Just Another Day at the Office...

It is a nice compliment, or consolation, to yesterday's impression of Une Pincushion to a) have managed to dress nicely for work and b) to be reminded that The Prince is visiting when you get there. Prince Charles, that is.

He is the patron of the School of Environmental Sciences. So he was visiting, possibly to see what was the cause of all the CRU email-hacking row and scandal (which managed to get UEA in the news even in lil' ole' Bossier City). I would venture to propose that it might be the fact that ineptitude and the hiring of unskilled monkeys seems the order of the day in IT, but... who knows for certain? Surely the fact that hired consultants were able to hack into the system was completely an aberration.

Being pro-Royalist (in a most un-Colonial manner), it seemed like a necessary excursion from the office to toddle the 25 yards around the corner to stand in the freezing cold behind a barricade made of plastic chain. My amazement at all of this (besides slight giddiness at having my first royal-spotting) was the perceived lightness of security. Yes, there were some Springer Spaniels wriggling over parts of campus today (I want one... hint, hint) and there were also a few police walking around with mirrors, looking under buildings, but...

Having been fortunate enough to observe President Clinton's visit to Barksdale from the vantage point of the air traffic control tower and to attend a Presidential debate in 2004, it was shocking that people could just wander up randomly -- half the wanderers not even knowing why they couldn't walk that way to their lectures. I cautiously went back to the office and put my handbag back since I was sure there would be bag searches. There was no frisking. There was no guard-type bloke observing to see if you looked shifty.

Nope. Nada. Walk on in; stand right there; baby, let your hair hang down (it is best anyway, as this warms the ears).

The cool bit of this was that I was literally one person away from him as he walked past, and he was honestly gentle, soft-spoken, and observant and thoughtful in his questions of people. Not at all up his own backside. I rather liked him and shall purchase Duchy Originals when I can afford them. :)

This was all quite lovely in a civilised (and yet, cold) sort of way, but the tragedy of it is that we do not live in a civlised world. Not at all. If it were my event to organise, I would have gone mildly deranged with a week of orchestrated security checks; there would have been a lock-down of campus; and bag searches.  

But then, he is not really my Prince yet -- dual-citizenship being a few years and a few thousand £s down the trundling road... *sigh*

RELAX!!!!

It used to be my opinion that I was calm and relaxed and pretty chill in general. However, the ongoing internal cobustion of my back, my joints, my patience, and my tolerance levels towards unruly children and cats who attempt to cover up their pretty crockery food dishes after eating does seem to perhaps indicate otherwise. Obviously, I have been engaged in quite a high level of self-delusion.

Fortunately, the National Health Service has agreed to provide services of a therapeutic and healing nature. This makes me relatively happy since, despite not being a citizen, I am worthy to receive something for the nearly £700 per month which is thoughtfully extracted from my paycheck. Presumably they don't want to overburden my already traumatised back with the weight.

So, after a considerate referral from my GP (at The Mulbarton Surgery), I have been to the physiotherapist five or six times now. Of course, the physiotherapist is in Wymondham (pronounced 'Wind-umm'), which is possibly the most awkward location to reach either to or from the Main Road in Swardeston OR from The University of Easy Acronyms (UEA) if one does not drive. Normal bus tickets are not good enough (one must invest in a £4.70 day pass, which makes one want to just ride around on the bus and judge -- or not. Especially if one is trying to be more charitable to the cretins surrounding one.) since Wye-mond-ham is apparently in the outer zone of Norwich Worst -- oops, I mean First -- Bus system.

After my first encounter with the physio -- a lovely person named Jane -- she either thought I was neurotic, a victim of muscular hypochondria (possibly requiring NHS psychotherapy), or a severely broken person. Now she is aware that she beheld a trinity.

On one's first -- or in my case, one's first and second -- visit(s), one has what is called a 'triage' appointment. This is where they go through all the aches and pains of things that you, in your feebly deluded state, might think are wrong with you. They ask you to tell them whether the pain in ________ region is constant, periodic, or infrequent and then to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 10.

They refuse to explain this rating scale. Is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of what i can bear before I lay writhing on the floor next to the washing machine crying and singing Edith Piaf songs; or is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of how painful it has ever been; or is it on a scale of 1 to 10 of whether I believe it is possible to have a stiff upper lip and Keep Calm and Carry On without resorting to surgery? What is this scale business?

Based on one's completely flawed scaling of the pain, they draw little coloured sections on the part of the diagram person on the computer. Yellow means numbness; cerulean means scrintchety periodic pain (apparently); pink means you are messed up. My little diagram has an entirely pink back with blue polka-dots, and a little yellow streak going down the right leg (and NO! This does not have anything to do with wet pants. Ahem... Rude.). Poor Jane.

Apparently, your correspondent who spends 120,000 miles a year in the air, and most of the rest of the time sitting on her haunches has a condition called 'Hypermobility Syndrome'. I am quite appalled to have a label, but maybe it will be good for me; I could get a nametag: 'Hello! My name is Anne-Marie, but you can call me Gumby!' On the bright side, the x-rays for which I was zapped in December happen to show an absence of slipped discs or anything pinched, so no incisionary activity close to My Spine is imminent (this is good, particularly in light of my inexplicable fear of deathly punctures in my person -- well, other than shots in the arm. I'm not a complete chicken.). On the negative side, my job is sedentary. Hypermobile people need to move alot (ahem -- it seems a good time to perhaps point out that it was not hyperactivity in my childhood; it was my syndrome. My body knew that it needed to move incessantly...). Because my body languishes in front of a computer all day and a good portion of the evening (when it functions -- the computer, not my body), my muscles are no longer managing my hypermobile connection points and the joints are mad. So I hurt. My back is pink with blue polka dots. And I have a yellow streak down my right leg (AGAIN... NO snickering. How childish. *rolls eyes*)

I am meant to do stretchy exercises and retrain my nerves. I should really do them more often (instead of sitting in front of a computer -- oops), but I am getting pretty good at regular stretching in the ladies room at work. The shelf on the wall next to the hand drier makes a lovely support bar and one can also do pushups agains the wall -- whilst beadily watching the door for approaching shadows, at which point you have to shove yourself speedily away from the wall, simultaneously pivoting on heels as if heading for door, and pretend to have been using completely silent hand drier. This is definitely a skill worth honing; I expect to have upper arms like Courtney Cox by March.

In addition to my Bendy Bruner-Tracey (BBT) regimen, Lovely Jane recommended acupuncture. For a person with a morbid fear of punctures, this was a big step. After all, haven't we all heard about people who have an acupuncture needle emerge from their foot 4 years after having a treatment in their eyelids or something? I was brave. The needles were small. And the first two treatments really relieved quite a bit of pain in my back.


Until this past week, when I had to go 2 weeks between treatments. And then I had a nerve completely freak out in my big toe -- it is a long story. No doubt many of you can look forward to long evenings with a lovely shiraz while I detail the agony of a mysterious feeling of shards of glass living inside my toe rather than the lovely bones which ought to be there. Copious amounts of Vitamin B (gracias a los parentes) seems to be helping. And then my back decided to relapse and go all Octogenarian on me on Saturday whilst doing laundry.

However, the whole scintillating Shards-of-Glass feeling which has persisted over the past week (but very strangely only with downward pressure, such as a blanket during SleepyTime) had me a little leery today. Jane decided that it was most probably coincidental, this dramatic Shards of Glass thing; she bent my phalanges and metatarsals, this a-way and that. And no radiating shocks of pain. None atall. Until she decided that we should start with that particular needle... next to my big toe.


Today was absolutely pitiful. I wept. Snot ran from my nosey to the floor through the little hole where they put your head so's you won't suffocate on the relaxation table.

The weeping and gnashing of teeth did not stem from the big toe one needle; I was braver than that. Just nearly reflexed her in the face -- oopsy. No. It was the building up, I think. When you (or maybe just I) am/are supposed to relax, my brain kind of goes into 'MUST RELAX!' , *...am-i-relaxed-enough-yet?*, 'NO! MUST RELAX!!!' hyper-repetition syndrome mode. And pretty much everything just flipping does the opposite. 

One of my most significant spot of tension, which is most-of-the-time invisible, non-painful and completely menacing, is on either side of my spine, about 3 inches below my shoulder blades. If this area has any sort of pressure applied, I cannot help it: spasms and convulsive twitching results. And I flee, if possible. (This is in no way a recommendation as potential amusement to so-called 'friends' during social and cultural outings. Obviously, this is a little more explanation than some people might have needed, but how else are we to be honest with each other if not broadcasting to the whole webernet-connected ribbon of civilisation? No. Seriously; do not try this -- I might have to get mediaeval on yo' ____.)

Being unable to flee, and with an indeterminate number of needles in my back (actually there were 22), weeping was my only resort. But I told her to keep going... Keep Calm and Carry On! However, the whole situation was worsened by the pinching that the tension in my muscles was making where the needles had already gone in. And then, Poor Jane hit several capillaries -- which hurt like crap. And made me twitch, which tensed my muscles, which made the needles hurt, which made me cry (and produce snot, which was unreachable due to arms flapping at sides of table with needles in hands). The additional fact that a pressure on my middle back caused a twinge of electricity in my right hip did not help.

Poor Jane.

Her assessment today was, 'Well, you are just wired pretty funny.' She attempted to smile and comfort me, but I think she was afraid.

My next acupuncture treatment is in 2 weeks. We'll see if Jane is in, or if she has become a florist.

Bananas

Due to one's frugal noticing of the sale bananas at Bobbins (the farm shoppe dans La village), this afternoon's primary culinary activity involved making Banana Pudding for a certain Wirish person, who seems to be unfamiliar with said dish. Despite a typically apathetic attitude toward dessert-type foods (odd, I know), he did manage to clear his bowl and then ate a couple of bites out of the pan (there was no company, so this was acceptable). This indicates to me that it has been approved.

I was quite pleased with my pudding texture and so happy to have the recipe from The Oma Cook Book (ed., Judith and James). Banana pudding is the first recipe that my Oma's mama taught her to cook, and the recipe has been passed down from the five maternal generations preceding moi. Oma is unfortunately not here in La Village to concoct puddings on request, and since it appears that January is now Oma-'Spa'-Month, we must hope that she returns from the hospital soon so she can make sure we are cooking our puddings correctly.

*******
This past week was an interesting week. It has been my first 'normal' experience with long-term snow, and the exoticism and thrill has not worn off yet. We have had probably 4 inches (or maybe more) of snow this week and it has been cold enough that it has stuck for almost the whole week. It is the coldest winter in Britain in 30 years!

Kitty likes snow. Angus is obviously related to Simon's Cat, as the 'Snow Business' video is pretty much his hyper reaction to the crunching snow. However, after his outside frolicking, Kitty likes to come inside and be cosy. This is an example of stretching and looking cute in order to have some tidbits of gorgeous seabass dinner with leeks and rostis... (the snow is not forcing us to diminish the culinary exploits of Chef Eamonn).

Along with the kitty, the snow is fascinating to me, too. I am quite obsessed by snow clouds and learning to see snow coming over the fields, although I am glad not to be in charge of driving to work in the snow (see L).

I love how snow makes everything quiet. Except for the ducks and the pouncing kitty. I love seeing parents pulling children to school on little tobogans. I love the crunch and squeak of the snow under one's boots. I love the way it sparkles in the sunshine. I am not so taken with wind-frozen teeth, so I suppose I had best be quiet.... nahhhhh.

Monday was my first acupuncture treatment, and whilst it is quite bizarre (I am going to wear my contacts to tomorrow's needling, so as to see the two that are in my hands... it is all quite wierdly fascinating).

Thursday was the first Knit Night of 2010, and Clare convinced me not to wimp out. We have returned to The Forum, now that loud Mondo Night is no more. It was a little chilly :) 





Pretty Night Snow.









Saturday was far too cold to open St. Clement's to the public (even with the Cloak), but we made it into town on La Bus with the goal of climbing the tower and getting some snowy photos. Dawdling in the bank caused us to miss the sunshine, but maybe the snow will still be here next week (although my enthusiasm may cause me to have no playmates remaining).

The view towards the Cathedral looks over the River Wensum and since the road below is a bus route, it is obviously a little clearer than the view down Colegate, below on R (the second church tower down Colegate is St. Miles -- where I lived in my little flat). The river has not frozen :(




The climb up and down the tower is always a little dusty and wind-ing. Stopping to continually take photos of one's feet can get a little vexing for the person behind you. But, oh well... :)

Stairs at the very top are really quite tiny. There is a very small section where the stairs are not stone, but are wooden.

So many hands have touched the central support of the spiral stairs, the stone is smooth and shiny. This is my favourite part. Despite its being a bit wonky, there is no risk attall of anything falling to pieces quite yet.

At the bottom, the person behind the photographer can finally escape into the less claustrophobic air.

Twenny Tee-yun

Yes. I think I shall go with 'twenty-ten' as the verbal reference for '2010' instead of using 'thousands'. Why this seems to have sparked such critical and intensive debate is rather beyond me. Thank the Heavens for the wisdom of the National Association of Good Grammar! [I feel a slight tinge of guilt for my hypocrisy as a pedant in mocking NAGG, but then, they really ought to have organised a better acronym.]

Perhaps some people have nothing more productive to think about, for example: considering the newly joyous state of Christmas Day air travel as a result of rabid and annoyingly well-educated fundamentalist psychotics; or what is behind the soaking of beans and pulses before cooking; or perhaps why snow renders felines utterly mad; or how time is able to slow or race, depending on one's enjoyment ratio and/or dread of returning to meaningful employment.

My goal for Twenny Tee-yun is to write more regularly (as compared to the tragic state of 'twothousandnine') , instead of keeping all my eccentric thoughts and interesting stories nebulising in my brain -- which clogs up general functionality of said brain and leads to meaningless, disconnected tangents during various conversational activities. This sometimes can alarm fellow conversationalists and one should really avoid alarming people... unless they deserve it. Or are trying to set their underpants alight.

So far, I am slightly behind in my goal outlined unsuccinctly above, due to faffing with photos and getting self distracted with snow (a la feline) and knitting (also, possibly, a la feline) and tidying (definitely, a la feline).

New Year's Eve was spent uncertainly wondering if our Letter K Correspondent would brave the forces of nature and join the Norfolkians for an icy celebratory activity. Therefore, the promised birthday cake was not created until just before midnight, upon finding out that LKC would not be remaining to even break his fast on New Year's Day -- choosing instead the tantalising fun of driving 4 1/2 hours back to Wales (oddball). Additionally, my failure to venture to La Shopping before 5pm resulted in a failure to make either cream cheese ball or cherry cheese pie.

However, through a miracle of collaboration (and with some grand patience on her part), Clare and I managed to pull together a last-minute snacky, and relatively healthy(ish), buffet of delicious homemade hummous, tomato-mozarella-basil salad, semi-homemade guacamole, homemade salsa and mango salsa, fresh olive bread -- and a nip of Clare's sloe gin (scrummy!). This was entirely useful, since the Burger-Maker was ever so slightly delayed in producing edibles for nibbly persons. There were no homemade tortilla chips... again due to lack of time and planning [since our return from La Louisiane, we have become mildly obsessed with creating legitimate salsas and tortilla chips. Efforts were well received and fully consumed by E's office colleagues.]

*******
Sadly, New Year's Day was not well-planned for, past breakfast, by moi and our main meal lacked black-eyed peas. And ham. I am a b-a-d Southern Girl -- who doesn't keep black-eyed peas in their pantry for emergency year-change celebrations?! However, the tinternet indicated to me that lentils would perhaps cover my sin and so we had them with our cabbage and cornbread. It was passable, but there shall be more adequate preparation for Twenny 'Leven.

Additionally, after damage had been done did I become aware of our other failures (also delineated by the previously helpful tinternet article):

• to NOT do laundry. Oops. Obliterating Clothing Dirt.
• to plan for a first-footer. We went out before someone new entered the home... actually no one other than us has actually entered the home after midnight. The cat probably doesn't count, although he is tall and dark. Ah well... give up.
• to open all the doors to let out the old and let in the new. It was a tit bit chilly.
• to wear something new. That would have required shopping instead of occupying resident pajamas during shopping hours last week, so... ick.
• making loud noise. Even the kitteh was quiet and slept late on New Year's.

However, despite these glaring faux pas, I am sure it will be a lovely year. And I wish any readers remaining after my Protracted Twothousandnine Depth-of-despair-and-mental-distraction-silence all of the Love, Peace, Joy and Goodwill they can handle for their year to come!

xx

(...and now, I must go and test some more salsa.)

Sunday in Munich

Sunday is a quiet day in Munich.

It was not raining (at first), and arriving in the late morning, one might have high hopes of engaging in productive activities... such as searching for new and exotic yarns to smoosh and to buy. Or things.

Munich Airport (voted Europe's Best Airport), it is the simplest and least ridonkulous airport into which I have ever, ever flown. I may endorse moving here; E should be encouraged by many close friends that German will not be impossible to learn (ahem). Already, thanks to Dawny, we know not to sing the first verse of Deutschland uber alles, so we are well on our way to assimilation.

On the train into the city, a Portuguese lady made friends with me (so that I could help her with her luggage off the train, since she had apparently purchased an entire newsagent/grocery store and packed it into her second suitcase). She has lived her for 36 years and likes it much better than her time in London. She will be going home for Christmas, and her mother collects magazines for her. She has 25 people in her family for whom to buy presents. She prefers Lufthansa to AirBerlin, and she doesn't approve of EasyJet at all.

My best decision of planning this trip (since I have failed, failed, failed to research either my yarn or beer options on my own) was to elect to not stay at the conference hotel, the Hilton Munich Park. It is in a park. My Hilton points would have increased, along with my proximity to Platinum level. But it would have been sooooo dull and 20 minutes from the centre! My 'super secret' hotel from lastminute.com is directly across the street from the Hauptbahnhof (Central Station), and it is a 5 minute walk to where the ice rink will be and where shops are open (but not on Sundays).

On Sundays, everything is closed. Except shops in the Central Station. The sushi bar there does not take credit cards. You must spend > euros5 in the quick shop or you get glared at until you manage to add enough Snicker bars and gum to make up the difference. Hauptbahnhof Starbucks is the speediest Starbucks I have ever seen.

Upon venturing up out of the subway, the first sign was at least recognisable. It is next to the Starbucks (but it does look a little older).

Despite shops being closed, there are loads of people walking in the city on a Sunday, and it seems that Germans, like the French, save Sundays for family. This is such a lovely concept that more of the 'developed' world should adopt, and it makes one not too traumatised to miss one day of manic spending. Unfortunately, there is yarn to yearn for...

It was approximately 34 minutes after leaving my hotel (for Sunday constitutional after 3.00am start to day) before the first person asked me for directions. It is slightly less comfortable when you speak nothing of the language (well, other than 3 numbers and hellos/goodbyes -- not enough time to coordinate appropriate language prior to trip), but the repetition of this phenomenon wherever I go makes me think that my attempts to follow E.M. Forster's endorsement of immersing oneself into the place one is visiting, has relatively successfully developed (I cannot locate the precise quote, which makes me cross -- so shall have to re-start reading A Room with a View and A Passage to India again.). My travel game is to figure out my bearings, navigate shortcuts, and find local shops and restaurants -- basically to see how quickly I can become (or give the illusion of) a pseudo-local. One has to think of something amusing when one is a solo traveller so much of the time.

The medieval section of the city is still delineated by gates, although they may be rebuilds since the city was pretty devastated after WWII. The 'Americans' were in charge of rebuilding Munich, and the history lecture by a tourist representative at our conference indicated that this was extremely fortunate since, unlike the other rebuilding forces, they did make efforts to recreate the city as it was. E says, in Britain's defense for its reconstruction strategies in other cities (including unfortunate Norwich), that the US was the only country to emerge from The War not fiscally devasted, so their efforts could afford to be cavalier. Either way, the result in Munich is lovely.

For example, Lisa (my New Jersey friend, who works for a London university and who crosses my path quite frequently) and I are not sure that the gates might be one of these rebuilds. The plaque looks old, but the main body of the walls looks new. This newness continues down quite a bit of the main High Street, with only a few obviously old buildings remaining -- e.g., The Rathaus (to L).

'Rathaus' means 'town hall' and is usually the prettiest building in Germanic cities. Munich's Rathaus clock tower has a ginormous glockenspiel (the green bit in the photo). It plays at 11am and noon each day, and at 5pm in the summer (it is no longer summer). Unlucky friends will be forced to watch my hand-held video of the glockenspiel during lapses in Christmas conversation.

It is quite fantastic with tilting knights (with armor and on horses), dancing peasants and other little twirling figures. However, it is slightly dangerous to be a tourist doing an impression of a goose in the rain for this event when the Kristkindlmarkt (Christmas market) is being set up; the men driving the forklifts are not delicate in their attempts to get on with their work, and you know they must want to just forklift all tourists in the backs of their oblivious little knees.

It is important to point out as well that this part of Germany takes its identity from its history. They are Bavarians first, hence the reason that the Bavarian knight always wins in the glockenspeil tournament :) The region is the Bavarian Free State (a remaining privilege from falling on the correct side in earlier conflicts -- the tourist lecture said it was granted by Napoleon, but this is not what Wikipedia says).

The city of Munich was (according to the history lecture, not wiki) was ruled first by Henry the Lion, who built a bridge over the river Isar next to the Benedictine monastery. He apparently wanted tolls (Why else would you build a bridge? The French built one into Wales...). This occurred in or before 1158, as this is the first date the city was mentioned in literature. 'Munich' comes from the old Germanic word Monche (with two dots over the 'o', but I do not know how to force this into blogger's html), which means 'monks'. The symbol of the city is still a monk, and he is everywhere from drain covers to over doors (not terribly easy to see in this picture, but he has cute red shoes!). It is more likely that he is holding a Bible, but if you just glance, it might look like a stein of beer.

In order to fully appreciate the city's long religious and brewing history (and on the recommendation of CAMRA Peter), I located an Augustiner pub off the main street and had a lovely repast, after visiting the Frauenkirche (since my 3am start hadn't really inspired much hunger until the smell of lovely snaussages hit my nosey). Its name, Augustiner am Dam, refers to its proximity to the Kirche.

Due to current building height restrictions, The Cathedral of Our Blessed Lady stands out in the skyline of the city, even after 500 years. The whiteness of the interior gives it an almost sterile atmosphere, but this in no way detracts from its beautiful quietness. Bosses on the ceiling are not as intricate (nor probably as numerous) as Norwich Cathedral's, but the spans do seem much more regular -- possibly since it is 300 years younger than Norwich's.

Bratwurst and sauerkraut is nicely accompanied by eine Weissbier. An interesting fact to note is that sauerkraut is not only fabulously healthful, but also apparently as effective as Viagra in its functional benefits (from a Kings College London study). Not to be rude, but my sausages were longer and thinner than one expected, especially compared to Texas German Bratwurst, although the flavours are pretty similar. But the beer is definitely better...

The Augustiner brewery is Munich's oldest independent producer. Beers are sold in .50 l or 1.0 l. One litre is rather a lot of beer. I only ever had Weissbeir on this trip, but next time adventuresomeness will win out -- as the wiki article has made me regret not having some Helles or Dunkles.

As it is winter, darkness descends quite thoroughly by 4.45pm, and since my energy was flagging after the early start, I managed to make it through the entire book that was my 'trip' book. You just can't win -- when I bring 3 books, I don't have the energy to read more than 2.784 pages per night and have hence wasted the luggage weight comparable to a new pair of shoes. sigh

Craftiness

Admittedly, the lottery has not come in yet. This is a shame, but not terrifically shocking since I have never bought a lottery ticket in my life.

And I do seemingly have to continue my attendance at work if my paycheck is to arrive in its monthly manner. sigh

So, whilst crafting (NOT to be confused with 'arts and crap') is not yet my prime time-consuming activity, it is indulged in quite a bit -- between Gu & Fru puddings [in place of Nutella, I am now using promotional sale specials at Sainsbury's and Waitrose to justify my addiction -- kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous with coffee & ciggies... but this is much less odoriferous.].

*******
As may have been noticed before in previous Making-and-Doing episodes, it is particularly pleasant and focussed to craft when Clare comes out to La Village. This generally leads to a fair sense of accomplishment (unless one has not got one's spinning wheel working, and one has to find something like carding wool to look industrious). Clare is always industrious and Makes-and-Does at a remarkable rate (as evidenced by her blog and Flickr accounts and by the blur of all photos of her).

After several failed attempts at getting my own spinning started once I got my brake band rigged with a champagne cork (similar to L, but really not...), it appears that failure was due to my insistence that the wheel go in a counter-clockwise direction. [It is supposed to go clockwise... Hence breaking of all attempted fibre batts and many leader strands; and much fruitlessly vociferous berating of wheel.]

*******
His Lordship also enjoys crafting, and has his own techniques and everything. Generally his assistance involves locating, from the vastness of the couch the precise spot where my yarn ball resides, and planting himself squarely on top of the smooshiness. Occasionally, though, he just commandeers a project. (Whatchu lookin' at, Willis?)

This project, with His assistance, is now finally finished -- about 2 months later than planned (frown). The second one (in white) is well underway. It is a raglan pattern knitted from the top down; having never knitted a raglan before, the pattern was simple but everyone at knitting was intrigued at how it would be difficult since they are used to knitting raglans from the bottom up. It is a really fun pattern, and for this second rendition, a method for monitoring cables appropriately and more accurately has been devised.

*******
It may be possible to crochet a wee green edging on the white version cardi so as to match... the newest booties! Tiny is just sometimes too much -- squeeeee![This is why i need to craft full-time. Dang the need for money and responsible behaviour.]

*******
Dave the Train finally has his small tea cosy... he is reported to have worn it on his head during the final Beer Festival Planning meeting. And another one is now commissioned by Dave. Need to figure out RNLI pattern for this one, as is for Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

*******
And the Big Knitting has been developing, too.

First, we started with a large fabric strip ball (created with the Singer assistance of E. He is a much smoother treadler than Herself.).

Then we cast on (a little trickier and fiddlier than one would think with materials similar to ginormous crayons).

One does not recline on the sofa whilst wielding these implements. Personally, I find it easiest to stand behind sofa using pillows as props for needles ends. If one happens to be watching a musical of some derivation during creative industrious activity (such as South Pacific or The King and I or Moulin Rouge), one can also sing and dance about a little bit and alarm people who may happen to be sat in the room. This behaviour generally makes them not want to cause any problems. Although, it would be nine times cooler if the singer/dancer were wearing a Snuggie...

Because I decided not to spend my valuable crafting time hemming the edges, there is a great deal of stringiness on the edges, but at the moment, it is pretty cool (as it is not currently on a floor) and secondly, i think the strings will be vaccummable and mostly go away if it is ever put on a floor. However, the current size of the remaining ball makes me suspicious that this will either be: a decorative pillow cover or a patch in a larger patchwork rug.

*******
As if collecting yarn weren't enough, I have further forced my hoarding onto E in the form of corks (slightly more understandable to him). He built a frame for me last year, but there has only now accummulated enough to create the finished product!

*******
And, finally -- it is probably not very good to admit excessive gloating and pride over activity at a church. But I am quite elated with my waxing project of the moment at St. Clement's.

Only the choir stalls and the back two rows (both sides of the aisle) have been done so far. In the photo to R, the floor beyond the heating pipe has not been tackled yet.

In L photo, is compare and contrast -- the dull bit is the dry wax prior to buffing. One really might ought to wear ear protection as the ringing took about 30 minutes to stop on Sunday.

But now with my clever brushes, let the tackling commence... on Saturday.

A Witching Moon

Perhaps it is not honestly the moon which is making things loony. But perhaps it is.

There is postive insanity and then there is just plain vexing stupidity.

Either way, if one could just sit and look at the moon for a while, things would be calm and good in one's head. There have been so many gorgeous cinematographic-quality moons over the past week, and they cannot be simply have been ordered for All Hallows, All Saints, and All Souls. But it is tres cool that they have coincided. Even though la lune is now on the wane, the nights are still unbelievably bright.

The moon, though, seems to be having an effect on many things, including:
* politicians (a continuing saga)
* Human Resources personnel
* the running of buses and trains
* property 'management' companies (also ongoing saga -- nothing to do with moon, but rather hair colour and grey matter)
* my hair

I am aware that there are many complaints in and about Obama-land, but reporting on them is not nearly as entertaining as the British approach. Self-deprecating humour and an eloquent debatory approach (which E refers to as Radio Argue) just make my day.

Human Resources seems to require proof that I am allowed to work in this country, despite their having a two-year-old copy of my work documentation which expires in 2012... So we have now wasted 3 more pieces of paper (because you have to have a copy of the outside cover of a passport, you know. That isn't a completely anonymous image or anything.)

As it is now Saturday morning (I started blog last evening, but was forced away from computer for evening excursion), it is my strong hope that my bus-riding does not go as last week's in which I ran for bus three times (with granny trolley and in wellies). The busses were early, I swear. Stopping a bus in the dead middle of the village (to great annoyance of other motorists, most certainly) is not recommended, but it is the sign of a kind-hearted (albeit grumpy) driver; it was amusing, and completely against Health & Safety, to leap onto bus as it is still moving. And I was grateful. And standing in heels for an hour and a half on a late and crammed train is not recommended, either.

Also as it is Saturday morning, it is noteworthy that the washing machine is going (on what is, if figures are correct, the 8th load of laundry since Tuesday evening). After 2 weeks of ineptitude, our property 'manager' managed to have a washing machine delivered (Sunday) AND finally installed (Tuesday). Jones/Strain genes really particularly useful when services are required from unintuitive creatures.

Finally, the hair. This was definitely due to the full moon. After months of waffling about bangs (aka, fringe), the scissors came out two weekends ago and approximately 1.5 tentative inches were sacrificed to the Waitrose bin liner. On Tuesday (in celebration of washer installation), a further 4 inches cavalierly bit the dust. E has been slightly suspicious throughout this manifestation of madness, but change seems to be accepted now. No photos as of yet.

*******
(This really is an attrociously and not a relaxed- and/or thoughtfully-written piece, but one has to get back into things somehow)

Other things that have been going on:

• 32nd Norwich Beer Festival -- E volunteered 114 hours last week. Herself volunteered only 4 evenings, 7.30-10.00. Donations from our hours going to Anthony Nolan Trust (leukaemia) -- same charity as the dragon boat races.
• Craftiness -- this really needs its own blog...
• The Great Waxing of 2009 -- this is my project of the moment at St. Clement's. Having imported (in my luggage) some Murphy's Oil Soap, washed portion of floors in Cinderella-style two Saturdays ago and applied wax the following day. Last Saturday involved complete failure to buff floors with lambswool pad on floppy drill attachment. However, (following a great philosophical debate) my new (!) drill buffing brushes arrived yesterday; and (after removing the dust which will have accumulated in mediaeval manner over the past two weeks) the waxing shall commence in approximately 1.5 hours! One thing that may shock my American readers -- should any remain -- is that Murphy Oil Soap is a) not sold in the UK and b) completely unknown. Perhaps my surprise is funny in a dense sort of way, but because those Irish ladies in an old commercial seemed to know about it. This is not the Irish ladies, since that one is not on YouTube :(
• November's First Friday Five -- on which there was knitting and commentary
  
• The Beginning of Rugby Season (i think there are about 4 rugby seasons per year)
  

Now must run (in very bad writerly style) so as to make it to bus... because we all know how that goes.