2007

I am so bored with the internet.

I would rather knit the dog's vomit jumper any day (second sleeve 2/3 way through, so we're getting there), or curl up with a good book. Or even a crap one.

Happy New Year all the same.

Dog's vomit jumper, part 2

My older son, the one with the black dress sense (am studiously avoiding saying "the goth", because he detests being labelled that way), has indicated he actually *wants* the dog's vomit jumper for himself! And I quote,

"Guess if I'm getting a bit bored with black, when I've been wearing nothing but for three years."

I am stunned. And happy. Never mind him wanting to wear something not black for a change, that's entirely his business. This means I haven't spent 50 odd € on wool for a jumper nobody can bear to wear, which is brilliant news indeed.

The dog's vomit jumper, my 100th blog entry present for myself

I bought beautiful wool to knit myself a jumper, two kinds, smooth merano and fluffy mohair, both hand-dyed in earthy colours slipping from dark to light, in brown, green, blue, yellow. They cost a fair amount, particularly from my meagre partially-employed subsitute teacher's wages.

The balls of wool are beautiful. But I fear the jumper is turning out to look rather alarmingly like dog's vomit.

More shame tolerance, closely followed by lick et stick

One of my first blog entries was on the topic of shame tolerance. A fine topic, worth returning to from time to time:

My cousin (of the pink-flamingo fame) gave me a pipo for my birthday present. A pipo, if you are not familiar with this phenomenon, is a certain type of knitted or crocheted hat, which the youth of today mistakenly think cool (as championed by Finland's very own Ville Valo, of whom more later) but which people my age would not be seen dead in, at least not when we were young. It was one of those items of clothing your mum would force you to wear when the temperatures dropped to -20 C, which, incidentally, makes your ears fall off unless you cover them. We would remove our pipos the latest when we got to the front door. Anyway...

My cousin gave me a pipo. The attached card said it was for "ensuring the continuation of your everlasting teens". I wear it. It's gone really, really cold. In a matter of days, we have gone from a glorious Indian summer to balls-off-a-brass-monkey weather. I wear my pipo, but make no mistake. Some young people may think a pipo makes them look like rock stars. I know it makes me look like a bag lady. Shame tolerance is the word of the day, dear hearts. At least I get to keep my ears.

Tonight, I intend to lick & stick. This means putting our Winter's Tale flyers & publicity letters in envelopes, licking them shut & sticking stamps on them. (Yes, I am sneakily using my blog as a publicity forum, too.) After that, I intend to watch telly and knit. Licking, sticking, telly & knitting. Doesn't that illustrate my thoroughly rock'n'roll lifestyle?

(Oh, and about Ville Valo. If anyone out there thinks he's hot, or cute, or whatever - don't bother. I was introduced to him a few years ago at a memorial gig for a band whose (long since dead) singer used to be my teenyears boyfriend. Ville has a limp, damp handshake. Ew.)