quelle erqsome...

awkward words of warning

I don't remember leaving the pub Friday night -- in fact, the last thing I remember was sitting down to talk to a friend of mine. I was actually kind of surprised at being in bed Saturday morning, the whole waking thing threw me a little. It's like I blinked. And then nothing -- that was it. I glanced at the red padding of the chair I was about to sit on, and what I was hoped wasn't a gum stain, and then it was the next morning and I had a cat in my face. I'd been with a group of friends, celebrating one of their birthdays, and Matthew was there, which is how I got home at all. But it was only retrospectively that Aneet realised how quickly I became exceedingly unsteady and how suddenly I'd stopped making sense and how it all coincided with the two random guys I was talking to leaving the pub.

It's all slightly alarming in several levels. It means that

a. I'm suddenly having teenage reactions to three 125 ml glasses of wine at the age of twenty-seven, or

b. there's something medically horribly wrong with me, or

c. the nice men I was talking to spiked my drink.

As I was very recently declared in the bloom of good health by my physician, I want to think it's a., because if it turns out to be c., well that would just be shitty, wouldn't it. On the other hand a. would be quite shitty, too, so I might have to put it down to d. I angered the wine gods by accepting Blossom Hill over the slightly more expensive, but infinitely superior Campo Viejo.

Rather than thinking about these things too hard, because of my propensity to fret and pace is currently set higher than George Bush's 'High-Alert System' is capable of monitoring, you know what made me feel better? A gratuitous kitten pic.

I worked from home Friday so Mozzie and Yeti could have their first visit to the vet. They've been a little slow and sweet ever since, or at least they were until last night when they decided my head would make the best dance floor in. the. world. Do you think if George Bush had kittens he'd scrap the whole 'High-Alert System' and forget his fretty-pacey-destroy-the-worldy thing, too?

this is yeti and mozzie

These are my kittens.

Yeti (l - 13 weeks) and Mozzie (r - 10 weeks) in a strangely quiet moment (with Matthew's feet).

My camera problems are sorted at last.

cupcakes anyone?

Does anyone else think a cupcake club would be just about the best thing ever? If there are enough people who want to do this, I think we should.

Cupcakes are the best.

They're like small spongey, edible happiness with frosting. It doesn't even have to be a geographical location thing. We could have an internet club and post pictures of our cupcakes, and our mouths all covers in hundreds and thousands (sprinkles) and those weird silver ball things (which have beef fat in them -- warning all vegetarians!) and pink icing. Maybe some of those sugar flowers. Maybe we could 'meet' once a month. And bake cupcakes and share recipes and encourage eXtreme uses of ganache.

It might be my idea of heaven. Heaven with a cherry on top.

hey, that's me!

Those are my hands! I'm making a slip-stitch dishcloth in this sort of fuschia-wine and a pinky orange from Mission Falls, which sounds jarring and horrible, but it's knit up real pretty-like (apparently their real names are Coral and Merlot). The bag to the bottom left is a compartmental bottle bag from the LBCO; I have to say, it's the best knitting bag I've ever used. It's so useful! I can carry my wine and my knitting!

In this picture I'm sitting in the Tate, knitting happily away with a sea of other knitters on Knit in Public Day, quite unaware of the SnB London photographer making her rounds. You can see all the SnB Knit Crawl photos here. (And if the lovely people at SnB London feel slighted at my photo theft, please tell me so I can take this pic down and get back in your good graces.)

revolutionising the hairy bush smoothie

My craving for a kiwi-based fruit juice today brought me to a new funky PJ's smoothie. They've revamped their image in ways I never thought possible. Why? Read on, my friend.

Now, this juice is a little green, which satisfies me in ways I'm not sure I should admit. The kiwi flavour is emboldened by a hint of lime, which sidles up to the tip of the tongue and winks slyly. Together, the kiwi and lime do naughty things to the sudden hit of apple which comes on the scene like a bashful guest late for the party, rolling shyly around the mouth. There's a certain smoothness to the whole affair. A degree of Mae West; a taste of the hardboiled; maybe even a touch of the old Rat Pack -- or at least there would be if it weren't so fruity.

It's a juice to today's gumshoe, who trying to kick the booze habit to the kerb. For the private eye, who knows only too well what a good-lookin' dame can do to a career, let alone a man. It's a juice for hard times with soft touches.

All told, it's a juice that knows what it's doing. It's a juice that signifies to me that someone thought about the fruit they were going to marry and wasn't afraid of a bit of facing gunfire to get things right.

This may indeed be why someone chose -- possibly, hopefully, as part of the rebranding process -- to helpfully inscribe on the label a brief history of the various names the noble kiwi likes to go by: Wonder Fruit, Hairy Pair, Hairy Bush Fruit. Hairy Bush Fruit. So now I've got Vagina Fruit circulating round and round my twisted brain...

so much knitty

Am I the only person in the world who didn't know that knitty.com has released their new issue? Am I that out of the loop? When did they update? Am I panicking for nothing? Does anyone else accidentally type in whorl when they mean world? Am I asking too many questions?

It just might be so.

I've started making Monkeys. I did a test swatch, got all angry at the pattern, then spent all of Sunday tackling it with the sort of vigour only a wretched hangover can bestow upon a person. Just as Matthew and I started watching a documentary on the birth of heavy metal it clicked. The pattern just came together on my needles. It was like I'd come out of a 1970s-Ozzy Osbourne haze and awoke to find myself in a house full of cameras and a family that would make Daniel Defoe writhe with jealousy for not having thought of them first. They're being knit up in my Superfluous Sock Yarn Swap 100% merino swap yarn, which is turning out to be one gorgeous yarn.

But Monkeys? Pah, that's yesterday's news. Now I've visions of Sweetpeas and Coupling dancing in my head. And the idea of an adult-sized Grower making me dizzy with delight, though a little Marnier with something Unmentionable in the night never goes amiss...

love and naughty horses

Sweet Jesus, move over Spidey, this this woman is my new saviour. Is it wrong I want to have her babies after this?

four things of considerable whee!

1. Happy Knit in Public Day! I joined the Stitch'n'Bitch Knit Crawl, and I've got to say, them folk know how to make a good crawl. It was really nice, much more relaxed than other times I've gone to SnB and very friendly. I chatted with several of them variously and commiserated with one who'd brought the frogged remains of a once-but-never-to-be-again sweater. I feel her pain.  It was interesting to see  what people had brought with them and why. I was rather surprised to see a few  sweaters on the go, and a couple of baby blankets. I suppose they're pretty basic if you're not having to graft anything, but I wasn't quite so brave. No, merely the latest addition to my growing dishcloth fascination and an armless teddy bear.

2. We hired a new editorial assistant. I think she's going to be pretty good, though she's not the slightly more punk rock one. The slightly more punk rock one loves Haruki Murakami and photography and seemed like the kind of girl I'd like to meet if I were a dude. Or a lesbian. Regardless, our new editorial assistant is going to fit in immediately and not merely because I think she's cool and will snark with me (Medusa's leaving, so someone has to fill that role). The new editorial assistant is super nice and really enthusiastic and her copy-editing test suggests she's about as nerdy as I am when it comes to finding an author's potential. What makes this all the better is that the slightly more punk rock one has agreed to come in for typesetter training which means I'll still get to work with her! Hurrah!

3. Medusa, Andromeda*, our in-house typesetter, and I left the pub (after a quick pint that grew only into a pint and a half, well done us) to discover a crowd encircled around a group of men, chanting and egging them on. A great rope lay on the ground, with several knots tied through its length. Lest you begin to think it was some kind of ritualistic flaying of Twickenham's youth, it was merely two rugby teams having a tug of war. There's something rather wonderful about the thought of two rugby teams coming together outside a pub, coming to some disagreement and having someone throw down their glove and shout, 'Is that so, hm? Mark my words, boy, we shall teach you a lesson you shan't forget. Bring out the rope!' and the whole pub sucking in its collective breath as 'The rope! He's asked for the rope! Ooo-er!' flutters nervously about the room, before they all troop out into the forecourt to watch their team give the other a what for. I don't know that that's how it all played out, but I hope so.

*Note: I've changed her pseudonym -- Andromeda is far more fitting.

4. When I got in this afternoon from knitting in public I found two letters waiting for me on the table in the front hall. One is from my bank confirming my suspicions that trips to Canada are Expensive; the other confirming I have been unconditionally accepted into the first year of my PhD. At some point it will all sink in, and I sincerely hope the reality of the former does not douse that of the latter. Folks, I'm off to do my PhD.

i throw my hands up and shout

I was began a comment for Tangledbleus's '7 Things' meme and it just started getting out of control, so I thought I'd post it here instead. She writes:

I'm a loud and rowdy feminist at heart but I love domestic things (hello this is a knitting blog). I love cooking and baking and nothing compares to the joy of a sparkling clean kitchen floor. I guess I just like the idea of taking care of others (family or otherwise) by making home a warm and inviting space.

I know exactly what she means here, and I think most of us do. Knitting is by and large considered a domestic old lady task, yet women in their youthful thousands do it for thousands of reasons, very few of which because they have had the strong arm of patriarchal oppression reign over them demanding they do so. In fact, if anything I would say that it's men who have to battle the strong arm of patriarchal oppression far more than women to pursue their knitting dreams.

Perhaps it's the soft, luxurious fibres we use that make some people think knitting and crocheting is all dainty lady-play, perhaps it's the seeming inactivity -- it certainly appears less physical than carpentry or metalwork, which necessitate a great deal of sweat and heaving muscles. Perhaps it's the lack of abuse you put your body through in order to create a knitted garment, although anyone who has developed callouses on their fingers from their needles or suffered splinters from their needles or had to lug three half-finished sweaters, complete with four types of yarn and two sets of extra needles/stitch markers per project, plus the three books the patterns can be found in, with them everywhere they go 'just in case' they have time to spare, will attest to the physicality of knitting. Likewise, anyone who has had to fend off their knitting 'friends' who only want a look at their newly acquired skeins of hand-spun, hand-dyed pure 100% cashmere will have bruises to show for it. I have one or two arguments to refute the idea of passivism of my own.

I personally knit for several reasons. I like the fact that the result is something I've created, using my own hands. Knitting is productive and creative and so deeply, subversively political it makes me shiver with feministy delight. I like making things. I like knowing that I haven't had to rely on the genius of a factory to own, wear or eat something.

This weekend I made peanut brittle as a thank you to my sister-in-common-law for helping us find our kittens. Granted it took two runs at it and a wasted bag of sugar and peanuts to get it right, but I did it and when I presented it to her she couldn't believe I'd 'taken the trouble'. If that's taking trouble, I don't want to know what easy peasy lemon squeezy is. It wasn't trouble, it was awesome! And now I can add 'making candy' to my mental culinary CV. The only industries I ended up supporting were Fairtrade sugar and peanut, and the baking soda people. I kind of dig that.

At this point in time, we in Europe and North America are incredibly priviledged; if we have the money, we can buy whatever luxury we need. It's become such that 'things' aren't luxuries any more. They're considered necessities to which we have inalienable rights. In a way, making things has become a luxury. That is, I make because I don't want to buy. Still, when you make something, it draws attention to the fact that you didn't buy it. It draws attention the fact we don't need to buy it. It does, in a small way, germinate the idea that perhaps all these things are the mere detrius of an otherwise creative existence. In knitting, we scrape back the detrius and place ourselves in the heart of the process.

Phew! Rant over.

Last night Yeti discovered I have eyebrows and nearly fainted with delight. She did that to my armpit stubble this morning. I woke up to her grooming the hairs and looking slightly delirious. My underarm stubble has never been so carefully attended, my eyebrows never looked so shiny. Apparently Matthew's getting the same treatment, so I don't think I'm particularly special in this, but is there anyone else out there with similar kitten-to-pit experiences? Is she looking for the mother cat in me? Is my general hairlessness more disappointing than I thought, so much so that a brief patch would be met with such excitement?

i'm not a canary.

One day I will be able to work out why Mondays are so often Days of Consequence and Foreboding.* It's been all kinds of go and fretting and pacing and whizz this morning because I'm in the middle of hiring a new editorial assistant, which is murderous and anxiety-ridden.

*Much like Latawnya's experience was the result of a Day of Consequence and Foreboding.

I should note that it's not a new editorial assistant as in one to replace the one we hired last month. I'm not so cruel a boss. It's one to add to the one we hired last month. So last week, not only was I jet lagged and PMSy and confused by all, but forced to sift through endless CVs from people who don't understand a covering letter should not be three pages long no matter how much you want the job and that nobody cares if you love scuba diving; all I want to know is whether you know your colons from your semis and your en-dashes from your ems. (Note to anyone currently job seeking: covering letter should be half a page, max. CV should be two pages, max. No one cares if you like scuba diving.)

I've narrowed it down to three, but I like all of them! If I think about it too long I start getting all thumpy. I've just had two second interviews with potential ed assts and the last one actually ended up getting stuck talking the author who would not leave. We ended up having the interview sat around the tiny post table, in hushed tones so Demented Author Lady Who Gets Out Her Photos For Not-Yet-Hired Editorial Assistant Can View Them wouldn't hear us. I might have a heart attack.

Much nicer than my tendency to fret and pace due to fears of being generally unprofessional and a bit conspiratorial in my interviews (me, whispering: You don't want to work here; get out while you still can!) is that Matthew and I caved in to the need for kittens to have friends their own age and are now cat-parents to not one but two kittens -- hurrah!

Mozzie was our original choice. She's silver and sleek and very pretty. Her eyes were blue, but now they're green. Yeti is her cousin; she's three weeks older and hadn't been adopted, which is INSANE because she's delightful. She's black and white, with a brown smudge on her nose. They're awesome and a little feisty. Yeti stood over Mozzie on the way home until she (Yeti) threw up and then spent the rest of the journey looking both sheepish and nervous that we might not like her so much now that the car stinks. Moz just let the movement of the car lull her to sleep and refused to allow us to wake her even when we were back at the flat.

They're very sweet together, and seem very close. They sleep wrapped up together and clean each other and then one will yell 'Hey, Doofus!' and whack the other across the head and they'll run around for hours and hours bullying each other. But they've already learnt that the carpet is not a toy and that the litter box is their friend, so that's nice. And they seem to have adopted us as well. Last night Yeti kept licking my leg and then started nibbling my ankle and it took me ages to realise she was trying to groom me. She looked at me like I was some kind of big hairless freak and then gave up.

I've decided that I'm going to see what I can do about getting my camera-to-computer glitches sorted tonight, once and for all. I think I can do it. I just need to focus.