26 May 2011
Actually, I can. I'd seen it in a charity shop the week before, picked it up and told myself firmly that I really did not need another tea pot even if it did have faded gold edging and a sort of marbling effect on the top and anyway it's meant to be "one in, one out" in our house. Then I went back a week later and it was a pound cheaper. So I had it. And the real truth is that I dream of becoming Mrs Wobble the Waitress and turning my front room into a cafe and having people in to drink tea and eat cake in a very civilised way. It's the same reason why the cellar is full of carefully packed cake stands and tea sets, why I buy tea cosies and books on how to knit them, even though I never do, and aprons. I'm very partial to a proper apron.
Glory be. I need to get a grip.
25 May 2011
It struck me last week that I was spending a lot of time just waiting for stuff to happen. I'd arrived at the dentist to be told that she was running late, stuck in traffic. Not quite true. In fact, after waiting for an hour, I was told that she had a rather distressing domestic emergency and would not be coming at all. Which, after psyching myself up the night before for a hideous visit, was quite a result (apart from the fibbing by the receptionist.) So, I took myself off to the allotment where I spent some time pondering, in particular about how it is the gardener's lot to spend a great deal of time in glorious expectation of the life to come. Take the poppy, for example. It stands around tempting to you as it grows to bursting point, you turn around for five minutes and it's open and blown away in the wind. Not a bad thing, because they really should not be there anyway as the bed they are on is destined for less ephemeral plants. Unlike this horned poppy,s sleeping in the right bed, which we have been hoping and waiting for since we brought the seeds home...
Then there's the asparagus bed. You wait for three years before you can get cut a decent crop, and before you know it, after a brief surfeit of spears and delicious meals, the season is over and you are left with the ferny reminders of how wonderful it all was. After which you wait for the asparagus beetles to descend and the slaughter to begin. Then there's the literal and temporal gap between planting your tomatoes and courgettes and waiting for the spaces to fill with fruits - oh, how hard it is to resist the temptation to plant them too close because you can never quite believe those plants will sprawl across a whole square yard.
But most of all this year, the waiting has been for rain. Real rain that fills the cracks and makes you and the earth seriously wet. Rain that stops you from ignoring domestic and other duties and makes you want to stay indoors and sew instead of galivanting off to the seaside or out on the bike. Rain that scents the streets with that lovely damp-dust London smell. Rain that makes the plants grow.
The forecast is for heavy rain tomorrow afternoon. By Saturday I'll be waiting for the sun to shine again.
It's good to be back.
11 May 2011
Every time I see my Aunt Lily she tells me I'm getting bigger. But my mum says it's not me who's getting bigger, but Lil who's getting smaller. And without being defensive in any way, I think it might be true. I mean, look at the size of that ball of yarn on her lap. To be entirely fair though, it is a rather special ball - Prick Your Finger's Pom Pom yarn. I'd seen it, thought about it, looked at it again and was finally swayed when Rachael said it reminded her of stones on the beach. How could I resist?
...Rachael was right! Forty one prime crocheted pom-pom yarn camouflaged as beach. I had planned to add a back to the crocheted work and make it into a cushion, until I realised that it was already. So after all that work with a giant hook, I rested my head on the woolly pebbled pom-poms and had a five minute snooze in the late afternoon sun. Then I lay down on it and used it to massage my sore back. Let me tell you, it was a most satisfying end to a solitary, sunny and indulgent day and, what's more, I have a lovely piece of woolly beach to enjoy until those pom-poms are worn out.
07 May 2011
03 May 2011
While the world was going slightly bonkers in expectation of a certain wedding, we made our way to France to participate in a real one. The bride and groom, who live a five minute walk away, decided to eschew the delights of Mile End and opted instead for a garden in a pretty little village in the Lot valley in France. I was dubious. I should not have been. It was a simple ceremony, the bride looked beautiful, I shed a tear, the best man wept buckets. and everything went like clockwork. The sun shone and the thunder only arrived when we were safely tucked inside the marquee full of fancy cakes and champagne. The next day we walked in the woods, saw fields full of wild flowers and heard the bride declare herself to be "very, very happy". It was all rather lovely.
Back home, sated, I put up my bunting for the other wedding:
But after hearing all that lovely music and feeling like an old curmudgeon I eventually relented - and added an "a".