A day of rest ...

Not actually my gloves - even my giant man hands would be dwarfed by them; but someone else clearly had the same idea of a day off and just downed tools.  These were lurking somewhere near the bottom of a lift.  Today I went for a walk around town and discovered there's relatively little to do here.  There was a cheese market.  Also feeling rather cheated - I've been staring death in the face* every day (and winning to be fair) skiing down to ski school; there's a moving carpet thingummy I can walk down to get there.  My lack of navigational instinct is astonishing.  The first day, I got hopelessly lost and ended up "somewhere down mountain" dependent upon a kindly bus driver who took me all the way back to my hotel.  That reminds me, obliquely, of the story in the paper about the business owner so outraged at increased postal prices that he started sending small parcels by carrier pigeon.  I saw it in The Times and the link is to the Daily Star so it must be true.  As if pigeons don't already have a rotten enough time.

In between the writing, I have actually made a few bits and pieces which I'd forgotten about.  The first is another Audrey which I have to take photographs of but I'm a lot happier with this one.  I used New Lanark Mills DK in Bramble which has a beautiful lustre and colour saturation; it looks purple in one light, blue in another with flashes of yellow and all sorts.  It's also a joy to handle and doesn't split despite much frogging and uncertainty at the outset which resolved itself into a very easy make.  The Old Maiden Aunt alpaca/silk mix I used for the last Audrey was super-luxe but not being keen on negative ease for this version I went up a size and down a needle size which seemed to work to create a really nice 50s silhouette, tight at the waist and a blouson shape for the rest of it.  This time, I also added button bands without button holes.  Instead, using turquoise ribbon I attached poppers and sewed some vintage looking buttons I found lurking around.  It looks great, but you can't see it.  Yet.  Pictures to follow shortly, and will go onto Ravelry.

The other thing I made was a Kate Davies Design, the Snawheid which has found its spiritual home in Val Thorens.  It was rather timidly blocked and needs a more aggressive wet-block on a decent form to  help set the stitch pattern and provide a bit of structure to offset the ridiculous bobble that perches aloft.  Something got'a'hold and the bobble just grew and grew …

Honestly, on a mountain, what?!

Bobbles, up close and personal

The sunglasses AKA "the Wrinkle Prevention Programme" - massive. ridiculous, effective.

Something else I had a tinker with was tambour work.  Partly for coursework and partly because it was a new technique.  What made me curious is that there's actually very little written material on it, and what little there is typically focuses on beadwork.  Anyway, despite best intentions,  I did too because it was quicker.  Tip for the future - use dye-fast sequins.  For about a week my hands were the colour of the Hulk in a really foul mood.

Choosing colours

Sketching a simple design

Wrapping the frame adds tension

Colour plans, stitch directions, working orders

Working the design

From the back

Finished piece, a mix of tambour beading and chain stitch

This week I'm mostly being kept company by Black Kids Partie Traumatic, a couple of Suicide Sports Club tunes I'd forgotten about, the Travelling Wilburys and Jason Isbell.

* a small exaggeration

Margo on Location

January to now has disappeared and I couldn't tell you where to.  I've been from Glasgow to St Albans and back again almost every week in what is probably the most boring non-world tour if two places constituted a tour at all.  This term I spent more time in Glasgow and enjoyed the space and time alone.  It's a bit daunting knowing my lovely little cell, covered floor to ceiling in books (they should really reconsider the lending limits at the university library - some people have substance abuse issues with dusty old books) is only my sanctuary for another few weeks and after that I'm in one place all the time.  I'm not sure how I feel about it.  Well, actually I probably do but perhaps a tale for another time …

This week I'm in Val Thorens "learning" to "ski".  I use both those terms very loosely because I seem to be incapable of learning how to career down a mountain, graceful as a gazelle without a care in the world.  My head rings with those several gym teachers who (rightly it turns out) pointed out that I'm "not very sporty" and should probably focus my efforts elsewhere - which of course I did once I could legally drink (maybe a bit before) by going out clubbing and drinking and flirting instead and leaving all the sporty stuff to girls called Penelope and Harriet and Pippa who it turns out are genetically predisposed to being sporty and usually especially good at bloody hockey.  They were never the ones who forgot their navy gym knickers or got giggled at by the teacher because they decided that their new rather snazzy basketball boots were more fun than plimsolls (even if not regulation uniform).  Anyway, the socialising side of things doesn't help when one's feet are strapped to fashioned bits of two by four,  you're being encouraged gently to fling yourself down the side of what feels like a sheer cliff face covered in ice and are possibly in the middle of an existential crisis (who wouldn't in that circumstance anyway - although still too young to be a mid-life crisis, yes?)  Actually, at the bottom it seems the nursery slopes are not that steep but it's almost impossible to fall up a mountain (although a friend of mine did once fall up some stairs on our way out of a bar which says something, no?) so my instinct is to mutiny and perch quietly atop the bloody thing and hope someone with a skidoo or a very strong line in piggy backs takes pity on me and carries me to the bottom.  I saw someone carry a toddler to the bottom so I'm not entirely giving up hope although a week of raclette and red wine makes it a fairly hefty proposition no doubt.

And I'm on a hiatus from making things because I've mostly been making words.  Last week I wrote in the region of 12,000 words, some of them not bad and in places even quite interesting.  There's actually nothing nicer than researching and writing; putting ideas on paper putting some body into them.  I'm in the process of reviewing a book for the university publication, and starting to research my dissertation topic in earnest.  A PhD application is slowly in the works too.  Today I spent three hours on the terrace in the sunshine, wrapped in blankets with my book on my lap but managed no work, because instead I became utterly bewitched by the people who actually can ski and snowboard, as they hurtled down the mountain looking utterly wonderful.  It's a spectacle, it really is, and such a privilege to get to see it.  Moaning is a displacement activity for secretly being in awe of people who can overcome what for me seems terrifying, and in the process they do amazing things and see amazing places.  Saying that, there's nothing nicer than sitting on the cable car in the sunshine, chatting to my very lovely, very patient ski instructor and watching the world go by.  Also, otherwise I'm essentially alone the rest of the time and being on my own is fantastic when I'm in places I know and less lovely otherwise because of hermit like tendencies.   Anyway it is always good to meet new and interesting people who give you a different perspective on things, is it not.  Perhaps another good reason to stop acting like the brat, sorry lion, at the top of the post.

There's also something very nice about a snowy place as the sun sets, the windows light up and get twinkly, and the world feels very contained and very cosy.  The sunshine's quite nice too …

Val Thorens and the sunny terrace … 

Things I learned this week

1. Spraying moth killing chemicals may exterminate more than moths - a thorough-going spritz of moth-be-gone can lead to definite deadening of the brain cells and some fairly intense moments of feeling a bit fluttery myself.  Still, personal sacrifices aside, I showed no mercy.  Seriously moth, be gone.

2. Those midnight moments of inspiration (possibly related to the inhalation of large quantities of toxic material) do need some kind of concrete base of knowledge to follow through on and prevent embarrassment.  I'm convinced that my dissertation idea has legs for further research, but the fact it came to me in the middle of the night and converges on some fairly massive historical and theological themes of which I have less than a minimal grasp does make it problematic (nothing like a good understatement).  Couple that with a pathological fear of history after a tricky encounter with a teacher in secondary school means that I have a very steep hill to climb in terms of getting a proposal ready and obviously actually delivering something of any use at the end of it.

3. If one doesn't learn something at school, then it might be at least partly the teacher's fault for not teaching it properly.  Now I'm not writing that to discount my responsibility for not knowing things that I jolly well should know but as an aside, I was chatting with several friends about their childrens' experience of school.  In each case, a teacher had made a statement about the child, effectively labelling them as shy, not academic, creative but no good at science or vice versa and, in one quite alarming case, "a lost cause."  In the latter case, she's now head of an academic faculty.  Anyway, it got me thinking that often teachers will label a child something quite early on and then it's the child's fault and their problem to overcome.  There seems to be a lack of reflection that, as the teacher and, more specifically, the adult in the relationship, it might be their responsibility to make the effort, to reach across the void to the child who isn't grasping their concepts and may not be grasping them because the teacher isn't articulating them in a way that accesses that child's imagination.

No doubt everyone has seen this, but I was particularly struck by this quite old now TED lecture with Ken Robinson and it really got me pondering for many days.  In another of his lectures he refers to teaching not as a "delivery system" but as a creative profession; he makes the point that what great teachers do beyond teaching itself is "mentor, stimulate, provoke, engage" rather than simply transmitting facts for learning by rote.  It must be very boring for teachers who are hamstrung by protocols preventing them taking on these other exciting elements of their role, placing them instead in thrall to the spectre of examinations.  

So that isn't to say there aren't lots of fantastic teachers out there, I'm not trying to write off a whole profession.  It just that I'm not that keen on the labelling of children early on, and it seems odd to me that so many of my friends with children - including very young children who are still at nursery - have experienced that moment where their child is labelled.  It strikes me as very limiting because if one hears something at such a formative moment, it could become a defining feature.  Shyness is a particularly personal label that I resist.  I've been reading Quiet by Susan Cain which has resonated loudly.  When I was little I was told I was shy and should speak up.  One particular experience at the hairdresser springs to mind: because of my unwillingness to loudly tell the hairdresser what I wanted, I was gifted an extraordinarily short hair cut, and my newly scalped self was informed on my first day at school, by another new girl (with long flowing locks),  "that this isn't a school for boys."  Consequently I'm a chatter box who feels very uncomfortable being a chatter box, but I struggle to break the habit because I've always been told it's what's expected of me.  It's impossible to say how much I envy those quiet types, who can sit in total silence while all around them are competing for air space, and seem totally at ease bucking the conventional wisdom that you have to speak up to be heard.  I wish I had been brave enough before, it's a bit embarrassing to be only realising it at my age.

On a less curmudgeonly note, and because this is supposed to be a blog about textiles and craft, Liberty new season fabrics are out and two of them leaped out at me as particularly lovely.  The first is beautiful just because it is.  The Isabel Susan in this colour way takes my breath away and reminds me of a William Morris wallpaper we had in our bathroom (smallest room in the house so the only affordable place to put the stuff) when I was growing up.  It was the house we moved into after my parents divorced and my mother couldn't bear to stay in the old house any more - it was also the first house she got to have total autonomy over decorating.  I remember, when I was about 14, disputing vigorously with her about the wallpaper and claiming it was hideous; actually I think she was really on to something which either means I am getting old or confirms that I was probably a bit of a plonker for not realising that the boldness of the wallpaper was really her way of saying she was feeling bolder … anyway, it's the meandering of the tendrils and the setting side by side of the colours in a pattern that when you squint, almost leap out like lacework that gets me.  

Isabel Susan A Tana Lawn, image from Liberty.co.uk

William Morris, Chrysanthemum Wallpaper, V&A catalogue

The second fabric that particularly struck me is Heidi Maria and I love this because it is sufficiently abstract not to be twee, and sufficiently obviously plants and seed heads not to be oppressive in this colour.  

Heidi Maria C Tana Lawn, image from Liberty.co.uk

It also reminds me of Blackwork techniques with the range of density of darks and lights across it, and it prompted lots of doodles which may or may not end up being incorporated into the Blackwork project I will eventually do when I manage to pick up my RSN certificate later this year when I'm back from Glasgow.

The scourge of the moth ...

I knew there was something wrong, but I've had my head in the sand.  Eventually, new year and all that, I had to face facts - the jumper I started many moons ago (literally years), knit lovingly to just that point that you can't get past, and then left lurking in a basket somewhere for ages, had been devoured by the evil moth. 

Now, my yarn is all kept in big plastic boxes (organised into colour families you know) with moth balls and lumps of cedar liberally scattered amongst them.  Then, I was not so savvy.  I had a feeling something was wrong, but didn't really want to confront it.  And worse, the bag it was in was a lovely Jigsaw bag, the sort one buys oneself as a treat - that's been eaten too.  The Bastards.  

So the wool is in the bin.  The jumper's in the bin.  The bag is in the bin.  I feel sad and more than a little silly - I knew it, and did nothing about it.  A lesson in not putting things off until tomorrow if the moth needs to be murdered today ...

The last of the antlers …

Christmas Eve and the reindeers arrive ...

It's always a little gloomy when the festivity is over and the antlers get packed up for another year but there's also something reassuring about the world returning to normal and the return to a routine.  This year I indulged in epic amounts of Soprano, discovered a new cocktail of sloe gin and champagne (I'd run out of tonic water, but you can only manage one so on a cost per drink basis I think very economical, and knit my Port O'Leith sweater and collar.  I ended up making a bonus cuff as well (see below for notes on displacement activity).  Husband described this as "anachronistic" but today in the sudden hail storm that swept over St Albans, my hands couldn't have been warmer.  

The hail storm might have made a change from the recent trend for a Deluge a Day except that it came shortly on the heels of the hail.  What a relief, it would have been very disorientating not to have flash flooding on our unfinished road, and I'm not sure what my feet would have thought if they had finally dried out after several weeks of near trench-foot conditions.  Anyhoo, I wore my new sweater and it's fantastically warm - can't speak highly enough of the S&J chunky from its lustrous hand to its sheen in the finished garment; just lovely.  And … here it is, the finished jumper with notes on my Ravelry page:

That is my third Toft Beginners Beret perched aloft the sweater there - it keeps taking itself off on adventures and having to be reknit but it's so quick to do and I love it, so it keeps on keeping on in new incarnations.  

As is always the case, I've managed to procrastinate and sniffle my way through the break in a fug of Vicks and Lemsip steam (you can just make out the red nose in the picture above) without achieving half the things I wanted to.  So I'm sitting at the dining table now, this is the last bit of displacement activity and then I'm knuckling down to some proper reading, writing and general busyness.  You hear, that's what I'm doing.  No more distractions.  Not a one.  Hang on, I think there's some fluff over there, I should hoover that up.  And lordy, look at the cobwebs, best deal with those.  Actually the fire is on, and the reading is interesting so there's really no excuse.  If I turn one of the lights off, I can't see the cobwebs or dust so I really am knuckling down now.  Honest.  

I will just cut myself a slice of Christmas cake - ought to try and get it finished, not least because I've another jar of the Pink Whisk's amazing boozy fruit to make up into another cake and if I don't get them eaten soon, when will the healthy living for which January is famed get started. 

Nothing changes really does it - a habit for easy distraction is a difficult one to break, what are the chances that 2014 will be the year it happens ...