Anxiety dreams

I had an anxiety dream about the move to Qatar last night. I woke up in a sweating panic. Then I had that slow sense of dawning relief as I realised it was all a dream, and I hadn't been forced to fly there in economy after all.

I think I'm going to fit right in to our new lifestyle.

O hai Halifacks

We want to let our house while we’re away. Rob, being the scrupulously honest person he is, wrote to the Halifax to tell them. About a week after he’d gone, I got a letter saying I had to fill in a consent form and go into my local branch to renegotiate the mortgage.

So I phoned to make an appointment for a Saturday so I didn’t have to take time off work. Then a couple of days before the appointment was due I had a phone call to say the mortgage advisor was off sick. So I rebooked the appointment. They cancelled it again. I rebooked for last Friday.

When I arrived there was no record of my appointment and the mortgage advisor was off sick anyway. I was about to throw my toys out of the pram big-style when one of the other ladies offered to help. I don’t think she wanted me to kick off in a branch full of people. She was very helpful and managed to find out (after about 4 phone calls) that it was OK to have Rob’s signature on the form by fax. But she couldn’t answer any of my other questions. She made another appointment for me, this time to talk to the mortgage advisor by phone.

So much for the boring background. I’ve just got off the phone and I’m spitting coal blocks, as my friend Paula would say. This is the score:

• we have to come off our fixed rate and go onto the standard variable rate. This puts our monthly payment up by about £100.


• we’re meant to be tied in to the fixed rate mortgage til July. If we end it earlier, we get charged £3000. That still stands, even though we’re no longer on the fixed rate.


• but we can’t charge Halifax £3000 for ending the fixed rate period early.


• the fixed rate period ends in July as I said. So, Halifax, ask yourselves: do you want to keep our business until we come home from abroad, or do you want us to remortgage in July? Hmmmmm.

Cursed Pomatomi

After my Pomatomus frogging disaster on Monday, I cast on again using the second ball of yarn, as the first still resembles the Gordian Knot. I decided to use a size larger needle, so I fished out my 3mm green aluminium DPNs. These used to belong to my great-grandmother. I liberated them from her house after she died, along with a few antique bone crochet hooks. It’s good to have something to remember her by which has both practical and sentimental value. This is the first time I’ve used them.

I was happily knitting away on the train when I dropped a needle. It fell under the table and landed by my foot. I could see it. I leant down as far as I could, but because I had someone sitting next to me and the table in front, I couldn’t reach far enough. I brushed the needle with my fingers and only succeeded in pushing it under the heater at the side of the carriage. Then I couldn’t see it at all. So I carried on with 3 needles instead of 4, thinking I’d get it as soon as I could.

Then I dropped another needle so I couldn’t carry on at all. The woman sitting opposite was very sympathetic, but she couldn’t reach them either. I got them both eventually, after everyone had got off the train, but it involved a lot of scrabbling around on all fours on the nasty carpet.

Should I even carry on with these socks, or are the random forces of the universe telling me to stop right now?

Life in Cold Blood, or, a visit to the frog pond

Yesterday evening on my commute home, I discovered that I had made a mistake somewhere in the lace pattern in my pink Pomatomus. I was nearly home so rather than try to fix it on the train, I decided to wait and do it at home. So after dinner (bubble and squeak with 2 fried eggs. Not at all healthy but very yummy) I sat down to watch telly and fix my sock.

First of all I carefully tinked a couple of rows, but the pattern was still off. So then I ripped back a couple more. The pattern was still off, and I kept losing yarn overs. Then I lost all patience and frogged the whole damn sock. Then, when I started to rewind the yarn into a hank so I could dunk it in the sink to get the crinkles out, it got into a huge snarl. It’s currently languishing in the knitting basket, waiting for a time when I’m a bit less, um, dyspraxic.

I did all this whilst watching the latest, brilliant David Attenborough series, Life in Cold Blood. Last night’s episode was all about frogs. The irony was not lost on me.

In other news, this morning on the train I was sat opposite Obsessed Football Dad. He was talking to his mate about his son’s junior football prowess, and when I took off my iPod at London Bridge an hour later, he was still talking about it. His friend looked a bit dazed.

Up and down the stairs

Another weekend of loft-clearing, or rather, sorting, as I haven't managed to actually get much out of the loft so far. It's a two-person job getting stuff out of the hatch and down the ladder, and there's only me. Although I think I've got some male muscle booked for next weekend. I shall also hire a van (one with power steering this time, after the seized-up shoulders incident) and see if Mum will lend me Dad's old sack barrow.

I also made quite a lot of progress transferring some of our CD collection onto an external hard drive. What a bloody boring job that is.

Knit'n'natter on Saturday. Managed to destash quite a lot of yarn -- made enough in yarn sales to buy Dodo's Denise interchangeable needles. Everyone was happy.

Knitting blindness (or, facetious builders)

Have just had the following conversation with the Facetious Builder:

FB: What are you knitting?
Me: A cardigan (holding up the completed back section of my Tailored Scallops cardie)
FB: Looks exactly the sam as the one you've got on (my Notre Dame de Grace pullover)
Me: OK... that one's pink; this one's orange. That one's got a wavy pattern; this one's got straight lines. That one's a cardigan; this one is a pullover. I could go on.
FB: oh. Ha ha ha.

Jebus christ almighty but he does my freakin head in.

Leaving, on a jet plane

So it finally happened: Mr S has got a job in Qatar. He's leaving on Friday and I'll be joining him in a couple of months. Yesterday we had a 'goodbye gathering' for him at our local pub. It was fun but I got quite tearful at times, especially when my uncle and his wife showed up. She's been poorly so I wasn't expecting to see them at all.

There are some things I'll miss about the UK and some I most definitely won't:

Will miss Rain
Won't miss Grey, bland, soggy low cloud
Will miss London
Won't miss Commuting
Will miss British TV
Won't miss Jeremy fucking Clarkson on every fucking channel
Will miss Green fields, woodlands and rolling hills
Won't miss Mud

I'm making Mr S some socks to take with him as part of a support package to keep him going until I join him.

I've been to a conference for work

...and I have just one thing to say:

'Evidence' is NOT a verb.

Gaaargh! Annoying knitting!

I've made some stupid mistakes and I'm very annoyed with myself.

Stupid mistake number 1: I cast on too few stitches for the front of my Notre Dame de Grace jumper. I only noticed my mistake when I held the front up against the back to check I was starting the armholes in the right place. Grrr.

Stupid mistake number two: I made my Clapotis too wide and have run out of yarn before the end. I'll have to frog it completely and make it narrower because there is no more of the yarn. Grrr again.

And what's more, I think I've got a knitting-related pain in my upper arm. So I cast on a very simple sock to make me feel better. So far it seems to be working.

Some messages for my fellow commuters

1. To the man sitting opposite me on the train: your subconscious mating ritual is wasted on me. I’m already married, so I don’t need to know that your bollocks are so big you can’t sit with your legs any closer together than 130 degrees. Put ‘em away, there’s a good boy.

2. To the person sitting next to me: yes, I’m knitting. Get over it. And if you wanted to have the armrest, you should’ve got on at the first stop, like I did.

3. To the people who are surprised to find there’s a ticket barrier: it was there yesterday, and it’ll be there tomorrow. Here’s a tip for dealing with it: have your ticket ready to stick in the slot, or your Oyster card ready to swipe. That’ll save you having to stand in front of the barrier rummaging in your gigantic bag for your ticket whilst other commuters tut at you.

4. To the people wearing Bluetooth headsets: you think you look like something out of Star Trek. You don’t. You look like a cock. Furthermore, speaking out loud to an invisible companion should be reserved for people who can’t help it.

5. To pedestrians: get a fucking move on crossing the road, OK? Especially if you’re walking in front of me. I don’t want to get squashed by a bendy bus because you were too slow to get across before the lights changed.

6. To people pushing kids in pushchairs during the rush hour: why? Just why?

Oh, and finally, to Southern Railway: it’s October. We don’t need the air-con set to ‘march of the fucking penguins’.

The Safetyfox veggie curry recipe

The Fresh Princess came round for dinner last night (without Jazzy Jaff -- she's in Australia). I made veggie curry. She really enjoyed it so I typed up my recipe. Here it is, for everyone else to enjoy as well.

1 medium onion chopped small
2 large cloves of garlic
about 2 tablespoons of mild curry powder (I used Sainsbury's Goan Blend)
2 carrots diced small
a slosh of passata (you could use a small tin of chopped toms)
4 small spuds cut into bite-sized pieces
1 large sweet potato
veg stock (or hot water and a cube)
a large handful of fresh spinach, shredded
a few spare broccoli and cauliflower florets I had lying around
1 small carton of coconut cream

First of all I heated up some vegetable oil (not much) in a large saucepan. I sweated the onions with the lid on til they were soft and transparent. Then I added the garlic and the curry powder, gave them a good stir and cooked them gently for another minute or two. Then I added the carrots and enough passata to cover everything. I put the lid back on and cooked it on a low heat til the carrots were soft, which took about 20mins. Then I used the hand blender to whizz it to a puree. You can skip that stage if you like, but if you do, you won't need as much stock.

Next I added the spuds and sweet spuds and enough hot veg stock to cover everything. I gave it a good stir and cooked it on a low heat without too much stirring til the spuds were cooked through (another 20-25 mins). Then I added the remaining veg and gave it another 10 mins, but that was probably a bit too long because they seemed to have dissolved.

Finally I added the coconut cream. You only need to let it warm though -- don't let it boil or it can separate. Five mins should be plenty.

You can use any veg you have for this (peas, beans, chickpeas, sweetcorn, squash, cabbage, mushrooms etc) but some veg e.g courgettes just don't work in a curry.

Check the seasoning and serve with rice and/or naan. Yummers.

Getting away with it

Our marriage is not one of the old-fashioned patriarchal type where I have to get Rob's permission to spend money. However, all our income goes into and comes out of one account, so it's only polite to mention it when one of us has been spending.

The thing is, Rob doesn't give a monkey's when I buy clothes. Some people's husbands get funny about it -- not mine. But whenever I buy yarn, I get 'Oh, darling!' in a slightly disapproving tone. So last time I went clothes shopping, I cam home and unloaded the bags, showing Rob each thing as I unpacked it:

Me: Look, I got a t-shirt, a jacket, jeans and a jumper for you... And this (revealing a John Lewis bag full of yarn) is a jumper for me.

Rob: Oh darling. That's yarn.

Me: No, it's a jumper. It's self-assembly.

And he couldn't really argue with that. I love Rob.

Pissaladiere

If there was ever a recipe that could have been invented for me and Rob, pissaladiere is it:

• it's got a kilo of onions in it
• and 24 anchovies
• and it sounds like it's made of wee.

Yummers!

Jaywalkers

I finished Mum's Jaywalkers. I was really pleased with them. The yarn really suits the pattern (it's the June sock club yarn from the Yarn Yard).

However, they don't fit. Unlike me, Mum does not have fat ankles. And I am not a tight knitter. But she can't get them on! They'll have to be passed on to someone who's a complete twiglet. Maybe I'll send them to Amy Winehouse.

Does *your* home have a cat infestation?

Ours does. Spot the evidence.

Celebrity spotting

Out with Jazzy Jaff and and the Fresh Princess last night. As we walked past Carluccio's in Tunbridge Wells on our way to the car park, who should we see sitting in the window seat but...

the one and only

the legendary

...TOM BAKER!

Holy shit! We walked past two or three times just to make sure.

He lives near T Wells somewhere. Mum once caught his eye as she was going up and he was going down the escalators in Royal Victoria Place.

Suspicious behaviour

On the Tube the other day I saw a guy wearing a hoodie with 'HAMAS' written on the back. Blimey, I thought, he's risking a bullet (or five) in the back of his head. Then he moved the strap of his bag and I realised the word was actually 'BAHAMAS'.

A philosophical enquiry

If I knit a sock, frog it, rewind the yarn and knit it again, is it the same sock?

The Cat Poo Song

There's a cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la
There's a cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la-la
Cat poo on the lawn
tra-la-la-la-la
It looks like a sugar in a plum (plum plum)

Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la
Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la-la
Show me a motion
tra-la-la-la-la
It looks like a sugar in a plum (plum plum)

repeat ad nauseum

Fox in the bin

So, early this morning I was woken by the sound of a fox rummaging through our rubbish. I leant out of the window -- it was dark so I could only hear the fox -- and went 'psssstttttt!' as loudly as I could. I heard the fox skittering off down the lane.

When I cleared up the rubbish that Fantastic Mr Fox had spread all over the pavement I discovered what he'd eaten: manky old Greek salad, with feta cheese of almost indescribable stinkyness; burnt aubergine rind; maggoty cat food remains and the pickled jalapenos from Mr S's kebab.

What he didn't eat, however, were the orange and strawberry creams left over from a box of Roses. Even a fox won't touch those foulest of chocolates.