A Balloon over Bristol (Evening)
Thankful
I don't do it nearly often enough, but it's so important to stop and count blessings every once in a while. I have been incredibly blessed this past year.
I've been loved, supported, encouraged and asked to marry the most amazing man I've ever met.
I've been welcomed with open arms by his entire family and grown closer to my own.
I visited a place I'd wanted to visit for 20 odd years.
I've worked with some amazingly talented, dedicated, inspirational people, and learned a huge amount in the process.
I've been given the gifts of friendship and advice many times over.
I've been inspired and energised when I thought my well had run dry.
Tomorrow brings the first step down a new path for me and I am incredibly excited. This has been quite a rollercoaster of a year, but I wouldn't change a minute of it, because it's brought me to this moment, in this place.
Life is good.
I am blessed.
Thank you.
Disappointed
The best laid plans… We were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary last night.
We didn't.
We were supposed to be going to a party tomorrow night.
We won't be.
We were supposed to have a group of friends round on Sunday.
They won't be coming.
The pigdeathflu is making its second visit to our house.
It's fair to say I'm disappointed that our plans have had to change, but I'm glad that this means both of us have had it, so hopefully when it gets worse we'll have the necessary immunity.
The 5th of November (2006)
Three years ago, at about this time of night, I was eating dinner in the Banana Leaf restaurant in Clapham Junction. I'd been awake for more than 36 hours, and it's fair to say that I was a little delirious, but it wasn't just from lack of sleep.
22 hours earlier, on the platform at Poplar DLR station, I met someone, and that meeting would change my life.
When I left my house on Saturday morning (the 4th of November) I did so smelling slightly of hair-dye and with no idea what was ahead of me. I knew I was going to a blogmeet in the centre of London and afterwards, I was heading to Poplar to meet up with a friend, to celebrate her birthday. She was spending the day at Earl's Court, at the Top Gear exhibition and show, and the only reason I wasn't there with her was that I wanted to catch up with various friends who would be at the blogmeet.
I took my knitting with me, as I (pretty much) always do, along with a change of clothes for the evening ahead and set off into town.
The blogmeet was great fun, and despite being a little crowded and overwhelming, I was quite energised as I squeezed through the crowds and headed out the door of the pub towards the tube station.
I called my friend to let her know I was on my way and we agreed to meet at Poplar DLR because I didn't know the way to her house. In the event, they were later than expected, because of overcrowding and generalised weekend tube carnage, and so when they turned up, I had parked myself on a bench and was knitting away quite happily (I was knitting a pair of wristwarmers. I still have them).
I looked as the crowd spilled out of the crowded carriage, and once it had cleared a little stood up to find my friend. I spotted (and greeted) her first, followed by her boyfriend (who I'd met previously) and then my attention was caught by a third person.
Something lit up in my brain in that first look and a few seconds later I was introduced to her friend and the "Oh, Hello…!" in my head was far more Grace Brothers than the greeting I verbalised.
A little flustered, I put away my knitting and we ambled back to her house where a few more people were due to arrive, to partake of pizza before a night out on the town.
The conversation flowed, the pizza was good and the night out lasted longer than I expected, and so I accepted an invitation to stay over, rather than have to make my way back to the wilds of North London alone.
Back in Poplar, the four of us: me, my friend, her friend and her boyfriend talked, laughed, reminisced, ate cold leftover pizza and slowly wound down from a great evening out, and eventually, she and her boyfriend made their way upstairs to bed (after lending me a t-shirt and some shorts to sleep in) leaving her friend and I alone downstairs.
I knew by this point that I was attracted to him, but didn't think he was interested in me so I'd pretty much written off the idea of anything happening between us and was just enjoying the conversation. As it goes, I was wrong and I will never forget our first kiss.
We didn't sleep at all that night.
We talked, and kissed, and talked a lot more, and at some point in the wee small hours of the morning, I took an enormous leap of faith and told him some deeply personal stuff. The sort of stuff you wouldn't normally tell someone you met less than 12 hours previously, but it felt important and it felt right.
I don't think I've ever been as scared in my entire life, nor as elated when he didn't run screaming, and in that moment, the course of my life changed in ways I couldn't begin to imagine or appreciate.
We spent the day together, not really wanting that first flush of togetherness to end, even though we'd already made plans to meet up again the next night.
When I eventually got back home to north London I was exhausted and delirious, overwhelmingly happy and at the same time, feeling like a part of me was now missing. I knew then that I'd met the person that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I was desperate to tell my flatmate, but when my flatmate opened his door as he heard me come up the stairs and told me that my shower had leaked and dye-filled water and showed me the red streaks down his wall I collapsed on the stairs leading up to my room and cried my eyes out for a full ten minutes as he looked on in confusion and that mixture of panic and discomfort that men get when they're around a crying woman and don't know what to do. It wasn't that it was a disaster, but I was just so emotionally jangled that it was too much and I couldn't cope with it.
I had no idea then that I'd be where I am now.
It hasn't been easy. We've had our ups and downs like any couple, but even though he's currently lying in bed having contracted Swine Flu and we're not out celebrating like we planned, it doesn't matter.
All that matters is that I love this man with every fibre of my being, and he loves me too, and there is nothing better in all the world than that.
Three years is just the beginning, and now I have something that's really worth remembering on the 5th of November.
Knitting for Lori
There are generally considered to be two kinds of knitter: those who are process knitters and those who are product knitters. I used to consider myself firmly in the product camp, choosing small projects for that instant gratification, look I made a thing feeling. That said, quite often recently I've found myself not completing a project, ripping it back (at more than 75% complete) and not feeling particularly bothered by it, which would seem to lump me in the process category, where I knit because I want to knit, but I'm not particularly fussed by producing anything of particular worth. Journey, not destination.
Of course, there are more than two kinds of knitter. In fact, there are as many kinds of knitter as there are actual knitters - no two are exactly alike, but they can be sorted into broad categories. The next great schism is probably monogamous/non-monogamous.
I'm distinctly non-monogamous with my knitting. I've got *cough* projects in various stages of completion, and I don't feel any need to finish one before starting another. In fact, you could even term it start-itis. I start lots of things, but after a while, the enthusiasm wanes and I move onto something shiny and new.
It's easy to be whatever kind of knitter you are when you're knitting for yourself, but when you knit for a friend (or family), things necessarily have to change. All the usual distractions and mid-project lulls will still kick in, but now you have somebody waiting for something, which is why it's really important to only ever offer to knit something for someone who will appreciate the time and effort you're putting in, and treat the finished item with the love, care and attention that it deserves.
Four years ago (excuse me for a moment while I boggle about how time has flown. Ok. I'm done.), I was in the midst of a very serious knitting addiction. My drug of choice was the Clapotis, a large scarf/wrap which captured my attention. I think by the time I was done, I'd knitted five and a half Clapotis(es?) in various sizes. The final, full-size Clapotis went to the lovely Lori Smith, who'd admired one of mine (I only have one still in my possession) and asked if I'd knit her one.
By the time I started knitting hers, in truth, the attraction began to wane, but although it took me far longer than I anticipated, I kept going through the miles of middle section, and finally, to the end, and I was so pleased that I had, because it really suited her.
Recently, Lori mentioned on twitter that she would like a snood knitted, and I offered my knitting services once more (there is no drug greater than the sincere appreciation of a handknitted item). She had very specific ideas in mind (which is a good thing) and a couple of weeks ago we met up at John Lewis in Oxford Street go do some yarn shopping.
It was originally supposed to be red and woolly, but after wandering round, our attention was grabbed by a 50/50 wool/silk blend in a pink so bright it was almost offensive. Pink is not the colour either of us would go for by choice, but it just refused to be put down, so not long after, we left John Lewis with a bag full of pink yarn and a pattern.
I'm about 75% of the way through the snood, and while the yarn is wonderful to work with and I've enjoyed the feel of it running through my fingers as I knit, I'm reaching the knitting equivalent of the point of maximum dread. You know the end is near but it isn't near enough to give you that second wind to push to the end and the pattern has leveled out to being knit, knit, knit all the way. With each day, the urge to start something new grows. It's a sickness, I know.
The point of this post is not to have a moan about knitting for someone else. I love knitting for people who appreciate it. It really is a wonderful feeling when you've put time and effort into something and that effort is appreciated. It's just an acknowledgment that my inclination is to start something knew, even though I know the satisfaction will be less than that which will be felt by finishing this and handing it over. After all, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.
Hi, my name is Ann and I have chronic startitis.
(Hello Ann)
etc.
It's also an excuse to show off some pictures of yarn and stuff, because there's not nearly been enough knitting on this blog so far.