The here and now

There is a moment that comes on the best of days.  Towards the end of the day, but before H arrives home from whichever far flung extreme of the Midlands he's been travelling to.  The chores are done, or at least I've made my peace with the ones that aren't going to get done, and the house is at rest.


We used to spend the time in the garden, cloud gazing and reading stories but the squally showers that swept though this week, and the rose bramble making insistent and repeated requests to enter through the window make it clear that those days are gone for now.



So we sing, we make funny noises with cardboard tubes and many shaky rattley noisy toys, we play tents, and we snuggle together to read a story, before Kitty takes on the most important task of her day; emptying the bookcase (again).



It isn't a saccarine-soaked picture of rosy-cheeked perfection, straight from a Mabel Lucie Attwell drawing; sooner or later there will be a nappy to be changed, a little hand will stretch for some out of reach contraband, and given Madam's predilection for Mummy's big books, something heavy will often be carelessly discarded on my toes.  But it is my present and my memories, and to me it is perfect.

Playing catch up in 4000 words

Somewhere from within my haze of internet-deprived petulance that manifested itself as my last post I think I mentioned that my weekend looked a little like this:


My evenings now look like this:

As I crochet my way slowly around the edge of the blanket. Since the picture was taken I have finished round one and made four blobs for round two - progress indeed and I can start to see why it is worth doing.

I have also been greatly assisted by (a)


A happy side effect of being married to my husband. There is something about that man that makes our relatives provide him with cake parcels. My mother makes him chocolate sponge cake and his grandmother recently sent us a shiny gold shoe box full to the brim with long thin bricks of goodies wrapped in greaseproof paper. These are her millionaire's shortbread and even though she gave us her recipe I am the first to admit that I cannot make them as well as Gran.

What makes it even funnier, and proves that not only is he giving off "send me cake" vibes, but more precisely, "send me good cake" vibes, is that the first batch were deemed by Gran to be below par, so she handed them out to H's cousins as treats for them and immediately set about making a fresh batch for him. I am allowed a piece if I have been really good!

and (b)

The second 'crochet edging incentive' is a recent discovery resulting from Hotel Chocolat's delightful idea to have a shop in Birmingham next to Borders. I went for a walk at lunchtime and just happened to stroll in. Once I'd been given my 'welcome to the shop' chocolate - a praline heart patterned with songbirds and leaves - I melted; and came home with these, cherries soaked in kirsch and dipped in chocolate. If you like Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice-cream (or the oh so much healthier frozen yoghurt), these are for you.

Stitched up

My at-home internet has again disappeared down a hole into the ether. We had hard-wired internet on Saturday, we tried to move it to the other computer on Sunday and it wouldn't go. We tried to move it back to the first computer and it still wouldn't go. We bribed and corrupted a friend who knows about all things technical to come and have a look at it and he couldn't make it go.

We are left with the option that (a) a very tiny telephone line failure has happened just outside our house so that the telephone works and the internet doesn't. This is not as far fetched as it seems; the last time it all disappeared on us it was a fault inches outside our door which meant that BT thought the line was fine and we knew we were calling on a mobile because the phone didn't work; or (b) something in the vast amounts of wire currently trailed around our home went ping when we moved the cable to the other computer. According to H, the fact that our hard wired gadgets are the most basic possible makes this unlikely as it means that there is less to go wrong. I retain a healthy scepticism about that theory but would be prepared to go with it if the internets would be similarly co-operative.

My contribution to proceedings was to run up and down checking whether the little flashy light had stopped flashing and to scowl at the computer and demand that it pull its finger out and start working. There may have been a teeny foot stamp to accompany the scowl. In my defence, the little flashy light has developed a malevolence that can only be attributed to something capable of independent thought; it will stop flashing for the briefest of moments, just enough time to click the connect button ..... and then die and go back to flashing. I love it not.

All of this separation anxiety did manifest itself in a need to curl up under something lovely - I have spent the weekend sewing, and the Lizard Ridge blanket is as one. I'll tell more when I can show pictures because it is pretty and soft and warm and I can frequently be found wearing it as a giant shawl!