Monday, 6 January 2014

Finding myself (on bloglovin)

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New skirts make a happy worker.

So another new year rolls around, with the expectation of resolve and possibility. I think that whilst I instinctively shy from commitment at a time when I'm supposed to be committing, my daily read of the blogs I follow (all sewing related, generally), has inspired me to set down on paper screen what I would like out the coming year. Forget about the eating better lose weight run more sort of stuff. This is important. This is Sewing. And making stuff in general.

I will keep my sewing room tidyish. I may even paint it, if I can move the mountains of books. It doubles as the loft you see.

I will sew more cake.

I will try very hard to buy solid colour fabrics that I will wear regularly, instead of the prints I always want to play with.

I will remember to always wash my fabrics before cutting, so I don't end up with inappropriately short work skirts.

On a knitting note, I will finish the interminable ruffle for the jacket that I completed 2 years ago, so I can actually wear it whilst I remember buying the yarn. I can only remember the name of the pattern because I put it on my ravelry page.

Enough to be getting on with there. For now I need to feed the chimps, walk the dog, and maybe sew the dress I cut out yesterday. Hopefully pics to show soon.

Sunday, 19 February 2012

Remind me why I started this

Today started so well. I was free. Free to run, dance and, as it happens, walk the dog. We headed off to a fabulous local nature reserve , with dunes to run up and down shrieking a little bit (me), dunes to run up and leap off (eldest daughter), and dunes to walk up and down moaning about how hungry she is and can we please go home now (youngest daughter).

 Husband followed, happy to not be at his desk. The beach, when we reached it was empty but for many seagulls, the sunshine glistening off the wet sand, and blue sky all around. All was right with the world. Well, if there had been a snack bar it would have been, so unable to gag the youngest, we headed back. Only a few mishaps on the way back

For those who have somehow missed out on the Fenton phenomenon, here.

So far so lovely. So why on earth did I choose such a day to reorganise not just one, but two wardrobes. And I went under the bed of doom, creating many, many bags of recycling which will hang around for too long before I force myself off to the charity shop. It's one of those jobs that is very satisfying when done and has been on my to-do list for months. Stuck in the middle of it, surrounded by rubbish and odd socks, I just wanted to head for the hills. What was I thinking? I wasn't, obviously. So next weekend it's officially No Dusters Allowed. I'll watch a film in the afternoon and eat cake without logging the calories (my fitness pal is awesome, when I'm not eating cake). Now, if I can just book a babysitter ready...Bad mother?

Thursday, 9 February 2012

Not at this time of the morning, please

Having a quick gander at Facebook this morning I was Shocked and Appalled at my cousin for posting this image

Honestly, before work? How is a girl supposed to concentrate all day with semi-naked Damon available on her phone.  He's top of my laminated list, for crying out loud.

I'm off out to play tonight with a friend and a bottle of pink.  It's the only way I can cope.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012


It seems that nowaday, women in their thirties are meant to covet vintage floral frocks and big country houses and chickens. And I do, I do, I do. I mean, I have the frocks, I've found the (vastly out of my price range) house and I've named the chickens. Pamela, Linda, Susan, Barbara. You know I want you girls. I'll be there for you and your eggs, gathering them in an attractive basket which I will place onto my large, rustic kitchen table. There I will knead bread, and cut out patchwork squares and....

Honestly. Who am I kidding? Our regular common or garden pets are trouble enough. I don't have the faintest idea about anything to do with animal husbandry. I don't even know what that is. I have started making a patchwork quilt. By started, I mean I have purchased a very nice collection of fabric, which lives under the stairs. I'm truly rubbish at making bread.

I can however, wear a print with more panache than most, so the dream can live on a little longer. Where do you stand on donkeys?


I've always been a sucker for  big feet, big eyebrows and a beard.

Very much like the Grumpy Old Troll in fact, but possibly a little more territorial. Basil has all the ingredients for my perfect dog, OR SO I THOUGHT. Why does no-one stop you and say 'a terrier? Are you sure?'. Or, 'Perky ears! You deliberately chose Perky Ears?!'.

I had no idea, really. I mean I knew they had character. I expected that, honestly. Generally described as wilful, cunning or more positively, independant I knew he would have some. But did he have to have quite so much? At the grand old age of 12 is is still necessary to fly out of the house every morning spitting feathers at the postman/milkman/random passer by? Why is it that any fence or gate is assessed with a professional eye for escaping possibilities? Why when I eventually find him (having dug his way out of the Basil Barricade that we thought might contain him), does he give a teenage look of 'What? I would have called, and I'm home now aren't I?' And how is it that despite being a small fellow, when he decides that he will not be moved as he needs to sniff and pee on a particular spot many, many times over, there is no moving him at all. There are tracks in the tarmac where I tried.
Yet for all my grumbles and 'Basil you little s#*t' (to be said in the style of Angharad from School of Comedy. For some reason the Welsh accent is just perfect for utter contempt), I still quite like him. A lot. His tolerance knows no bounds with children and the cat. Only ours mind. Any other feline is fair game.

So take care, those who choose a pet for their big feet and perky ears. You may occasionally regret it, but you'll have a lot to talk about.

Today I Write

New Year's Eve, our neighbours' screeching partying in the street whilst I'm tucked up in bed unable to sleep. I should have had a bottle or two of Prosecco, but the day had not been good and it seemed wise to draw a line under the year and start fresh the next day, without a raging hangover. Anyway, in my sleepless state my mind set off wandering until it reached the most obvious thing ever. I was to write a novel. A Great Novel that would make me rich and I could leave my job and stay at home and knit, sew, spin and watch True Blood all the time.

There are many things wrong with this idea. Not least that my husband is a many times published writer and we are not rich. We live in a semi detached house with on street parking and one car between us. And I'm not allowed to buy wool every month. I also have an attention span of a toddler on calpol. I'd start writing about Maggie's Marriage, or some other twaddle, and end by discussing the merits of chocolate over coffee cake, and not be entirely sure what happened in the middle. Probably something involving tea and a really nice frock. And that, I think, will always make me happy.