Wall behind the Hunterian Art Gallery and most likely part of the Glasgow University Campus
I have a real weakness for old bricks. They come in all sorts of colours depending upon where they were made; they can be handmade or marked with the manufacturer's insignia; and they tell stories. We have too many brick photos to mention. Thankfully my partner understands why I always just need one more photo of an old wall, a bricked-up window or even just an unusual pattern.
Just a link to another weblog today, but it is a link I encourage you to click. A fellow knitter-in-Scotland, Kate, suffered a stroke some time ago and this is how she is experiencing the recovery process. Without going into too many details, I can relate to her words and her post made me think quite unhappy thoughts about past events in my life. Then I began thinking about how we relate to our bodies, about how we define ourselves and about that strange link between our minds and bodies (a link it took me decades to accept for one reason or another). And how life is one continuous process of defining, discovering and accepting ourselves in ever-changing contexts. I know I am now very different from who I used to be but I also remain the same.
I wish you all the best, Kate, and I hope for your speedy recovery.
For some odd reason I keep going back to the idea of a knitted dress. I found a machine-knitted dress in Monsoon (British clothes shop) which I absolutely loved (apart from the fibre make-up) and then I saw some jaw-dropping Briars and lengthened Dusty tunics. I just sit here in my cold flat and imagine how wonderfully soft, comfortable and warm they would be to wear. Then I remember how traumatised I get when knitting more than one sleeve or a slightly lengthy body. Maybe I would not go nuts knitting a dress or tunic, but the jury is definitely out on that one.
Plus, you know, I had the following exchange today: "Can I talk to the lady in charge of this?" - "That's me. " - "No, I want to talk to the slim one." Ouch. Maybe a soft, clingy knitted dress is a very bad idea, full stop.
Anyway. Finished object: my Kaiti shawl knitted in Rowan Kidsilk Haze (shade: Liqueur). I used just a smidgen over two balls (and you could totally get away with just two balls) on 4.5mm and although I really wanted to knit Sharon Miller's Birch, I used the top-down version, Kiri, to maximise the shawl-to-yarn ratio. This is a supersoft and very, very warm shawl.
(I'm not-so-slowly getting addicted to Kidsilk Haze - I'd love to knit a cosy jumper in KSH and have fallen in love with yet another Kim Hargreaves design: Veer from Rowan 32. The simple lines plus the quirky little details just stole my heart. )
Photo taken at the Kelvingrove Museum which is my favourite Glasgow museum, hands down. No matter how often I visit, I see something new and interesting. They even have a small, but exquisite collection of Early Modern Period art (one of my favourite ages). Afterwards we headed towards the Hunterian Art Gallery where, be still my heart, we saw a special exhibition on Albrecht Dürer in Italy and printmaking (including an incunabulum, phroawr). Seriously, seriously good stuff. I love my neighbourhood.
When I started university many, many, many moons ago I fell in with the wrong crowd. Looking back, I can see how it happened. The nice girl living next door to me in student hall invited me in for tea and soon after she was offering to "lend" me things. "Nothing bad was going to happen", I was told, "everybody's doing it and it's perfectly normal". And this is when I began playing role-playing games. I had long wanted to play Dungeons & Dragons, but the only ones playing RPGs in my erstwhile home town were boys hanging out in the library basement, and they had a strict "no girls" rule. When my student hall neighbour, Liz, offered to lend me the Player's Handbook 2nd Edition, I felt vindicated. To this day, most of the D&D players I know are women. And they are hardcore, I tell you.
Eventually most of my Copenhagen social circle was composed of RPGers - this is not to say that we only hung out in order to slay orcs, but most of the interesting people I met also just happened to be gamers. Smart, interesting people from all walks of life with real jobs, real lives and actual social skills. They were interested in communal storytelling and in imaginary flights of fancy. I miss them. Sadly I have not been able to find a gaming group here in Glasgow - the ones I have found all meet on my knitting night! - but I keep toying with the idea of starting up a small group.
So, imagine my reaction when I read that a murder spree was linked to the perpetrator playing D&D.. yeah, I was not impressed. As someone in the comments remarked: "1989 called, and it wants its favourite baseless accusation back."
A few apt links:
This one's called "Green Sock On Concrete". My inspiration for this? Well, I wanted to address tempus fugit, the inherent pain of creation (note those needles: both the instrument of making and of maiming) and something about urban life versus nature which the concrete/foot constellation symbolises. Oh, and our living room carpet would have clashed with the green sock and Official Photographer was out, so I posed on our stairwell.
I'm about to graft the toe and I am delighted with this little thing, but something about socks still bugs me. Maybe it is my irrational dislike of feet. Seriously, I think feet are disgusting. So whenever I try on my sock, I have to get over the "omg, this thing I'm knitting has been on my foot and I have to touch it!" I wish I could wash that sock every time I pull it off my foot, but it's just not feasible for a work-in-progress.
I tried watching the Olympics today whilst knitting, but for some reason BBC thinks curling is more watchable than the men's short programme in figure-skating (something about Britain actually maybe possibly being able to win a medal at curling could have something to do with it, but still.)
And on the fourth day of the Ravelympics I was too busy to knit because I was watching this on TV. So. Much. Love.
(Rumour has it she was seen knitting backstage at Glastonbury)