knitonlybutalso

Lockdown and the art of achieving not-very-much

Lockdown version of commute

Me: Well Juliet - all this lockdown I guess you have been productive with such significant extra time on your hands - no commute of 1 and 1/2 hours each way on a daily basis and of course the long summer evenings, you will have got so much done and achieved the incredible...?

the real me: Erm

Me: Surely you have learnt a new language (something other than English), mastered the oboe, got some fancy patisserie techniques down pat? created a mime performance of 4 hours duration that expresses the emotions of those living with someone like Gravel-guy and his crumb trails? Maybe a poem cycle that offers personal insight into the futility of trying to nurture life in your tiny garden when there are very big snails with tummies covered in very sharp teeth that actually sit in wait and laugh whilst you plant and woodpigeons that devour your dill seedlings then poop on your garden furniture in brightly coloured splats from whatever they have recently eaten? Or have you done something truly wonderful and altruistic like translate the full works of Herodotus into Clingon for the benefit of humanity? 

the real me: Erm

Me: Actually English may just pass as your second language at this rate - which is a shame as you only have English - can you say anything other than "erm"

the real me: Arhhhhhhhhhhm

Me: Have you done anything? A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-GGGGG productive?

the real me: Oh that! Sure, I've been knitting, and by the way I don't know any Clingon

Me: What have you been knitting Juliet?

the real me: A cushion - actually a cushion cover of sweet little houses all sewn together - 15 to a side, 2.5mm needles (skinny devils) and HolstGarn doubled to make some nice robust houses in different colours and the pattern is called Copenhagen and it is really meant to be a blanket but I am lazy and decided to finish up some spare yarn and ... 2 and 1/2 houses to go and then both sides done apart from the sewing and all the houses are different and .....

Me: You are gibbering - that means you are nervous, have you finished it?

the real me: erm...

Me: I'm guessing that is a "no" what have you been doing instead of finishing your cushion of little houses?

the real me: I started a blanket in the rest of the spare HolstGarn to use up some odds and sods

Me: with 2 and 1/2 houses to go??? I guess at least you are using up some spare yarn so the yarn pile is shrinking...

the real me: well actually in order to use up the odds and sods of HolstGarn I had to order loads more in lots of lovely colours, so exciting - I think my package is due this week all the way from Denmark

Me: you bought MORE yarn??? MORE yarn to shrink your piles of yarn????

the real me: that is the way knitting generally works, and as I said, the little house cushion is a pattern called Copenhagen and so I needed yarn from Denmark and maybe a few extra colours in case of y'know "emergencies" - after all someone has gotta keep the Danish economy afloat with the purchasing of their very lovely yarn and all that - you know how selfless I am about supporting others and seeing the world economy as very much a family of nations yearning for financial stabil....

Me: Well I hope you are ashamed of your profligate approach to yarn-purchasing, why can't you finish anything???

the real me: well obviously you aren't a real knitter are you as you would understand so little is EVER finished and even the finishing doesn't mean it is final. Final is a concept that knitters really tussle with - the need to let go, to cast off and be done, the end of a brief and perfect relationship and a synergy of woman, yarn and needles, the highs, the lows, the knotty little dramas  - difficult to face the end especially if that end is the yarn ending before the project, devastating

Me: Bad, you are very bad, your actual (non knitted) house is a tip with all these yarn balls spilling from their hidey places, Gravel-guy sat on a couple of balls last night - and those tightly wound balls must feel like haemmorhoids

the real me: Mwhahahahahahahaaaaaaaaa and I very don't care - well I care that my little woolly balls might feel slightly bruised, but y'know sitting on those hard round objects certainly woke Gravel-guy up over dinner - he almost made conversation (as in "what the hell????" which counts as a chatty night from him)

Me: You are not even slightly ashamed are you?

the real me: nope

Actually I have been busier than I am suggesting - in between buying yarn (so difficult, takes ages and lots of thinking, often with eyes closed and lying prone on the sofa), I bought 2 new dresses and another pair of wafty trousers(I figured dress wearing eliminates the need to choose a top AND a bottom so my morning routine would be done in a snap, from say jeans and first tee shirt in drawer which I don't normally even look at as Gravel-guy has the spare dining chair in the way upstairs).

New wafty pants to go to the near identical wafty pants I already have

My order from Sanareva arrived (too exciting for words, I have spent much time smelling my wrists - have you any idea how much of a time-soaking activity that is?), and I have been making focaccia as a change to sourdough (much less painful underfoot or if you kneel on it due to all that oil softening things up I guess, that's a great household tip for you from the Juliet school of domestic management), Gravel-guy is a huge fan of the new bread but really it is to save myself from bread-puncture stigmata. Sod him I say, and I say that often.

Anyway the clothing splurge - mad or what? It is not as though I am dressing up to go anywhere but new trousery wafty pants from Saint & Sofia (these are so heaven - they come in different lengths and are so light and elastic-y, maybe I should have done a paeon to all things elastic as a blog post, in fact maybe I will...), but new light knit fabrics with a bit of elastication and an ability to skim - SKIM! Very exciting, actually I can see a time when maybe just doing the non-elasticated up may become an event... actually no, I have committed to non elastication at least once or twice a week and will be firm about these things.

So yes, the Sanareva order has arrived from France much to my delight (yes I am excited that something comes from France - if I can't travel, at least my body lotion has), and whilst I could bore on about the delights and properties of each unguent I am more bemused as to what I ordered - for some reason body wash was very much on my mind that night, now that could be that Gravel-guy came back from a run and was particularly pungent, it could be as simple as that. Anyway, the products that I have tried - lovely, but I still look exactly like me. So far the highlights of the Sanareva order would be the Embryolisse body lotion - very nice, light but absorbs well and smells rather lovely, unlike a certain someone, I'm also liking the hyaluron filler for the eyes - yep still look just like my tired and droopy old eyes but yeah I am liking it, actually I am liking all of it - I am not a beauty blogger so don't expect detailed reviews after all what suits my skin won't necessarily suit yours. But Sanareva has been rather a nice treat to myself.

Anyways, back to the yarn - I have things to cast on over here...

Apart from that, daughter (studying down in Leeds) was flung off her bike by a boy racer on the wrong side of the road and in the actual cycle lane. She says she is fine - fine as in broken wrist, broken collar bone and bruised lung, the bike is a write-off. As a mother I have other definitions of "fine" but I am so happy that she is her version of fine that really I am very happy given how much worse it could have been. Times like this I really want to be down there, and times like this I suspect she would really rather I wasn't. 

 

What day is this?

Is this the 96847264th day or lockdown or is it the 96847265th? Things are a little blurry regarding such details, maybe if I was the type of woman that shaved my legs come the first day of spring or still dyed my hair I'd be better placed to chart time and its' passing. To be honest, not everything about lockdown is bad - the Easter cactus went into floral meltdown this year and surpassed its' previous efforts, our tiny garden continues to shoot forth nibbly little shoots of this and that, the birdsong this year is amazing, the blossom incredible, and also May-time has to be one of the loveliest months of the year - that gauzy film of fine young leaves just starting to really cover the trees in a gentle veil of green always stops me in my tracks with its' beauty. Springtime in the UK this year in particular has been a total cracker, the weekday walk between Balfron and Killearn is full of magic at this time of year.

...and meanwhile out of the garden and taking a walk between villages...

And of course the magic of the fairy tale existence with Gravel-Guy continues. I don't know how he does it, but there is always a little something that he brings to our relationship that surprises and intrigues me. I choose the terms "surprise" and "intrigue" as words such as "bafflement" or "irritation" sound much less appreciative of his special skill set and I do realise that it sounds like I am perpetually carping on about him and his little ways (that is because I am). This week I have noticed little seed/crumb trails - much like Hansel and Gretel venturing into the forest and leaving behind them a little trail to find their way out, Gravel-Guy leaves a crunchy mix behind, however unlike Hansel and Gretel there are no birds in our house to peck up the mess or hide his comings and goings. So fairy tale yes, but the WRONG fairy tale no one is about to rescue me from this mess of a house. I notice this very much when I get down on my hands and knees for any reason (newly discovered yoga) and discover the shooting pain of a particularly sharp (sourdough?) crumb. To be fair the other week he did make me a whole orange/almond birthday cake which was a success, he almost followed the recipe even and is now (still) basking in the glory of it working the way it was intended. Having made it once, he thinks he can vary it a little next time from the "using up of easy peelers that might be on the turn" to other citrus, he is contemplating the notion of grapefruit the way an artist contemplates their next great work - that's what a single shot of success can do to him. That's what I live with, am I a saint or am I a saint?

As for actual birthday - meh, never been fussed and this was like any other day, I did slightly succumb to a splurge of online purchasing (Carluccios reduced price pannetone - I can offer no resistance to the fluffy loveliness of those heavenly bodies, SpaceNK and Sanareva - yes, I am a complete sucker for skincare despite looking exactly like me) and of course a little knitting yarn...  I had to check out a new indie publisher (Pereine). All that is trundling towards me. But yeah, SpaceNK is a guilty pleasure and Sanareva is a new online find - they send the type of skincare products you find in French pharmacies, and they come from France... This all despite my protestations that I am not a material type person - obviously I am as I went rather wibbly at the sight of some retro looking barkcloth type fabric that will make a couple of bread bags to contain Gravel-guys bread loaf obsession and maybe hold a few crumbs. Of course it wont contain anything if the fabric just gets added to the pile of grand ideas and good intentions...

Crush life with Gravel-guy

I feel I have to share something, maybe you will judge me, but anyway... I am in love with Slav, very - very in love. I have that giddy anticipation when I know I will be seeing him, I love his twinkly smile and his shaven head/beardy slightly hip older guy thing going on, he makes me feel young and girlish and fluttery of heart. The Slav-thing is all very shiny-new and very, very precious to me. Just to clarify, Slav is NOT Gravel-guy, who knew one could find love later in life with such intensity and passion?  This has blindsided me and is not something I would ever have expected of myself. 

I know it is a bit wrong, but Slav meets needs that Gravel-guy doesn't - and doesn't even care to try and fulfill after such a long marriage (I was figuring this out the other night - 20-something? 20-eleven actually). Slav is my (MY) DPD driver. Now I am aware there is probably a Mrs or Mr Slav out there, maybe some cute little Slav-ettes, I don't care - I don't want that aspect of him. What I get from him more than meets my needs and I am happy to share. If Mrs/Mr Slav has to pick his pubes from the shower I will never know (a task VERY much on my mind at the moment during lockdown), if he stands at the back door chomping his museli in a loud and very irritating way, then that too will forever be a mystery. I love Slav - what he brings to the relationship is stuff, stuff on time and that I want - OK, I have paid for it, but Slav appears and puts it down carefully on the doormat, gives me his adorable Slav-smile and says pleasantries in full sentences and LEAVES. How perfect is that. I know it is a little wrong but Gravel-guy doesn't bring stuff like wine (oh yes) or wool, and as I have mentioned - once Slav has delivered - he goes, how can I labour that point and emphasize how lovely that is? He turns around and goes back to Slav-world. I don't want to sound like all I am doing is perusing Trouva in order to bring Slav close to me, as honestly I am not - the infrequency of Slav-visitations are what keeps the magic so special.

Sighhhhh in contrast, Gravel-guy is very much in residence. Life, and the contents of our house seem to swirl around Gravel-guy in some sort of mysterious orbit - much like comet trails get bent out of shape by the dark forces of black holes and other things I do not quite understand, things happen around Trev. Things seem to be happening to the inanimate within our house that are apparently beyond control, it is all very twilight zone. I bet Slav doesn't have that sort of thing going on in HIS house. The tea jar is now chipped, mugs are chipped, bowls that have been stacked in the cupboard are chipped, utensils are in the drawers but in the wrong place and not quite as clean as I like them... a favourite tea towel has scorch holes in it, and a wine glass has completely disappeared (I know it was left on the bench but now it has gone completely). It all feels a bit smeary and unkempt, there are crumbs, there are swipe marks on the bench, there is jam on cupboard doors... I have seen the way Slav handles my parcels - I KNOW he wouldn't hurl mugs into a cupboard and assume that they can sit in a higgeldy heap without mishap.

I realise I like to have my favourite (comfort) belongings to the fore, my tea bitch mug from the daughter, a bowl I bought on travels that always makes me happy when I have sliced tomatoes into it... but I don't like them chipped by the mark-of-Trev (Gravel-guy). Yes, so much is going horribly pear-shaped in the world and I am worried about a favourite mug getting a little bent or an unidentified sticky bit when I rest my arm on a surface. So do I hide the favourite mug (and still risk it being bashed about in the cupboard) or use it??? I use it. I use it, and sometimes I lose it and get a bit snippy at Gravel-guy and his hamfisted ways. I don't think I could get cross at Slav. In case you wonder, yes Gravel-guy knows. Gravel-guy thinks my (many) declarations of how gorgeous Slav is are just a whim and it isn't serious - but the other day when non-Slav delivered... I was gutted.

Gravel-guy and I are becoming a little jaded with each other and on a bit of a territory battle, Slav doesn't look like he takes up much space - Gravel-guy uses laptop cables and his blue fleece to claim plum position, I retaliate with knitting and stitching projects scattered about. He sighs and ups the stakes by going for his daily run and reappearing with a man-miasma of old-stinky-maleness that leaves me gagging (I have never inhaled Slav - maybe he stands too far away but non stinky males are very attractive to me right now), so I break out the scented diffusers and assorted tubes of hand lotion and bring in a couple of hyacinth that make Gravel-guy sneeze. He appeared in the bedroom the other day with a flatpack desk - by hokey it is a hideous piece of white and wibbly MDF. I know I cannot trump that - BUT it gives me the right to express moral outrage (many of MY belongings are in that lockup in Kirkintilloch, things such as vital recipe books etc... and he has brought in that?) that awful thing is now taking up the place-where-the-ironing-board-goes and if he EVER dares criticise my bringing back a small plant or some slight shopping to his flat in Uxbridge, before squirrelling it back to Glasgow then he is legally toast and has no right of reply or comment. I am very, very not-pleased with Gravel-guy. The white desk was delivered by another delivery company - I KNEW my Slav wouldn't do that to me.

We are pretty much over the relief at seeing the other one currently safe, we are now into the slightly cranky phase of just seeing each other, every day. EVERYwhere.

He has now also noticed I get a bit or erm, postage... but he appears unfazed by Slav in fact he seems almost relieved to share some sort of burden.

Rules of (dis)engagement and food, food as an obsession and all consuming "thing"

I tried to go back to work this week - cue, a furtive meeting with the boss's boss's boss in a supermarket carpark on Wednesday when she carefully put my laptop/work backpack down and stepped away and then I carefully stepped forward and retrieved it. I gave her a small artichoke plant in return. She has had the virus, said it was awful but is now back in the swing of things. That meant I could now get into our systems and folders and use the software and get up to speed on what is happening. However, Thursday brought a skype meeting with 5 colleagues and the boss, I couldn't do it. The GP has signed me off for four weeks, so here I am at home wondering what I can do that is useful to others, so in the mean time I tend the plant children on the window ledges.

Plant children - probably sick of me

To be honest there is relief and a guilt all in one - I want to be working, I am good at my job but the sight of the boss and his emails telling me how overloaded everyone was and how I needed to now "step up" and he wanted a letter detailing exactly what I am capable of wasn't helpful. After emailing the colleagues to see what they are doing and where I could be doing things, part of me knows that he is talking mince - they are essentially sitting on their hands waiting for someone to get their act together (him) and organise some work if it comes, things are very quiet, all standard work has been ceased. People have taken their cars for MOTs, done their big supermarket shops, done their daily exercise during work times. I still feel like I should be doing something but the GP said nope. Personally I think most of my problem relates to him but maybe that is unfair.

So I feel like I am floating - disengaged, and as everyone is disengaged maybe I am now disengaged from disengagement, where are the rules and little rituals for that to add order and routine to the day or the week?

Lockdown with Gravel-guy is proving interesting, have we both changed so much in the six months since he moved down to London or has he always been like this? I suspect a bit of each. For instance food: I'm your veg and fruit eater, he eats museli. If the fruit or veg is a bit ding-itty I will find a way around that but he won't. I grew up being made to eat apples where the codlin moth had been there first - we just got a knife and sculpted our way around the little tunnels. Mother refused to waste food and it's still a habit - not much gets past me or my little compost heap, and mum always maintained the codlin moth knew exactly which were the tastiest apples to go for - it took me years to realise this couldn't have even a kernal of truth, as the moth are laid as eggs well before the apples develop. I feel if something has been grown, then we should pay respect to Papa (mother earth) and the plants/animals and the people who made it all happen.

I eat the hummus and corncakes, he eats lots of bread - lots of bread. When we did the supermarket shop I gave him a huge list whilst I retrieved the work laptop, "...focus on vegetables" I said. He came out swinging a bag of purple bread rolls aloft the rest of his shopping. "Vegetable?" I queried, "Yes!" he exclaimed - the bread had beetroot, sultanas and rosemary in them. I have to admit that if he eats the bread then I am naturally drawn to whatever it is being eaten - in truth I am very much a social eater and my natural inclinations get skewed. Personally I could eat dhal and greens forever, he can go three days of dhal before he starts to break, I love anything with greens, his default button is "bacon sandwich" I'm not sure I could live without greens, to him they are just green. I hadn't really thought about how different we are in terms of most things until he moved to his own weekday flat. No longer am I offered a flaccid bacon sandwich on strange types of bread with berries (grains rather than berries for me thanks) whilst he is away, and he no doubt is delighted NOT to be offered a cup of tea every five minutes or asked what we might have for dinner before breakfast is out of the way.

... a few recipe books not in the lockup, "Leaf" is a new treasure, it looks mighty and I am very excited by it

Am I becoming food obsessed? No - maybe a little more than usual, but I love food - it fascinates me and in my family we were always very up for endless food discussions. Food and its colours and textures and of course its flavour is an endless source of interest in my family. Sadly most of my favourite recipe / foodbooks have been in lockdown even longer than I have - they went into a lockup in Kirkintilloch 6 months ago as a temporary measure whilst we got around to moving house (not happening soon and no, lockdown cannot be blamed for this, the other half deals in geological time - I may be waiting millions of years for movement from him). I have a few (very few) recipe books on my bookshelves and maybe a couple ordered from Amazon (cough, non essential items - bad). My mother and her siblings were desperately competitive over what they grew: Harry grew radishes - better than anyone I know, he had endless varieties from the humble French Breakfast for breakfast or snacking on down the garden, through to nuclear reactor types no one had heard of, to enormous Chinese varieties and elegant Japanese beauties, we are very much a radish clan. Alec (the smart one in the family) grew vegetables no one knew what they were, he had spaghetti squash as a staple well before anyone else heard of it. Scorzonera? of course - and how many varieties of the heavenly Kiwi yam (oca) would you like? He also had the engineer's curiosity of how to make things happen; so he had raised beds, no-dig beds, hydroponics... Mother (the eldest and very pragmatic) grew more traditional fruit and veg - large self sufficient quantities on our standard suburban plot, then she bottled and jammed, froze, pickled, preserved and swapped - she did the vegetable/fruit equivalent of nose to tail, nothing wasted and encyclopedic about preserving and growing and planting what next to the other and rotating crops and when things might happen. She knew when the asparagus was sending forth its first dainty, delectable sprue and which tiny shoots to pick to keep the filmy elegant forest of plants growing happily in their corner of the garden for the coming year gathering strength. So extended family get-togethers were dominated by food - when cheesecake arrived in New Zealand as a "thing" and the family were curiously discussing it, Aunty Wendy produced a home made blackcurrant cheesecake with a flourish as she was an avid forecaster of future foody trends. Aunty June lived on a farm up the back of Awatere in the utter-est sunbleached middle of nowhere, she was the family baker and maker of cheese or anything others would get from the grocer - her baked goods were on another level. Food obsessed? Yes, always.   

I am gradually letting go with some of the cooking - Gravel-guy made a rhubarb clafouti using the first rhubarb from our very small garden, the recipe wasn't strictly adhered to - we can't pop out for the double cream or the whole milk required, so he used single cream and yoghurt instead, the blood oranges replaced with slightly wonky easy peeler clementines. It was very rhubarby and quite lovely and had a seductive wobble just like it should.

rhubarb clafouti

Gravel-guy is therefore slowly becoming more engaged in food - he sees it primarily as fuel. His parents are both indifferent cooks, his dad had an allotment but really food was just cooked and eaten, no pleasure or gratitude to the cook or the grower, it was just a chore to be done. That attitude fascinates me - surely a plate of food placed in front of you deserves thanks, a polite "delicious" and acknowledgement of the efforts taken as a bare minimum...

Every now and then he will humour me and talk a little about food, in fact we had a tinned vegetable conversation last night; pondering deeply how our lives have shrunk got me wondering, what is one's favourite tinned vegetable (excluding tomatoes)? Gravel-guy paused in his chewing and thought very hard, eventually he offered "mushy peas?". I have to admit I had not encountered mushy peas until I came to the UK and met his family, mushy peas still slightly bewilder/frighten/worry me. They are green, a slightly glowing green, and mushy. I am not sure what, if anything they taste of, they concern me as I can almost hear my mother wondering if I really should be putting that strange thing in my mouth. Now pease pudding made from split peas I understand - a stolid honey coloured block of split pea, that falls from an upended tin with a satisfying "Whomp!" and a slight popping of air vaccum - they are a great emergency cupboard staple that can be transformed into a dhal or lentil soup, those I understood as soon as I arrived in Britain. But mushy peas? You think because you have been married to someone for thirty one years that you mostly know them - I guess not so much. Give me a tin of salsify (hard to get, but available online), or tinned artichoke - heavenly.

Gravel-guy being a very fit runner likes great hulking portions of stodge, he grew up with leek puddin' and  dumplings bobbing about in grey, greasy looking stew - his family like that sort of thing, quite frankly not much foodwise turns my stomach, but that does. But, as I am that social eater, if Gravel-guy is eating, then I tend to match him - not good as I am much more sedentary. I really need to refocus - but the lack of just wandering past a shop and checking for a "spare" romaine or reduced raspberries isn't going to be happening for a while, I need to adjust. I will adjust, and when this is all over I will be that bit more grateful for what I took for granted.

Things that were a bit slapdash because I got home from work about 6.30ish (and the evening is precious), now have time and effort devoted to them, tearing up leaves for a salad - now has me pottering around our tiny garden looking for the first edible leaves of sorrel, rainbow chard, fennel or hyssop or others to add to the carefully hoarded lettuce type leaves we bought most recently. I have a greedy interest in things sprouting forth and balance has to be weighed between pouncing on fresh young fronds or sustaining and letting something grow. This being Scotland (and cold) all the green goodness takes a while to get going, patience is not my natural "thing".

All this time devoted to food has its down sides, I have resolved to wear the tightest fitting trousers I have at least every week - I have recently bought a pair of trousers from Saint and Sofia that are quite the opposite of this, they are a light and stretchy jersey fabric and feel lovely; however, light and lovely jersey fabric that floats and wafts about the form is no indicator of the porkiness that could easily creep up on me. Exercise - every day, get out do something, anything, acknowledge the season and the beginnings out there. Finish some stitch projects (there is quite some selection), knitting and embroidery both have WIPs (euphemistically termed work-in-progress, rather than I never-want-to-knit-another-stitch as they look grim) ok, they won't help with burning the calories, but they will keep my hands and mind busy in other directions. But we have to build ourselves up from where we are.

Kew - before lockdown

Kew, it is my favourite place in the northern hemisphere, and I have many favourite places here - a good many are wool shops or places with Yvonne or museums or art galleries or sundrenched little towns somewhere-in-Europe...  thankfully Kew is still open the day I plan to visit (it has since shut due to Covid-19). I have to admit I feel rather pleased with myself that I caught the 427 bus from Gravel-guys flat in Uxbridge to Ealing Common Broadway and the 65 Kingston bus all the way to Kew and Victoria Gate without mishap. That is some achievement - in my addled frame of mind I am not the most observant person, but 427 basically tips people off at the subway, and the 65 bus collects people up from the subway. The vague-ish plans with Yvonne are on hold until another time, that's OK - I'd rather my darling partner in knit-crime is safe and well and fighting fit for more knitting/tea related adventures another day.

I get to Kew just after 10.00 and it is not as glorious as yesterday when we went to Bath, the clouds have made the sky a bit more overcast, but it is still a lovely spring-weather type day. Kew is quiet, but the young woman behind the glass at the entrance says it might be the "virus thing" it is her first full day on the job and she is very chatty, we talk about the recent orchid exhibition, we talk about where she is from (Hong Kong - on my list to visit, but don't go there right now she says and she says the gardens are getting lovelier and lovelier at this time of year, it is all very exciting...).

The gardens ARE lovely, I haven't many words to explain how much this place means to me or the space to breathe, or the balm to the soul they offer, just photos...

Life before virus

Gravel-guy decides we can drive down to Uxbridge on Sunday, Sunday is fine by me as long as Number.1 child is fine then I am fine, he is left with instructions to email his adoring mother once a day, a Sainsburys order arriving and some cash for his emergencies. We drive the whole way in silence - normally I sit and chirp away and Gravel-guy grips the wheel ever tighter and just glowers ahead. I'm mute, I have nothing to say. Gravel-guy is relatively subdued - I don't think even he has the energy for constant enthusiasm. 8 hours later we arrive at his little flat, another dinner of scrambled egg and tomato.

Monday: I expect him to trundle off to work, but he reminds me that he has the day off and we are heading out. I have no idea where we are going but I am perfectly happy to comply with whatever plan he has as my head is totally empty, I have managed to make vague plans with Yvonne but really my head is empty and not even enough in there for rattling, I am ok with that as often it is buzzing with cogs whirring and cuckoo clock birds squawking and alarms in there going off, inside my head feels like a factory shut down. The day is one of those beautiful bright early spring days - there is some warmth to the air but the breeze is still a bit nippy. We drive, we drive for ages, we pass Stonehenge - Stonehenge!!! and I have no idea where we might be going but it transpires once we get there that we are having a day trip to Bath.

Where are we going???

THE Baths...

This is actually very sweet of Gravel-guy as he knows I love old things, I love ruin-y things, I love Roman things, I love British towns and I love bumbling about, and for once he isn't inclined to frogmarch me up to the highest point and then on a circuitous route through sticky mud and off into wilderness - which can have its own charms (well apart from mud - I refuse to like mud, I think that is natures way of say Stop! go and have a cup of tea). Nope we are in Bath and park in a fairly quiet car park with stairwells smelling of pee but is pretty central.

Gravel-guy heads towards the baths and right next to them finds a lovely little cafe for flat white and lunch - this is most unlike Gravel-guy as he normally has quite an old-fashioned Calvinist obsession with walk first and then sandwich next and preferably not an enjoyable sandwich. We sit outside admiring the baths while we eat a focaccia stuffed with salad and hummus and drink a flat white each, this really isn't what Gravel-guy would normally plump for but it is lovely, the daughter would like this probably - but she is a coeliac with a lactose intolerance so would have to just sit and approve, but she would like the fact it isn't home-brought sandwich and generic white coffee in a paper cup and it is cute and hipster.

Gravel-guy decides we should "do" the baths, I can hardly believe my ears, he is in fact quite enthusiastic about this which is incredible as normally he would be muttering with barely suppressed fury about tourists, bloody waste of time and looking hopefully for geological errors in the displays and he most certainly WOULD NOT want one of those little headphone thingys to hang about your neck and tell you about the finds. He ushers me in, collects headphones, drapes one over my neck and toddles off... normally I can't get rid of him as he sighs and fidgets and mutters and rolls his eyes at my camera and hops up and down, but he has retreated a discrete distance and is now positively entranced in his headphone thingy.

A pretty side pool

The baths are quite lovely, the final pool we throw a coin in to remember Simon who loved all things water and wander out into the bright and almost warm sunshine. Gravel-guy suggests we go look at the famous crescent, pretty. 

Lovely but also slightly creepy to my eyes, so uniform, so close, so....

We finish with a brief sortie to the Cathedral - currently undergoing a lot of very loud, stone-walloping restoration, there are clangs and kerthumpings and a great deal of noise with a large part of it partitioned off but the ceiling is extraordinary - it is like the skeleton of a leaf. Light and delicate and exquisite and it has Howard. Howard is a local cleric and just a delight, he beams with happiness that we have found the cathedral and apologises for the mess but then explains in great detail and with great enthusiasm about the thermal waters being diverted to help heat the Cathedral (20 percent of their capacity is taken up with heating the famous baths, this will take another 20 percent and that leaves plenty), the lack of any support under the flagstones, the lack of church yard meaning people were buried within the Cathedral and how people jostled and chivvied other memorial stones to make space for their loved ones memorial stones. Howard is just delicious, the Cathedral is essentially a giant building site but if you are passing Bath, say hello to Howard or offer a wee prayer for him and their community there if you are the praying kind.

Bath Cathedral ceiling

I admit I found Bath fascinating in a bemused kind of way - Jane Austen was reported to have disliked it rather a lot, has time mellowed the stone and the overwhelming conformity of the buildings to something rather sweet and safe? Maybe it was the Cumbernauld of its day and a brash and over-planned blight of its time. Gravel-guy decides after a brief look at the famous bridge we need to move the car and head back, on the way we pass Victoria Park and the Art Gallery that is exhibiting Grayson Perry and "The pre-therapy years" that will have to wait for another time...

The news on the way back has a special announcement from the Prime Minister, COVID-19 is now a thing in the UK - people should not panic but pubs and clubs will need to shut, everything is under control and there is no need for alarm, just a minor bit of inconvenience to be expected for the time being - but really all is under control.

From cinders we go up

First Friday - I wake up and actually felt even worse than how I felt the day before. I am a complete tool, an utter fecking plonker and the worse sort of pathetic waste of space that ever lived because I realise that when I fled from the tiny meeting room yesterday as the walls were closing in and the air pressure was squeezing us to death, I didn't grab my work-wifey or other-favourite-colleague. Essentially I am an unutterable piece of crapness of the worst possible kind as I ran first and never thought to save either of them, her or him. That is a total sick-making thought. The thought of being unable to do my job as I am useless is a minor thought compared to that.

Essentially now I have no idea what to do with my day - I am off but not on holiday, I am off but not sick, I am off - what do I actually do? 7.30 I begin assembling something in the slow cooker, I have no idea what it is, but gravel-guy is due home tonight and will be even more grumpy and tired than usual, so I figure I can do a practical thing like make us dinner. THEN I am going to get myself pulled together and right back on track - this is nonsense, why am I such an idiot and why the hell am I crying AGAIN? So I play the carrot game (if I do those things I don't want to do, I will reward myself with "this" - normally at work that involves scratching away at newsprint print outs with a special colour of highlighter, lilac is a particular treat for no reason), but as I am at home and not working I will catch the 9.46 bus out of Balfron, that is my carrot. I will make myself go out, I open up the lap top and the email and begin an email to HR and copy in the work-wifey in case she thinks I should have calmed down and be back in the office. I specifically mention I don't want any contact with the rest of the team including the manager. I can't actually bring myself to copy in the line manager - every time I start typing his name I start shaking and crying. Literally I seem unable to cope with the idea of any contact with him and after 10 minutes of shaking and worrying over the wording in case it is somehow wrong, very wrong I send it off and a few minutes later I get a really nice reply from HR guy (who is a really sweet grouch), it is a nice response but that sets off more snivelling, again, for no particular reason as this is quite possibly a generic email sent to anyone but it seems way nicer than I deserve. HR guy wants to also know why I don't want line manager involved at this stage and that seems incredibly hard to explain, but deep breathing and telling myself to get a grip gets me sending a response - I can't face the line manager, I simply can't. End of.

But I really must get a grip - being gripless is not me. I am little Miss Grippity that is who I am. The GP said go out do nice things, take time to just be you. Nonplussed. I decide to tackle this in the third person as if I was coming up about things "Juliet" might consider - what are generic nice things that could be suggested? I/we arrange a hair appointment and a facial for Juliet for next week, exhausted for no reason whatsoever I reward myself with that bus trip, Juliet seems a bit of a problem-child to be honest and a bit of a simpleton who cannot figure out what she might like herself.

The bus trip is good - as I stand at the bus stop, my favourite bus driver appears as it is shift handover. He gives me his big smiley, smile and I ask him how his day panned out yesterday (he was driving our bus into Glasgow which was 40 minutes late as it had broken down) and he laughs and says as I was catching his bus yesterday, that made it bearable and I reply I am his number one bus fan/stalker. Evidently I can still make chitter-chatter and pass as normal in brief spurts between the uncontrollable snivelling. Once I am on the bus however I realise I have a bit of a quandary - I have no clue where I want to go, I have no plan and Juliet has no clue either - I always have some plan, even if I don't follow it, I usually don't follow it. Mulling things over and all things considered I figure I will get off in Milngavie, going all the way into town is probably not the right thing to attempt at this stage and I particularly do not want to go down past our office. Milngavie it is, and a tour of supermarkets (Waitrose and Tesco) are also my plan, now I have a plan I am very relieved. I get off at the station and wander down to Waitrose first, it is full of the well heeled and that time of day, the slow moving. Waitrose posh as it is, is where one can score the best range of hoummous and the widest range of tofu, I refuse to be judged on this. I emerge into the cold sunshine with smoked hoummous, basil tofu and a dog-tooth violet in my shopping bag and head off to Tesco, shopping done, the favourite bus driver collects me on the way back to Balfron.

"You really are my favourite bus driver" I tell him

"I better bloody be" he says - "I see more of you than my other half" he says

"I only have eyes for you and you alone"

"Well I'm probably the only one you've seen lately"

"Just as well you are not my second favourite then"

"I can only fecking hope" he grins at me

Chitter-chatter in small bursts seems to be working OK then but I am utterly knackered by the time I get off the bus and find I have a text from gravel-guy to say his train is cancelled and he will be home midnightish.

Now here's the thing, I don't fall apart - this is not me. I am the coper, the one that copes - its what I do. If its what I do then presumably that is what I am and right now I cannot cope, it is like I have ceased to be me. If I am not me - then am I someone else or as the phrase goes, maybe an actual waste of space? But yeah, I cope - I cope with crap. I find a way through or around crap, its what I do and it's who I am - there is always a solution, I can generally make a joke or find a way and I can generally gee people up and I am a pretty convincing person at making others believe they can do this, I am quite the office cheerleader if I notice someone wilting. Essentially I am a complete and utter liar and I had no idea.

I unpack the shopping and realise poor little plant has had one of its pretty flowers lopped off whilst in my shopping bag, I can' t even get it home and start plant-parenting before it's hurt. Shit.

Gravel-guy arrives home earlier than expected - 11.30 cue more snottering. The train shot past them in Birmingham - there was just a whizzing of train and people standing inside the train at the doors waiting to get off, I wonder where those Birmingham bound people ended up. Gravel-guy says he is sure it is menopause, he has heard about this he says with great authority - that's one down side of menopause now being talked about, people who know crap all about "this sort of thing" now feel free to express uninformed nonsense and I have been reduced to a faulty baggage of chemicals. I actually haven't got the energy to discuss.

 

WEEKEND

Saturday: Gravel-guy is unnaturally enthusiastic, about everything. We get up, this is met with enthusiasm - he is not naturally excited by mornings, breakfast over he needs a new hand drill - we have umpteen hand drills in the cellar, we cannot get into most of the cellar but we have umpteen in there, we must go out! he declares. So we do. Hand drills are passe - no one stocks hand drills, he flips manically through pages of instore catalogues (use the bloody index), then flips equally manically back. No hand drills. His enthusiasm continues through Stirling's Tesco - what fruit might we want he wonders aloud and dives excitedly at the clementines, we have a fruit bowl of clementines but I am not for arguing I am almost torporific - over snivelled and somewhat dehydrated and plain old deflated so I just shamble after him like an elderly toddler, mute. Back home he pours excitement into making bacon sandwiches "whats brown but isn't heavy?" he demands suddenly "Light brown!" and he cackles delightedly at his dad-joke.

Sunday: he takes his unnatural enthusiasm for a long run, this is a great relief as really three people in our little house feels overwhelming, that is Hughie the spore-child/Nr.1 child who rarely speaks, Gravel-guy and myself. Hughie disappears towards the corner shop and reappears with a large bag of wotsits that are left on the bench. Normally a wotsit will be pounced on, but I can't muster the enthusiasm or appetite so I've hidden them in the cupboard of dusters and kitchen equipment that is never used so he will think they have been eaten, it is a very sweet thought on his part, but that's the best I can quite manage. I spend the afternoon trying to cast on and knit a cardigan - in my head before all this happened I imagined a bright zingy cardigan of teal with a mainly navy and magenta traditional round yoke pattern and it all seemed splendid. Now I think it might be utter pants, but I solder on - very, very slowly until I am too tired to even hold the needles and toddle off for a nana nap.

 

FIRST WEEK

Monday: Gravel-guy leaves with the firm exhortation to be fine, he will come back on Friday and we will head down to his flat - I can do Kew he says and then museums and wander about, that is what I need he says quite firmly. I have the facial appointment in John Lewis. Gravel-guy parks at the botanic so I can walk in from the West End and I'm doing fine as I trot along Great Western road and zig-zag over into Sauchiehall street, I get the jitters crossing West Nile street but I purposely don't look down towards the office and head determinedly to Buchanan Galleries. Once inside and checking the appointment I realise it is for 9.30 and John Lewis opens at 9.30 - so that immediately worries me as turning up late is NOT my thing, more jitters as I contemplate if turning up at 9.31 or even 9.32 counts as being late for the appointment. The therapist guides me into her little room and settles me on the bed and asks about my "concerns" honestly right now everything concerns me so I presume she asks about skin, only I start crying for no reason - not the big snorting/gasping sobs with mucus but the shallow breath oozey/leaking sort of thing. I manage to explain I have had a bit of stress/anxiety and to ignore the oozing/leakage and she is fabulous. I emerge with buttery soft skin, looking great for a ninety year old and ready to head down Buchanan Street to find my replacement for a beloved baggy navy cardigan I nuked on an extra hot wash when I did the bedding last week.

Buchanan street entails a quick 5 minute walk down to Cos where I know the new cardigan waits, however first I have to post the sickness form - the post office is in West Nile street, shit. West Nile street but nowhere near work, so it will be fine - I manage as far as the Post Office and post the letter but have the shakes coming out and scuttle back to the relative safety of Buchanan street and start my walk down. Somewhere I hear fire engines, it is only when I get to crossing at Nelson Mandala place I realise our office building is having a fire alarm and they are all steadily congregating in Nelson Mandala place, shit oh utter shit and shit again and maybe even shit on a stick, this is just horrific and I am not even sure why. Is there such a thing as colleague phobia? I wonder what it is even called if it exists but this is not good. I want to run but my legs kind of want to tangle up underneath me, I make it to Cos but I am so shaken that I enter 5 digits twice when I try to pay - numpkin, it's four digits. Heading back up to the bus stop I take the next street over again and walk up Queen street. By the time I am on the 12.10 bus I have probably said less than 50 words all morning and I am totally done.

In Maryhill a wee local ned gets on and seems rather taken with a very elegant black woman sitting near the front.

"I know your sister", he says "but you are younger and prettier." an unusual chat-up line but you never know your luck

"Hmmmm...." she replies uncertainly, "I have a brother..."

"Well there you are - you are definitely more girly."

She gets off at the next stop and stands looking rather uncertain as to where she is while the bus pulls away.

Tuesday: I get the haircut and then I sleep, the whole day disappears. Wednesday I arrange to meet a friend ironically also off work for a walk around the local reservoir, of course I'll be there she says but she's even later than the X10 bus, a little while later she sends a message to say she has parked and she will catch me up and then a little later another message to say she has had a moment and left. I think I am better on my own at the reservoir anyway as I don't have to make conversation and or peopling. I am feeling decidedly over-peopled and slightly pissed-off-but-not-surprised that she bailed. Unless you lay a trail of M&Ms in front of this particular friend then she doesn't necessarily appear, she will send endless text messages offering to be there no matter what if you need to talk but I don't like phones/text messages/phone calls etc etc so really endless texts are not helpful. I am much better wandering about by myself. Selfishly I don't want to be propping her up.

Thursday I wake about 7.00 and walk to Killearn the next village and back - about and hour and a half then sit the rest of the day looking at my knitting of cardigan, what should have been bright and zingy is quite eye-bleedingly awful but I manage to knit 3 more rows and then I sleep.

Friday I go back to the GP for my follow up, I am flat but also somewhat shaky and snivelly all together. It is a different GP from any of the ones I have ever encountered and she realizes I am very anxious about that as well as anything and everything, she firmly prints off a sickline for 2 more weeks and then gently persuades me to accept a prescription for 6 diazepam - 6 wont be addictive she says, but they are there if it is overwhelming. I am exhausted and go home to sit and look at my knitting.

Gravel-guy appears at the unnaturally early hour of 7.00pm and is even more enthusiastic than he was last weekend - is that last weekend it feels like this weekend but also at the same time forever ago. He makes my childhood favourite dinner of scrambled egg and tomato. We are heading off down to London tomorrow and I can stay for the two weeks I am signed off, I think he has decided to keep an eye on me. Number 1 child (the spore creature) has promised to stay in touch every day and he will water the plants and take delivery of a new plant child arriving imminently. Gravel-guy is delighted that is all quite sorted.

Crash and burn

Things are not currently going well and I have been signed off work...

A bit of backstory, I have been working on a longish running project - it is at the hard grind stage, the very hard and mind-numbing miserable hard grind stage. This particular stage of these projects used to be done by a group, the group couldn't/wouldn't do the work, so as a temporary backstop until we could figured out a different plan - our team picked it up, we picked it up on the promise we could have designated time for that work alone and other tasks would be lifted, they have never been lifted. One person now did the hard grind a team of 12-15 people wouldn't/couldn't for each project along with their normal job, there was a temporary reprieve at one stage when another team got involved but they didn't like the mind-numbing miserable hard grind stage either and made such a fuss and being a grade above us that they had the mind-numbing miserable hard grind stages taken off them and we had to work even harder to catch up but it got a temp in their team a permanent job at our organisation. But this mind-numbing miserable hard grind stage was all a temporary measure until someone could figure out who could/would do it instead of us and that was in 2010.

Still for 6-9 months of each project we could comfort ourselves that as the team running the actual projects are pretty inept in many ways we got down time between these mind-numbing miserable hard grind stages when we could do other projects and other work, and that was enough to keep us chugging along in our fashion. We NEED that down time - the hard grind miserable and mind numbing work is also currently coupled with issues as to how the other team run their parts of the project, they need to order and track a lot of journal papers for us to appraise and extract data from and this consistently falls down and impacts us, it is stressful on it's own.

So cue about 3 weeks ago when we were called into our managers office to be told there was a new plan, instead of downtime between these long projects and their mind-numbing miserable hard grind stages we would start a new one right on the tail of the current one and in fact with some overlap and carry on with our other tasks as well. Well didn't we squeal - we have been logging and complaining for months about our work load, we have been complaining and logging for months about the stress of the other team not doing their process. We were told that it was unfortunate on so many levels - basically the other team forgot to factor in who does our work or if anyone was available but they had appointed their external group members now so no going back and it was a once-r. So bearing in mind our mind-numbing miserable hard grind stage was also a once-r and that was 10 years ago, the two of us most involved in the work were sent back to our desks in a very unhappy state, but happy in the knowledge that as the work flow "may" be impacted by overlap and timing then it could be put on the mythical "risk register" where problems go to sit until someone higher up feels like discussing them. We were in such an unhappy state that we spent the next week kvetching and bumping our grumpy little gums over this issue until this Monday when we were called aside.

The manager of our managers manager who sits next to me had made a formal complaint down through the line of command - our behaviours were not in line with our organisations of policy on "values and behaviour" and respecting other, we were to stop complaining in case it brought other people down and this could be counted as a formal strike. Not even slightly happy. A formal complaint - not a telling us to zip it or even asking us what the hell were we moaning about THIS time, a formal reprimand.

Cue Thursday, we have an update meeting every week in our small team to check progress which started normally enough until I made the mistake of asking what actually happens when something makes it to the risk register... The team manager got quite energised about labouring the point that our "issue" hadn't made it to the risk register yet, it might - but only it just MIGHT... Being a bit bemused and still not feeling answered despite him repeating this many times I felt compelled to ask "but what does the risk register mean? what does it mean for either the project or the people??" which I admit was a big mistake as he started repeating again that "our" issue was NOT on the risk register yet but it might get on there. So as he started repeating this several times over and people eyes started rolling their eyes and glaring at me as that was going to slow the meeting and haven't we got enough work to do already, already... I realised the walls of the tiny meeting room were bending inwards and they were getting more and more convex as he spoke and I actually couldn't hear him, at the same time the air pressure began to build like a giant pressure cooker and I was getting smaller and smaller but also floating, until something inside my head just went "ping" and somehow I got up and fled.

I am in the ladies loos hiding in a cubicle struggling to breathe and bawling my eyes out and unable to breathe or stand and essentially reduced to a complete gibbering puddle. The work-wifey appears with another trusted colleague from a different team and they scrape me out into the open area of the ladies. Together they work on getting me to breathe and just calm down a bit, one goes and collects my bag/coat, they haul me off the wall I am slumped against and together they take me down in the lift and to the nearest Starbucks while they decide what needs done. The upshot is they decide I need an emergency GP appointment, I need to be away from the office and I need to be somewhere safe - can I get home on the bus OK? 

The bus ride home is OK, I am pretty much the only person travelling on the 11.10 and can sit and snotter/snivel the hour and quarter home undisturbed and the bus ride is so juddery I can't feel my shaking. I give it half an hour after getting in the house before I try to ring the GP as I figure if I really try, I can stop crying and ask for an appointment like a sensible sort of person. That doesn't work so well, as the receptionist answers the phone I lose it completely and she eventually realises I can't even speak and starts me on more breathing, after what feels like ages of trying to breathe she persuades me to go into the kitchen and get a glass of water for "little sips" only I am shaking so much and in such a state I'm wearing the water but a emergency GP appointment is arranged. I count this as a result it is the one productive thing  seem to have managed today.

The GP clinic is mercifully quiet on a Thursday afternoon - about 3 other people and I only have to wait about 10 minutes before I am called but once I am in the consulting room I am back to being a puddle, for much of it I am an incoherent sobbing wreck, until she says quite firmly "there is no way you can go back there at this time" and writes the letter.

That's more than enough of my current train-wreck week, I am signed off.

January

Well January is normally a month of the doldrums, nothing happens. Except January 2020 has been more interesting than that – I have met Deb, yes that Deb – THE Tasmanian Deb. Exciting or what? as in so exciting I didn’t take any photos, but very exciting never the less, but yes, Deb and I have met. We have known each other off and on for years – I’d hesitate to say it must be nearly 20 but it was an online knitting group and we just chimed – isn’t it funny how there are certain people you connect with and never mind the geographical distance. I’ve met one other knitter from that group and she is someone also very special to me as well so the idea of meeting up is exciting but also nerve-inducing – what if someone you really like and enjoy online doesn’t like you in real life??? Anyway we have met, we had a total blast, we really have so much in common and so much to talk over and it was a total joy. The relief is overwhelming.

hmmm its a map but Tazzy is missing, free stock images don't seem to include Tasmania

My other excitement has been renewing my (New Zealand) passport, the days of sticking everything about you into an envelope and trusting it to the RoyalMail are over – which is great as the feeling of sending your life and everything to confirm you are you away in a small brown envelope was somewhat concerning, now happily it is online so it gets zipped down to New Zealand House in London without you leaving the comfort of your sofa except to hunt bits of your life in the large amorphous mass of “official things that can’t be thrown out” stored in shoe boxes “somewhere”. Anyway because I am skint/tight I figured I’d go for the 10 day service and sent off my form and information on the 7^th of January after I got home and had my tea, the next day just before lunchtime I got an email to say it had been done and with an expected signed-for delivery of Monday the 13^th, except on Friday the 10^th I got ANOTHER message to say – it will be “delivered this afternoon” which is great-not great as I was in the office and the office is an hour and a quarter bus ride that leaves once an hour – cue frantic phone call to DHL and their lovely team and a breakneck run for the 11.10 bus and everything has been sorted. That of course now meant my British Residence Permit must be updated – this is also online but much more scary, you have to prove you have been continuously resident – to do that you upload documents such as bank statements/end of year tax certificates/doctors letters and/or utility bills as well as proof of previous permanent residence permits. EVERYTHING. Once you are suitably uploaded you get a terse and slightly threatening confirmation to bring yourself, your confirmation and ALL your documents to a UKVISA centre and you must book an appointment and you may not bring anyone unless they are an advisor or part of your application. It is all a bit like you are on life's naughty step just for being you.

Will I be deported without my knitting??? Worrying

So my UKVISA appointment was for 2.00pm on the 17^th in a converted warehouse near the motorway down “that” end of town and you MUST turn up at least 15 minutes early and you can pay £75 to get your documents checked or trust the gods of chance to smile upon you. I decide to trust the gods to be nice, but still walking the skeevy bits of Glesga to get to the converted warehouse with ALL my documents (bank statements passports, current residence permit, tax certificates…) felt a little uncomfortable – so much so, I am there 45 minutes early. I have extra tissues in case I start snottering during the “interview” and I have a fully charged phone to send goodbyes as I am marched back on to the boat home, I am prepared and nervous as heck.

In case of snotters actually I am a hanky woman pure and simple

I am to report to room 102/103 only there is no room 102/103, there is room 101/102 and room 103/104, I decide to chance 103/104 and enter to find row upon row of bright plastic chairs, empty and two desks at the front with a boy/child half strangled by his attempts at tying his tie and a man with a wonderful walrus moustache who looks like a throwback to 1980s detective shows, I decide the small boy is suitable to assist me and the less scary option, he confirms I am in the right place and invites me to sit down. He asks for my passport and then takes my photo, my fingerprints and my signature, he checks the passport and hands it back. “All done” he says, “huh?” I ask (always articulate in the face of officialdom), “all done”… “but what about my documents?” I ask, “oh them, they are all verified, you’re done and submitted.”

Those are all my documents

5 minutes tops. I am disappointed by the lack of drama – now all I do is wait.

 

Naturally this level of excitement has slowed my knitting, I finished the “Belle” jumper which is lovely in the book and quite nice on Ravelry, to find it looks hideous – utterly unsuited to me – the neck is too high, the colour change is awful and even though I knitted for my size it looks large and shapeless. I think it goes straight to “donate” rather than “gardening/odd jobs/stuffing about in”. Honestly what the hell was I thinking – I am a total sucker for a woolly-pully but I have many, I actually could do with cardigans but still, for some reason I am lured by a nice knitted sweater pattern. The only other knitting has been a tea cosy – it’s a sweet little retro pattern for a small-ish teapot, only this seems intended for a very small teapot and of course I am running out of the blue yarn just before I finish, pfft. The knitting gods have not been smiling on me this month, so I have stuffed about with some very old patchwork instead – many years ago when the children were very small I started making a random hexagons quilt, only I never quite got around to much in the way of progress so what I did make I re-found and have been forming into 2 cushion fronts instead, it will be fine – nothing fabulous but fine.

A (not much to) show and tell, or how I spent Cheesemas

Annual Christmas road trip up to Loch Fyne for hot smoked salmon

Happy New Year, Christmas is over, we have had a quiet one starting with our traditional excursion up to Loch Fyne to buy smoked salmon for Christmas and to visit the small garden nursery cafe next door - it is not the trendiest or most hipster, but the food is lovely and the women who run it are super friendly. Love this place.

Motoring up alongside Long Long

Fish bought, time for a snack...

Christmas day is very quiet for us, Gravel-guy goes out for a run and does something to the fence outside, madam is laying waste to Edinburgh with some childhood friends, Nr.1 kid doesn't do daylight, so in the afternoon we take a walk along the edge of Loch Katrine. There are barely a handful of souls out enjoying this, it is magical.

Anyway, Cheesemas is over (yes it does exist - it is that vague period between the 25th December and early-mid January when it is traditional to eat as much cheese/junk as possible in order to fatten up for New Year fasting and good dietary intentions involving not eating cheesejunk. Gravel-guy and I went away - we don't give each other stuff so instead we head somewhere for a bit of bonding and go wandering in cold windswept places where we couldn't hear a conversation even if we were inclined to try and make some. 

Dunnotar Castle

This year we had 2 nights up in Aberdeen and explored the landscape up north of the city, Aberdeenshire and Banff is a really lovely part of the world - high boulder-y cliffs and little bays. Glorious. That photo of Dunnotar Castle doesn't give any impression of the wind, Gravel-guy says those cliffs it sits on - they are red quartzite cobbles carried 485 million years ago by a huge great river all the way from Norway. Every now and then gravel-guy knows some impressive stuff.

I also packed some knitting and squirrelled deep into my pile of samples and small pots of face care - I am a total sucker for skin preparations and rather than hoarding them I am resolving to actually use them, so whilst day time was spent out and about, evenings were spent with a face covered in magical potion and knitting my current sweater-crush, Belle (quick - very quick and non demanding but will replace a very sad old sweater of almost black).