, small amount of milk. No teabags. Loose tea, in a teapot with a nice knitted teacozy to keep it all nice and hot.
Favorite breakfast food:
Well, you can never go wrong with a good bacon sarnie, but the most memorable breakfast I ever had was in Bali, when I had sweet french toast, with cinnamon and orange in the batter, into which were dipped thick slices of gorgeous white bread. They were served with slices of orange, the most fantastic homemade yoghurt and local runny honey, which was very mild in flavour. I had it all with a glass of fruit tea containing fresh fruit and mint leaves. It was truly delicious.
Peanut butter:
Yes please, with marmite, on toast. Or in a nice spicy satay sauce for chicken and vegetables.
What kind of dressing on your salad?
Depends on the salad... I don't like commercially produced salad dressings at all, so as long as it's fresh and homemade, with no preservatives, I will probably like it. I love basil and balsamic dressing, and homemade garlic mayonnaise is to die for.
Coke or Pepsi?
Dandelion and burdock. I am not keen on cola drinks. I do like a nice rum and coke occasionally.
You’re feeling lazy. What do you make?
Pasta carbonara, or a salad.
You’re feeling really lazy. What kind of pizza do you order?
I never order pizza take away. If I am feeling really lazy I will make beans on toast.
You feel like cooking. What do you make?
Apart from soup whilst I think about it, I never know. I get out all my recipe books, browse for hours, then decide on something seasonal, go out, buy things then cook and indulge.
Is there a food you refuse to eat?
Brussel sprouts. They make me feel sick.
What was your favorite food as a child?
Heinz Tomato Soup I think. I still love it.
Is there a food that you hated as a child but now love?
I hated loads of things as a child that I now love. Chicken livers.
Is there a food that you loved as a child but now hate?
Tongue. I used to love a tongue sandwich, but looking at a whole tongue made me feel queazy, and I have never been able to eat sliced tongue since. I do remember that it tasted delicious.
Favorite fruit & vegetable:
Fruit: Crunchy Cox's Orange Pippins, and Scottish strawberries and raspberries. I love Comice pears too, and cherries. And tomatoes.
Veggies: hmmmm. I like most vegetables. I always look forward to seasonal goodies like asparagus, and beetroot. Artichokes. Sweet potatoes. Spinach. Man I love veggies.
Favorite junk food:
Tortilla chips and salsa.
Favorite between meal snack:
Dried, fruit, nuts and seeds. A nice crunchy apple.
Do you have any weird food habits?
I don't think so. Though if I have a Jaffa Cake, I like to nibble the edges off, then carefully peel the jelly off the cake, then eat the cake, then the jelly last. Oh, and if I ave a bowl of jelly, and it's wobbly enough, I like to slurp it off my spoon, so that it makes rude noises. I then ritually collapse into a stupid fit of uncontrollable giggles. But I don't think they are weird.
You’re on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on?
Soup, salad and fruit.
You’re off your diet. Now what would you like?
A nice juicy rare steak and home made chips.
How spicy do you order Indian/Thai?
Quite spicy. I love spicy food.
Can I get you a drink?
Margarita please!
Red wine or white?
Red in winter, white in summer.
Favorite dessert?
Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese.

Posted by glittrgirl at 11:23 AM | Comments (0)

November 16, 2007

After a long tiring day.....

I have had a surfeit of travel this week. I dread to think what my carbon footprint would be if I calculated it. Anyway the last day of train travel was today for a couple of weeks, and boy, was I glad to get home.

When I have had a week like this, I like nothing better than to come home, make myself a nice bowl of carbonara, and then slip into a warm, rose scented bath where I like to soak for a while with some soothing music and a nice glass of rioja.

Then I like to wrap myself in warm, white fluffy towels, with another glass of wine, and read a chapter of a good book. Sometimes I have so little energy I like to read a chapter of a book I have read several times before....

Then comforted, satiated and in a gentle haze of fuzziness, I like to cuddle the cat, lying on the sofa, and watch really crap telly. Tonight the epitome of crap TV is on - the BBCs annual Children in Need fundraising extravaganza. It really does have painful moments, but for sheer amazing amusement, I do secretly enjoy watching newsreaders making fools of themselves.....

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:03 PM | Comments (1)

Nanowrimo: sultanas

It is while he is eating some sultanas, presented to him on a chipped gold china plate, that he has a memory of a tie whipping around his chin and covering up his eyesight as it flags back and forth. He puts his hand to his throat briefly. He has no tie now. Again, he remembers reaching up, as he is tumbling head over heels now, and undoing the tie in a violent movement, and throwing it to one side. Amazing that he should’ve been bothered by a tie at that particular moment in his life or near death. Other things (like imminent death) might surely have bothered him more. He wonders where the tie is, where it might have floated after he had set it free. The woman who has given him the plate of sultanas (I made them myself, dear, I head over to the vineyards several times a year, dry them on my patio) seems not to notice his absence, and he manages to nod and smile in the right places. There’s something about homemade sultanas that bothers him deeply and he finds that he is about to gag, so stops and puts the plate down on the arm of the chair.

Posted by scumkitten at 1:34 PM | Comments (0)

November 15, 2007

Nanowrimo: no place, no home

She ends up around the back again, resting against the shelled birdbath, hands on hips.

Arse, she says, out loud and leans back to look up at the sky. As she looks back down again, she sees movement in the sun lounge, against the back wall. Rowan and Dog Robert are walking towards her, Rowan seemingly solid on the carpet, but Dog Robert’s hind quarters and tail still merged with the rattan furniture and accompanying chintz cushion. The tip of his tail, in fact, emerges just where a button holds the cushion in place, then drags through the material to free him from its reality. Babs squeezes her eyes closed, opens them, glad she missed the most of that little trick. It makes her feel nauseous and itchy. She expects Rowan to open the door to come out, then before it happens realises that there isn’t a key inside. Rowan doesn’t break stride, just melts in and through the glass, as if it were the mist lining the dips and hollows of Bossiney Point, and steps out and down on to the patio. Dog Robert trots after, and in fact, does a little jump through the glass door, insouciant.

Posted by scumkitten at 5:52 PM | Comments (0)

Knit your own iPhone

The real thing ;).Thanks to Daddytype for allowing me use of picture

Desperate for an iPhone, but don't want to spend 48 hours queuing whilst people cheer those coming out from the shop as if they have just won Wimbledon? I am old grumpy lady, and I don't know what the world is coming to, but I am very keen on this knitted iPhone, complete with instructions, thought up by Daddytype's clever mummy.

Hurrah for mummy power, that's what I say! And say NO! to Apple and YES! to knitting your own- it may not work, but is it really going to be that much of an issue if it doesn't?

Posted by scumkitten at 9:43 AM | Comments (3)

November 14, 2007

Nanowrimo: fino

I never used to have sugar in my tea, thinks Midge, but it seems churlish to not take pleasure where I can these days. So he has sugar when asked, one teaspoon, and a glass of whatever is on offer- the Major is good on whiskey and brandy, only Mary mean in her hostess duties, not out of true meaness, but because she doesn’t want people to know she drinks any sort of spirits. He usually puts her out of her misery with a ‘I could do with a sherry, missus, you got anything you use in cooking?’ and of course, she does, although looking at her, he suspects that sherry is the last thing she’d drink. That’d be too easy and a bloody assumption. All older women drink sherry. Anyway, her sherry is bloody nice, a fino, dark and deep. He knows his sherrys ‘cos of his time on fishing boats in the Bay of Biscay, coming in to Lisbon harbour now and again and sitting on the quay side as the sun went down on Portugese summer nights.

Posted by scumkitten at 10:15 PM | Comments (0)

NaBloPoMo

Some days are not blogging days. Committing to posting once a day for November is not something I thought I would have trouble with, but looking back on entries in this blog, there are some days when nothing happens. And that is OK. It is not a crime to leave a day without a new post.

Before I came to that minor revelation, I scoured my usual RSS feeds, scanned my favourite websites and blogs, and found nothing that took my fancy today.

And I have had to travel a lot for work this week, so I have been too tired to do much when I have got home. And the winter light makes progress pics when I get home almost impossible - mind you I am going to follow some of Brenda's tips....

On the knitting front, I have made some progress on my Mountain Stream Scarf, and soon it will be finished.

Right now I am off to start a couple of Christmas presents. And tomorrow, if I don't think I have anything to say, I won't say anything.... And I will not feel a failure, or guilty, becuse the only one putting any posting pressure on me, is me. And I officially sanction a day off here and there. Bugger the post a day thing. I hate reading posts which have been made for the sake of it, and refuse to do that any more here.

Posted by glittrgirl at 8:06 PM | Comments (1)

November 13, 2007

Nanowrimo: babel

That is not in his awareness, however. He is so in the moment of eating his bread, cheese and salt that they could be standing 5 inches away from him, their heads stretched towards his, their eyes wide and glistening and he wouldn’t notice. Would he notice if they put their hands out and prodded him, poked him? Laid hands on his shoulders, across his upper, lower back, a hand on his hip, maybe even lower? Mary is sitting on the floor (she insisted, that that was her place, that she liked it, that she couldn’t bear to sit on a chair, that they’d be doing her a favour), twisted and pressed up against the sideboard, so that she could see around the corner. She is staring at the back of the stranger’s neck, memorising the curl of hair at his nape, not just the hair itself, but the space between each making up the pattern, and the glints of candle light on each lock. She’s disgusted with the way he is eating, the single minded look of intensity on his face, the fact that he isn’t using a plate, so she stares and stares at his hair and the skin on his neck, the gap, shadowed, between his skin and the collar of the shirt. She wonders if the shirt needs washing and she remembers her grandmother talking about ‘turning’ collars. She can’t tell if the edges are grubby or if it’s just the grubby light that is a problem. She imagines that he smells warm and meaty and that that would not be as unpleasant as she might think. She does like a nice bit of soap, she reminds herself. The muscles in the small of her back twinge from the twisting.

Although it might seem that the stranger is completely in thrall to the bread, cheese and salt, he is totally aware of the eyes upon him, in particular from the middle-aged lady sitting at an awkward angle in the corner of the sitting room. He continues to bend over his food, keeping his back to the crowd, but eyeing up those behind him by glancing in to the darkened glass in the window in front and to the side of him.

Every now and again, in his glancing, he notices that the bearded man’s bulk shifts and blocks him from their sight, and in fact blocks out much of the light. He realises that he has a guardian, and turns to catch his eye and say thank you, once he has eaten one piece of bread and half of the cheese.

Posted by scumkitten at 9:02 PM | Comments (0)

Fig and Vanilla Jam

Jammy breakfast

I have a bit of a thing for making jam. I derive great satisfaction from it,it doesn't take long, and it makes the house smell great. I have had previous great success with blackberry jelly, seville marmalade and strawberry, but a few weeks ago it was fresh fig season and I felt the urge to experiment. I'd heard about plum and vanilla jam, using the seeds and the pod, and keeping both in the jar on sealing and thought that it would work well with fig.

1.5 kg fresh figs
750 g granulated sugar (I didn't bother with 'jam sugar')
1 vanilla pod

Put your oven to 100C and put your intended jars and lids in for 15 minutes. Turn the oven off and leave standing in the warm oven.

Cover the figs with the sugar, slit your vanilla pod, and scrape seeds in to the pan also, plus add the empty pod and leave to marinate for at least 30 minutes. The sugar will draw out the figs' moisture, which means that it is then much easier to squish them down to a pulp- use a potato masher or a sturdy fork. Once mashed, mix well and warm slowly, stirring regularly, until the sugar and figs have melted down and the sugar dissolved entirely.

Bring to the boil (I'd recommend using a proper 'preserving' pan- it does help) and cook for 10 minutes or so. Test the setting point (to see whether it is going to set in to jam or whether it needs more cooking time) by putting a little dollop on a cold plate, then replace in the fridge for a few minutes. Take the pan off the heat whilst you do this. I like my jam on the runny side, so if the dollop shows even the slightest hint of wrinkle, I take that as done.

Take out the still warm jars, fill with jam (be careful, hot jam scalds!), and add either the whole vanilla pod (if a big jar) or cut in to several pieces and put a piece in each jar. Seal and leave to cool.

Posted by scumkitten at 2:12 PM | Comments (0)

The Needle And The Damage Done

Thanks to iKnit London for pointing those of us who were unable to attend the recent UK Stitch'n'Bitch Day, towards a recording of poet Peter Wyton's performance of his poem The Needle and The Damage Done. The poem was inspired by his daughter's experience of being thrown out of a pub in Brighton for knitting. It's number 15.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:14 AM | Comments (0)

For Greebo fans

Greebo

My cat, Greebo, has a growing fan club. For those people, and anyone else who likes a picture of a splendid feline, here he is looking marvellous.

Posted by glittrgirl at 7:49 AM | Comments (2)

November 12, 2007

Too much

Says it all.

No.

Not today.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:08 PM | Comments (0)

Nanowrimo:name

He sits up slightly, resting on his forearms, and squints into the darkness. He realises he’s still wearing his shirt and underpants, his socks and shoes are off though. He’s loathe to leave the warm cocoon his body heat has made of the bed and it takes him a while, and indeed, a deep breath to shift himself up further and then sideways out of the bed to plant his feet onto the carpet. He stands eventually and takes a gentle stretch to see if his body is working properly. It seems to be. A little stiff in the lower back, maybe, but that’s to be expected. He runs his hands over his arms and legs and can feel no bruising, which, considering what he can remember of the morning, is surprising. His body still holds the sensation of weightlessness, of falling and it is not a liberating one. It is a feeling of desperation, of clutching.

He walks towards the door and stops outside it, straining to listen, to see if anyone else is in the cabin. There seems to be a little light around the rim of the door, but it is the same bluish white light, and faint at that, fainter than from behind the curtain. Opening the door, he finds the sun lounge empty, no lights on, the carriage clock ticking tightly to itself in a corner, its white face overly bright in what turns out to be moonlight, shimmering through the front windows and flooding the cabin. The door to the Major’s bedroom is ajar slightly, and the man walks to it and gently presses with the palm of his hand so that it tilts open further. He realises, to his relief, that the bed is empty, the blankets still flat and neatly folded, the pillow undented. So he is alone in the cabin. He has to admit that the feeling of carpet under his feet is not unpleasant, but he’s starting to feel the chill a bit, so he goes back into his bedroom and puts on his socks, suit and underpants. It’s still cold, so he rummages through the chest of draws, in the dark still, and pulls out an indeterminate coloured jumper, turtle neck, with leather patches at the elbows, and wrestles into it, pulling on his jacket over the top. It makes him feel bulky and slow, but he feels he has to do something to stop the descent in to shivery spasms that are threatening to take over. He finally finds his shoes by falling over them, laces them up and walks out of the back door into the tiny garden. Before him lie the undulations of the cliffs and glimpses of a quicksilver and black sea, fading from liquid brilliance into crisp glass-like atmosphere. A light blinks far in the difference, one, then a count of 7 with nothing, then two in quick succession. It repeats exactly and he finds it hypnotic.

Posted by scumkitten at 8:26 AM | Comments (0)

November 11, 2007

Nanowrimo: churlish

The Major comes forward into the group. I think the best thing for all concerned is to simply get him lying down somewhere quiet where he isn’t going to be disturbed, either by other people, or overzealous care. Let’s take him to my cabin. Yes, he says, looking at Mary- my spare room is always made up for visitors too. Might as well use it. He sighs. You can stay and keep an eye on him if you must.

So that odd little procession lifts itself back up on to its carnival wheels and heads out of the door again, stranger wrapped in a faded red blanket, his feet almost dragging on the concrete slabs of the path now, with the Major up front, chest puffed out and ready to fend off admirers or attackers, and Mary trotting behind with a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Seagulls wheel overhead flicking back and forth under the clouds, feathered ticker tape.

It doesn’t take long to get to the Major’s cabin, with its perfectly trimmed box hedging, shell encrusted concrete birdbath (a must for this year’s cabin), mended steps and shiny, shiny greenhouse glass panelling glinting. Midge always marvels at the jewel-like quality of the Major’s glass panelling. He must get out there with bleach and a toothbrush every morning, he thinks, to keep it algae free and as clear as air like he does. It shows a dedication or a foolish defense against the reality of the current situation, and Midge isn’t sure which is better. To fight and fight even when you know everything has gone to shit (and there is a certain amount of dignity to that position), or just relax and take things as they come. Midge feels more of an affinity for the latter position, but gets a twinge every now and again, mainly in his buttocks, that makes him wish he had more fight in him.

The party wedges itself in the gateway to begin with, but shuffle through eventually, with the Major rummaging for his keys in the deep pockets of his herby slacks. Door open, sun room door opened in to back bedroom, stranger laid out on the bed, shoes off to one side, jacket and trousers slipped off and passed to Mary. His eyes are still open, but he doesn’t seem to be responding to anything now, so they move him like a puppet, a doll, lying him on his back, legs stretched out, arms by his sides, the blanket lain over him, with a sheet between (the blanket being too scratchy to be next to the skin, says Mary) and then all four standing back to look at the lying in state of the stranger pulled from the sea.

Posted by scumkitten at 7:31 PM | Comments (0)

I won!

I never win anything.
Imagine my delight win something.
Something handknitted.
Something handknitted by the wonderful Suemoon.
Something handknitted by the wonderful Suemoon in candygirl KidSilk Haze, from Victorian Lace Today.
It's beautiful!

Posted by glittrgirl at 11:00 AM | Comments (1)

November 10, 2007

Knitting on Graham Norton

I like Graham Norton's BBC2 chatshow. If I am in, and it's on, I watch it.

The past two weeks he has featured knitting content. This week it was an intriguing German website, which caters to the more exotic end of handknitting, selling fetish wear, in yarns like mohair...... And according to this online newspaper, they are knitted by older ladies. Whatever fills your welly as my sister used to say. Anyway you should have a look. It's worth it, honest!

Last week he had the delightful Carol Meldrum in the audience, with her Knitted Icons.

Wouldn't it be nice to think he might make this a regular feature?

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:25 PM | Comments (0)

Nanowrimo: sea II

She rounds the southern corner and comes along the path to Bossiney Point. There’s a dark patch out of the corner of her eye in the grassy dip on the edge of the point. She stops and stands to look properly and sees the back of a head and dark clothes and realises it isn’t anyone she recognises. There is a shimmer in the air that comes off the body. Dog Robert trots ahead and sits right next to the shoulder, so that the man’s (and she sees that it is a man) head turns to him and both of them lean towards each other, and they touch noses. Rowan takes that as a good sign.

She skips on over and moves forward in front so that she can take a good look.

Why’re you wet? She asks, as she sees the man’s bedraggled hair and the darkened patches on his suit. He has taken his shoes off and they are sitting dull now, with their shoelaces akimbo on the grass.

I was in the sea, he says, and nods his head to one side, to the inlet. She walks over and leans over to look down, to assure herself that nothing has changed.

But people don’t come IN to there, she says, they only leave.

I don’t think I came in by the sea, he says.

Her eyes are round. Did you JUMP in? she says, and she can hardly contain her enthusiasm for this idea, and how much she wants him to say yes. Her legs feel tingly and her heart is thumping at the thought. I always want to jump in- she tells him- from the top step, jump right in and see if I can touch the stones, did you touch the stones?

I don’t think I jumped in, he says, I think I fell in.

Well, from the step that would be ok, says Rowan, because it’s not very high and you are big, so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. Did you touch the rocks?

I think I fell from over there, he says, and he points at a light stripe of shining green, almost luminous now in the afternoon light.

She doesn’t know what she can say to that, because it doesn’t look like a slide or something that would be fun, like the abandoned playgrounds in Wadebridge, which they cycle to sometimes. There the slides are a dull metal, and edges that hold you in, an angle to the slide that lets you think you are going fast, but catches you at the end so that you don’t get hurt. This slide has a metal hint to it as well, but there is no dullness and it shines, and there is no gentle halting to the drop.

Posted by scumkitten at 4:23 PM | Comments (0)

'Snip, Leek and Lemon Soup

It's 'snip time again in the organic veg box. We love them chez Scummie, and DJ Mikey has requested parsnip and apple soup for when he returns from his surgery next week. For this weekend, I'm going to try something different, using veg I have in the fridge. I love adding lemon to soups too, as it adds a real freshness.

Ingredients

400g parsnips
20g butter
2 leeks
2 heaped tablespoons yoghurt(I guess you can use milk or cream too, but I don't have any)
700ml (1 1/4pts) vegetable stock (I use Marigold bouillon)
1 bayleaf
grated rind and juice of half a lemon

Peel and slice the parsnips and wash and slice the leeks. Melt the butter and cook the parsnips and leeks for 5 minutes in a covered saucepan. Add the stock, grated lemon rind and bayleaf. Bring to the boil and simmer gently until the vegetables are tender. Cool, remove the bayleaf and add the lemon juice. Puree in a blender, add the yoghurt and gently reheat but do not boil.

The yoghurt and lemon cuts through the sweetness of the parsnip (which can sometimes be a bit too much for me). It is a very thick soup, so make sure the parsnips are well cooked and if you want to thin it, just add more stock or milk at the end.

Posted by scumkitten at 12:25 PM | Comments (1)

November 9, 2007

Nanowrimo: sea

When asked about it later, she can’t remember exactly what she saw or heard. It changes every time she shuts her eyes to think about it. She’s lying there, then she hears a musical note and a deep purr and a shout and she opens her eyes, looking out to sea, then quickly, hearing a hollow sound, looks to her left, to the other side of the cliffed inlet. A dark man is sliding down the cliff face, against a patch that is continually damp with dribbles of water (it could be hardly called a waterfall, it is so pathetic) and therefore a luminous algal green. His arms and legs are spread out like a spider’s and his mouth is in an O of surprise, then he vanishes from her line of sight and she leans over towards the cliff edge, hears a last despairing ‘naaah’, then a splash. Later, she can’t see how he can have slipped over from the edge, and thinks that in some corner of her sight she sees him dropping from the sky, suddenly appearing in the top of her line of vision as if dangled from a thread.

She squeaks (she wishes she didn’t do that, in times of crisis or surprise. It infantilises, but she can’t seem to help it), hauls herself up and runs up the path, takes the fork down to the steps and throws herself to the edge, where the water is lapping. He’s floating, his dark suit and white shirt billowing with air trapped against the wet cloth. His hair is slapped against his forehead and he looks chalky.

Posted by scumkitten at 10:16 PM | Comments (1)

NaBloPoMo still going......

I am not (in my mind) as dedicated as my blog partner. I do not slave over words and imagination (actually I am not sure she does, it just always sounds so wonderful that it seems to me that she must spend a lot of time on it....) And I love reading her stuff.

However, I do like typewriting, writing as I type. I am not trained in any way. My writing probably stinks.

But.

You know?

I do not care.

I post here for many reasons. I would love to have the kind of self discipline my compadre displays, but despite how similar we are in many ways, I am (in my mind) nowhere near as dedicated as my friend. Or am I?

I post here quite a lot. I like posting. I like finding stuff and reblogging it here. I have no idea why. I think it is kind of like hoarding. I think of my contributions here as a vehicle for legitimising my hoarding tendencies.

See, I can collect links of stuff to do with knitting, or any one of any other things I collect things about, and post them here, and it sort of authenticates my hours of perusing the Internet...

Except today I have been too busy to find anything. And I still feel uncomfortable about writing about me, in Real Life (I have a diatribe about this on the tip of my tongue). It isn't quite what this blog was set up to do.

And, confessionally, I HATE those blogs which describe people's lives in minute detail. I am just not interested in what your kids have been doing, or how your partner makes you feel, or how intimidated you are by whatever is intidimidating you. You know why? I really do not like the whole thing about feeling pressure to blog, feeling pressure to produce, feeling pressure to write something interesting.... or funny ... or creative.......

The only person who creates that pressure is you. Or me. Or whomever is hosting that particular blog.

You don't have anything to say?

Say nothing.

Don't tell me you don't have anything to say.

Just save yourself for when you DO have something to say.

Don't apologise for saying nothing. You know who cares?

You.....

A blog, journal or diary, should never feel like a chore. It shouldn't stop you from from doing other things - otherwise you would have nothing to blog about! A bit like me tonight.

Except I think there is a difference. I have been saving this up for a while.

So......

I hate confessional media. I hate the media obsession with confession. I do not like those TV or radio shows which encourage people to 'confess'.... Or the forums where people ask for advice from strangers. In my world, that is what friends and family are for. It kind of feels wrong to put it out there, in a public space, where everyone, and anyone, can see.

And to post diatribes about your family/people you work with/life partnere/employers just seems plain silly to me. They will always find it. It is never hidden.

What stops me? Well - you post something on the Internet, it is there. Always. It can't be retracted. It can always be found. Would you really say what you have said on a forum or a blog to the person/s concerned in real life? To their face? If not, don't post it. Write it on paper then burn it. At least if things change there's no evidence.

Yet I blog.... What is that all about? I have no idea. But I shall give it some thought over the rest of this month.... If YOU have strong thoughts on what motivates you to blog, then do leave a comment. Material to fuel my unordered ideas would be really helpful! And now I have fulfilled my promise to blog every day in November...... so far.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:11 PM | Comments (5)

November 8, 2007

Catnip - its effects on Greebo

Greebo LOVES catnip. He usually likes to eat it. He recently realised that rolling in it had a different effect.......

He loves olive wood too, purring really loudly and rubbing himself on the olive wood. The nutcracker is one of his favourite things to drool on and cuddle.

I sometimes fill the cavity in that olive wood nutcracker with catnip...... as a special treat ....

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:15 PM | Comments (3)

Nanowrimo: the fetch II

She starts to look around and sees the pathway that takes you down the cliff and ends crumbling right in to the sea. It’s partially hidden by undergrowth, and for an adult would be an annoyance, scratching and forbidding at chest and head height. She and Dog Robert can just slip under the prickles and spins and branches, ducking only now and then, the roots underfoot not a problem but a playground. Much of the soil has crumbled away as well, leaving lattice work of root systems as the pathway on their own. She likes walking over the roots- they are so closely packed that there’s no danger of her getting her tiny foot trapped. Dog Robert has problems though- his feet are smaller than anyone’s feet that she knows. Small feet with dark brown velvet pads and pearly grey fur over the claws. She knows this because sometimes she shakes his paws to say hello and he does it because he wants his dinner.

So they start down the cliff. There is somewhere she wants to go, a point just of the path about two heights of her above the sea, where it’s flat and grassy and she can lay back against the angle of the cliff and fall asleep without worrying about rolling on down. The grass and sedges are soft as well, and don’t prickle her through her clothes. As well as sleeping, she sometimes gets a glimpse of the beach and people camping there, building fires, cooking fish and swimming. There’s another dog, a spaniel, called Toby, and some women in bikinis. When they are there, the world goes dual again, with the sky brilliant blue over the dull current mist, the sea jade as well as metal grey, and sand as well as the high lapping shoreline. If she squints she finds she can flick between the two visions, and she’s never sure which is now and when the other one is. But the other one has warmth and laughter and Dog Robert sees the other and wants to join, so she has to hold on to his collar and even though she’s heard Midge say he’s a runt of a dog, he doesn’t feel like a runt and he can pull her over maybe.

She hops down to her special spot and settles down. She’s learnt that you can’t force the visitors or the new scenes. They either come or they don’t. She mostly hopes they do, at least here, ‘cos here they are always sunny and fun and with people messing and playing and calling to each other. She saw them at night once, and the moon was huge and creamy in the sky and gave a road of silver to the campers. She could hear faint clinking and laughing and realised even though it is and was late, they were not sleeping but sitting round the glowing fire (and it is glowing, a sweet pink orange jewel- at some points it seems to be underwater), drinking beer and talking in low voices. One of the girls is lying wrapped up in a blanket, curled against a rock. At night it is harder for Rowan to distinguish between the two realities, so the girl is curled on sand, 5 metres below the sea. It is the saddest sight Rowan has ever seen, this drowned girl, hair gently moving with the current on this still day.

Posted by scumkitten at 8:00 AM | Comments (0)

November 7, 2007

Chilli bacon, butterbean and savoy cabbage soup

1 stick celery, chopped finely
2 shallots, chopped finely
1 large clove garlic, chopped finely
4 rashers streaky bacon, chopped
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
4 small potatoes, sliced finely
Half a medium sized savoy cabbage, shredded finely
1 tin butter beans, drained
1.5 pints vegetable stock
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt & white and black pepper

Fry the celery, shallots and garlic gently in the oil for 5 minutes until soft. Add the bacon and fry for a few minutes more until the fat begins to render. Add the chilli and the potatoes. Saute for a minute then add hot stock. Add the cabbage and simmer for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are cooked. Add the butter beans and simmer a couple more minutes. Season with two peppers (the white really adds to the kick of the chilli) and salt. Serve with nice bread to soak up the juices. Yummy.

Posted by glittrgirl at 7:09 PM | Comments (2)

Mulberry

This is Mulberry from the Colinette book Arboretum - these photos show the stitches nicely, but the colour is best represented on an earlier pic when there was better light.

Rather than splashing out on Colinette yarn, I knitted from stash with two balls of KidSilk Haze in Anthracite, and two balls of Jaeger Silk, a discontinued 4 ply, in shade 135. Knitted on 4mm bamboo straight needles. It has ended up about 7 feet long and about 20 inches wide. Lovely and warm!

Posted by glittrgirl at 6:46 PM | Comments (3)

November 6, 2007

Nanowrimo: things that we might lose in a fire

Today has been hard in terms of writing: my mind has been on other, completely non-important stuff. It bloody takes up space in the brain, doesn't it, unneccessary stuff.

It’s not what I might save, she thinks, it’s what I might lose, and now I’d lose so much more even though the cabin is so small. There is lightening sometimes, with the storms and it does strike close in. She’s the only one with out a mast of some sort, be it CB Radio or to hang flags on. She dare not, the possibilities too terrifying. She doesn’t want to call on fate and see what it might have in for her if she tempts it. Tempting fate. I do like that term though, she thinks, because really I’m just living. What sort of temptation is that? Surely fate has got better things on its mind than me?

I’m serious fucking small fry, she yells out to the west- you’ve really got nothing better to do? I can’t believe I fucking talking to myself. What a donkey.

So ok, she sits down on the crumbling step outside’ve the plastic greenhouse to one side, and starts to wash the tea and washing towels, rubbing them back and forth in cold soapy water against the washboard the Major gave her back when she’d agreed to do this. She’s got her last pair of Marigolds on and she pushes down and up, revelling in the work it gives her shoulders. The bowl sits between her legs and she falls into a semi-trance, fading her focus so that everything in front of her, the hedge and fencing, the gorse and squat hawthorn bushes, all merge into a grey and dark mirage. It does the brain good to just mutate sight in to something that doesn’t make sense- a kind of visual meditation, not thinking about anything, but still her arms moving up and down, making sure to connect with the wash board.

Things we might lose in a fire- she mentally walks around the house. That I would be bothered about, she adds.

1. Her thick copper bottom pan that Midge found in the shell of an old hotel. It’s got dents in it, she remembers throwing it at someone once and it bouncing on the concrete outside the cabin, but even when warming milk, when it’s left on the side and dries out and the evaporated skin of milk hardens- it’s a good pan.
2. An old Chinese calendar for the year 2007. It’s for kids, is bright red and green and gold, drawn on a kind of bamboo lattice, with symbols and an apple cheeked plump child with screwed up eyes. Even when she was given it it was way out of date. But somehow it doesn’t matter.
3. Her tea towel from Bergerac. It’s a deep olive green, with rose hatching woven in to it and pictures of a chateau and a vineyard in glossy thread. It is quite the most beautiful thing. She remembers she found it washed up in the bay and it was grimy and stiff with salt. It took three rinses and now the colours make her smile.
4. Her salt shaker, tiny, made of plastic, but pretending to be cut glass, with a chipped metal plastic lid. It is the size of her top thumb joint and only fits a teaspoon of salt.

She realises she hasn’t even got out of the kitchen yet. How could she save all of these things in a fire? After all, to worry about losing them implies that they would be saved if possible. Maybe she should collect them all together, keep thinking, put them in a basket by the door.

Posted by scumkitten at 10:44 PM | Comments (0)

Laure Drogoul - Amplified knitting

Amplified knitting by Laure Drogoul, 2007

An event highlighted at Craftzine featured Laure Drogoul's amplified knitting project. Nice photo, but I would have loved to experience the primary sensory experience in this project. The audio must be intriguing.

As the Baltimore Sun notes:

Depending on the knitters' numbers, their speed and Drogoul's soundboard manipulations of wooden, plastic and steel needles, both fat and slender, a unique acoustic universe is revealed. It may conjure the echoing footsteps of someone spelunking blindly in a cavernous room. Or it may evoke the collective heartbeat of a knitting bee, lost in the repetitive rhythm of handiwork.

Posted by glittrgirl at 9:33 AM | Comments (0)

November 5, 2007

Where were the woolly buns from?

Yesterday I posted a photo of a teaplate full of knitted cakes and biscuits. George, who sent me the picture, Skyped me today to tell me it came from a tea shop in Cramond, just outside of Edinburgh, where he had tea at the weekend. Cramond looks lovely! I may have to go up there and explore...

Posted by glittrgirl at 9:02 PM | Comments (0)

Nanowrimo: the fetch

She never does understand why, when the dawn comes from the East, the western horizon seems to lighten beforehand. She’s tried to think about the stratosphere and atmosphere, about bouncing waves or particles of light (and she likes the thought of being two things at once, depending) and how they might bend, but when it comes down to it, she just likes to stand and watch the thing unfold, like a present.

There are still stars in the sky too, and she has a wide view- not quite 180 degrees, because of the foliage, but because her cabin is on the apex of the hill, it’s pretty much there- the headlands on either side impinge a little, but she likes those, they act as nets to the moon and the stars, she thinks, gives the human brain an edge to latch on to. Somehow having no finish, no line, would give her a headache and stop her from being able to enjoy the view. The horizon in one direction, the hills in another. Sometimes the moon rises from the south and gets dragged from Bossiney Point like a soap bubble, and she can swear she can see it stretching off, as if she is blowing through a plastic ring, then the moon pops and floats up suddenly light and free.

She decides she needs to see the sunrise proper, so, still in her jersey bottoms, she pulls on her donkey jacket and a pair of Wellingtons, grabs a piece of her cheese on toast, and heads outside. The mist is not there, and this is what makes her initially wary (how often does this happen, she thinks? Have I been missing this all these mornings?), the sky is as clear as porcelain and the stars bright from high above down to the west.

From the east however, she can see- not a lightening, as such, nor colour, just something different for now- maybe a knowledge of change. So she walks out through her gate on to the common ground next to the village hall, climbs over a style and heads up over the fields behind.

Posted by scumkitten at 7:45 PM | Comments (1)

November 4, 2007

Nanowrimo: dust

Back at the hall, Mary and the Major, favoured recipients of the aubergine paint, are dusting. Or, more accurately, Mary is dusting, the Major is directing matters with out lifting a finger. He’s wearing a fine knit beige jumper with darned elbows over a white and red checked shirt. Slacks also. And although she can’t see, she knows he’s wearing thin brown socks pulled up sharp up the shin bone. He looks clean and annoyed and he smells of soap. He always looks annoyed, thinks Mary. She gets an urge to dust him, the old fossil. She looks at her duster, moves it in his direction, but he’s not looking at her, he’s staring up at the ceiling, his shoulders slightly stooped still, giving him a weird origami quality. He shouldn’t fold like that, really, it’s not natural, especially given his continual moaning about his gout and arthritis. She told him to join the weekly yoga class, but he said he didn’t believe in religion. She told him it wasn’t religion, just stretching, then he said the strangest thing- then it isn’t proper yoga, he said, I spent three years in the Kashmir, he said, they didn’t do it to be flexible, they did it to live better lives. We just take things, he said and she remembers that he looked even more annoyed than usual, that his eyes looked liquid behind his glasses, we take other people’s ways of living and we murder them, we suck them dry for our own purposes and take all meaning they might have had out of them. Leave them dry, leave them as dust. And expect them to be grateful that we took an interest. We deserve all we get, he said, except in the end, they got it worse, and that means I can’t sleep at night because of it. She didn’t know what to say to that.

Mary stops dusting over the window sills (which are quite a stretch for her, the village hall having been an old Methodist church with arching high windows) and runs her hands over the feathers. The Major grimaces in the corner, where he appears to be shifting chairs, for no known purpose, as far as she can see- you’re just redistributing the dust, he says, you should do that outside. She keeps rubbing the feathers. She feels foolish doing it, but also, brave. Dust, she thinks, it’s just dust.

Posted by scumkitten at 2:04 PM | Comments (0)

Woolly buns

Today's post is a contribution from a work colleague in Dundee. Thanks to George Bell for this photo. I have no idea where it was taken, or what the shop was, or what George was doing there, or even if it his photo! But it is great. Ladles and gentlespoons I present... woollybuns.

Posted by glittrgirl at 11:58 AM | Comments (0)

November 3, 2007

Nanowrimo: aubergine

Phil takes some steps back, hands on his hips, looks up at the ragged Cornish flag limp and organic in the still mist. The white cross has that familiar algal tinge to it.

Surprised that’s still there, he says. Well, he says, shall we go in? He bows to a point ten degrees south of Rowan, swings his arm out to the side and gestures towards the door hanging on one hinge. It’s dark inside, no light entering, the windows boarded up.

I don’t think so mate, says Midge. She’d bloody kill us if we let kiddo rampage around here.

Rowan tugs on Midge’s sleeve, the wool feels greasy and scratchy at the same time. No, I’ll go in, she says, her face screws up, I wanna.

Bloody hell, says Midge, we’ve got a right one here. He crouches down and takes her hand, small and cold, like a raw chicken thigh, he thinks, which disturbs him. Kiddo, you can come in, but stay close to me, yes? Otherwise I’ll have to tell her that you was bad.

Yup, she says back, and sticks her chin forward, grinning and baring her teeth at him. Her eyes screw up, her face rictous in gratitude.

Phil stands with his eyes closed, picking at his teeth- you done yet? Can we get on?

So remind me what we’re here for, says Midge, as he shoulders the door careful, leaning the peeling wood against him and shifts it scraping across the concrete. His hands come away covered in aubergine flecks also. The little girl notices this, looks back at her own hands, holds them out to the soft light flexing the fingers back so her palms rise up.

There’s as like to be more paint in here, says Phil, you can see they stopped bothering after the first coat. And it’s true, the flaking paint is showing duck egg blue underneath, a beautiful pale colour.

It seems a shame, says Midge. The blue’s much better.

Some bloody expert you are, says Phil, bloody changing rooms.

Why would he change rooms?-a sks Rowan. They ignore her. She kicks some weeds sticking up through the cracks in the concrete, little yellow explosions of flowers, columbines, she knows her flowers alright, she thinks.

Posted by scumkitten at 12:06 PM | Comments (0)

NaBloPoMo 3

I don't usually talk about my Real Life in much detail here. The last two posts were actually quite difficult for me to write. I think it is because my inner thoughts are not expressed on this blog. It kind of feels funny to write abot what's going on in my head.

That's not to say that I don't talk about what goes on in my life and how things make me feel. I do. A lot. I just don't usually do it here.

So NaBloPoMo, so far (all 3 days of it), has been a bit of an experiment for me, and my contributions to this blog. I am interested to see how the experiment turns out. I am not committing myself to anything, mind you, and I may revert to things I have found and my knittng....

Posted by glittrgirl at 9:27 AM | Comments (1)

November 2, 2007

NoBloPoMo: Day 2

I thought I was OK.

I thought it would all be fine - I will concentrate on work and take my mind off the constant wondering. What caused such an accident? How did it happen? Why him? The usual questions you might think. But they aren't usual. This is very UNusual. And not in a good way.

My mind has been all over the place. Thinking of the people he left behind and then the ones he will see again. Small comfort.

After over 10 hours on late running trains today - some idiot decided to steal the train cables between Sheffield and Chesterfield (dangerous but obviously lucrative: the price of copper right now and all that) - I heard the news.

It was a heart attack. A massive heart attack. He would have known nothing nor felt anything. The funeral is on Tuesday. At least it was quick. Even smaller comfort.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:02 PM | Comments (1)

NaNoWriMo: nicotine

Her gran had had it right, she thinks, smoking 20 a day all her life, and yes, ok, dying of that, but still- she didn’t go ‘til she was 95, and the Doctors told her to not bother giving up because the shock would take her first. There are cabins here that have the same nicotine flock wallpaper that she remembers. Not a bad colour in the misty light, quite appropriate.

She’s not sure how the old boys get their ciggies, given the shortage. They’re all on rollies, she knows that, but she does wonder what goes in them. The deserted hemp farm a day’s cycle away- she wonders if the cultivar has reverted back to type. She knows she should remember the smell of weed, that it is herbal- then she worries that that is just words and not the reality of the smell.

Posted by scumkitten at 3:11 PM | Comments (0)

November 1, 2007

Ist post

I signed up to NaBloPoMo.

Then it was Halloween.

Yesterday was a devastating day.

My uncle died. He fell from his loft. And died.

I feel like I am living in a bad dream with relatives I love. But one important person is missing. And tomorrow I have to go to Birmingham.

Posted by glittrgirl at 10:44 PM | Comments (2)

NaNoWriMo: first post

To help with Glittr's NaBloPoMo, I'm going to try to post a small section of each day's writing. Try to envisage me at 3.30 am, with a slice of my mum's fruit cake next to me...

And remember that the whole point of NaNoWriMo is to block the internal editor and to feel free to write bollocks, if that is what comes out... ;)

December if for editing. November is for just writing, with no backspace.

Go there, sit, if it’s dry, let your legs dangle over the edge. Do you get that emptiness in your groin, calling you to just. Slip. Over into space? I feel like that now, just writing this and I’m not even there. It demands so much once you’ve visited, it lodges in your brain and calls you back. I want to know: what would it feel like to run down the path, run towards the edge, full pelt, arms pumping, head down, (or would it be head up?) and not break stride as your foot fall carries you over…

How far from the edge would you get before you fell?

Posted by scumkitten at 11:34 AM | Comments (0)