There's been not much in the way of writing of late, but much living instead.

The weekend saw a short trip to the coast, meetings with old friends and new, and plenty of time for simply standing still.

The new week has meant getting on with work (not enough of that getting done lately - must refocus), drinks and meals out (despite tight budgets) and in (not entirely owing to tight budgets, sometimes it's just nice to stay in).

And there's a new project in the offing, involving scouring charity shops for the cast away sweaters of (elderly, I suspect) unknown men, boil washes, and then who knows?

Other than that, life goes on much as before. The family is away for a couple of weeks, entailing a greater degree of freedom for me, and relishing of the rare absence of responsibility. Time to get to know a new cat, too. A big placid ball of black fur who has already won a special place in my affections. His human's not bad either.

So I find myself at the end of a week that has been both surprising and unsurprising in equal measure.

Surprising because sometimes life takes us to unexpected places, and where we begin may be very far from where we end up. Some of the things we tell ourselves we'll never do are the very things that ultimately make us happiest. So preconceptions exist to be discarded, and prejudgements, particularly of our own inclinations, are there so that we may challenge them.

And unsurprising too, because this week has had an element of the utterly normal about it. Along with the exhilaration of new beginnings is a sense that this is really where I have been all along, I just had yet to realise it.

A new pair of arms may create the feeling of long forgotten security and comfort one had many years before, before life intervenes and makes us cynical and cold and less open to comfort.

A strange bed may sometimes feel like coming home.

I'm happy. That's all I'm saying.

Quietly happy. With a smile. And my fingers crossed.

(Will that do Puplet?)

The Tedious and the Terrific

My life is an even split these days between the mind-numbingly boring and the delightfully exciting.

Boring: Transcribing endless interviews. Sitting with headphones on for hours on end, typing.

Exciting: Getting paid for said typing. That's pretty good.

Boring: Reading reams of dull sociology texts

Exciting: Finding that one nugget of information that makes all the tedium worthwhile. And contemplating my dissertation. And going to lectures. And meeting new people. It's just all good.

Boring: Not having enough time to spend with my friends.

Exciting: Spending time with my friends. That's what it's all about at the end of the day.

Two nights ago, on the front of the local paper, was the face of a man I once knew.

A man I knew when he was a boy and I was a girl, twenty years ago when we used to play in one anothers' gardens, making potions out of mud and catching ghosts.

A man who, just about 18 months ago, was shot dead by police at the side of the road 15 miles from where we both grew up.

The police shot this man because he was behaving in a 'threatening manner' with a weapon (a sword). Everyone who knew him was entirely disbelieving that this could have happened. He had no pre-existing mental health problem, and the post mortem confirmed that no drugs or alcohol were in his body at the time. He was a kind, sweet, gentle child who became a kind, sweet, gentle man. It is believed that he may have been suffering from a virally-induced psychosis brought on as a result of an illness he picked up whilst travelling.

Now he's dead.

My mother said at the time: "You hear of these things happening, and although you are shocked by them, you don't really feel it. Then it happens to someone you know, the child of someone you know, and you realise, if it can happen to them, it can happen to any one of us. It was their child, but it could have been mine."

So, the Piglet got in a petulant funk last night and complained to her friends that she was fed up with this blogging lark and noone ever reads it anyway and stuck her bottom lip out and behaved like a small child with toothache.

And this morning the lovely altitude zero has proven to be a reader of this blog.

I'm not sure positive reinforcement of my temper tantrums is a good thing, but it has reminded me to be thankful for my friends. And they're jolly nice friends indeed.

Also I have no tolerance for alcohol.

I have work to get on with right now, but I will be back within the next fews days to write a proper update. No more sulking. Promise.

I've put myself in the dog-house this evening because, having promised to make it to a friend's barbecue (and bumping into her in Tesco's on the morning of said barbecue, when she reminded me), I, in inimitable Piglet style, managed to a) get the time of the event wrong, and b) sleep through the whole thing.

I have no right to call myself a grown-up.

Sara, I'm extremely sorry, I hope you had a great time.

Here's some pictures of something I made.




With many thanks to my wonderful photographer, Hiding Pup, and lovely model Susoolu.

The skirt works!

Hurrah and hurrah!

I did a stretchy (icelandic? - the slip back and knit again thingy) bind-off which has given it a weirdly funky, fluted kind of effect at the bottom. It's slightly too big at the waistband but I think it'll be ok for two-days-before-period-bloated-like-a-whale moments. And the rest of the time I'll just pretend like skirts that are nearly falling off are just really where it's at right now.

Happy happy, despite being ill with nasty chest thing which makes me sound like an eighty year old with emphysema doing aerobics. I collapse every time I walk up a flight of stairs. People point and laugh.

I spent a fun week down in Kent with the infamous cousins whilst their parents were away on holiday. Had a giggle driving my aunt's 15-year-old Seat to Bluewater (looks like a tank as well as steering like one, the locks don't work and requires 4th gear at 25mph). Once there indulged in L's favourite sport - eating pizza whilst being indescribably cruel about passing strangers' outfits. Also tried on some truly horrendous outfits ourselves - including a strapless velour all-in-one with elasticated ankles at H&M. L refused to come out of the cubicle in hers, but both she and A had a good laugh at me looking like Andy Pandy.

Nothing exciting on the knitting front, I'm redoing a skirt which I buggered up the first time, but have a feeling it's going to a disaster again. Maybe I'm just not a skirt person. Or perhaps I ought to consult a pattern. That's what you get for trying to be clever.

Mom's birthday tomorrow, so I'll finally be able to post the pictures of the shawl I made her months ago.

Pictures. Ta-da!



That's the one that earned the cash. This is what it was based on:

The gap between posts is getting longer and longer. Partly a result of no longer having an office computer, as a result of no longer having an office in which to keep it (what with not having a job and all). Also partly just laziness and do-it-later-ness.

I had a meeting last week to sort out my dissertation for the coming year. I'm calling it "Conceptualising mental health and mental illness: cultural and biological perspectives". Or something along those lines. I haven't met my supervisor yet but a couple of my friends know her and I get a good vibe, although I'm worried she may not crack the whip to quite the extent I require to get my finger out my arse and do some work. Or to stop me going off on stupid tangents. I spent an hour and a half in the library directly following the meeting browsing fashion and costume design. Ho-hum.

The first question I want to address is why we say mental health, when what we mean is mental unhealth. Or just plain insanity, in my case.

On the knitting front, I finished the commissioned piece, and got paid at the princely rate of just under a quid an hour. Not counting the cost of materials. I'm justifying this with the thought that I would be knitting anyway so it's nice to be paid any amount, and I have to build a reputation before I can start charging more. Once again, ho-hum.

Back home for a few days after a fabby weekend with The Foghorn, mom, Auntie R, and her son.

Every year the four of them spend two weeks at Centre Parcs in Nottinghamshire, it's really The Foghorn's holiday, and the rest of us are just window dressing and bum wipers.

I go along for the first weekend as it takes two cars to lug all the stuff there, and Auntie R doesn't have one. I also give mom a break by sleeping with The Foghorn, who can't be alone overnight in a strange place as she has quite severe epilepsy and has 4-5 seizures every night. She also tends to go to the loo when she has a fit. Which is fun at 3am.

Despite the lack of sleep (and being woken one morning with Foghorn repeatedly hitting me in the arse, leaving a fist-sized bruise which is slowly turning a fetching shade of ochre), I had the loveliest time. So much so that I am returning on Friday for more.

It gave me a chance to catch up on some of my less academic reading. Namely InStyle, Vogue, Elle... you get the picture. I love the changing season, and working out how to adapt my current style to the new trends and weather. It's a particular challenge this year as I'm now living on a student budget again, meaning I am having to be more creative than ever.

For the time being, I'm going with items such as the grey cowl-necked clingy jersey sweater dress I bought last winter, plus the new one I am knitting in fine grey and pink cotton. My collection of beautiful vintage and high-street minidresses - mostly empire line or shift styles. These worn together with footless or brightly-coloured opaque tights which I can pick up for a few pounds at Primark.

I have my drainpipe jeans and slouchy pin-stripes which should see me right through winter. Worn with customised t-shirts, plain vests (and cardigans I've made myself), or soft jumpers.

I'm on the lookout for a couple of 80's style 'bodies' too. Remember them? Will look fantastic with drainpipes or loose trousers, and if they can't be found I'll improvise with second-hand leotards or swimsuits.

My one problem at the moment is finding belts small enough to fit my waist. High street sizes are way too big (most "smalls" are actually 26", which isn't small in my book). Children's versions fit and are affordable, but are hard to find in suitable styles. At the moment I have a wide lilac suede one that I picked up on ebay, and another in woven brown leather that I happened upon in Oxfam a couple of months ago.

My only rule is that I can only buy from discount high street shops (e.g. Primark), second-hand (but only from charity shops and ebay, not boutiques), or high street items if at greatly reduced prices (such as the Vila trousers and top and Ichi jumper I picked up at Hammonds last week - all three cost me just over 20 quid). No designer labels. No boutiques. Nothing, in short, that costs money.

This is of course neglecting to mention all the fantastic things I shall be designing and making myself. More on them to come.

Super busy for the past few days working on my first ever commission!

I wore a knitted dress into the office a couple of weeks ago that I'd made myself, which is just utterly beautiful and looks machine-made. I had that wonderful moment when someone asks where you bought something, and are able to say, "Well, actually..."

Anyhow, one of the women in the office said she would like something similar and, get this, would pay me! EEEEEeeeeek!

I sat down with her and designed a top based on the same lace pattern I'd used for the dress. I'm making it in very fine silver-grey mercerised cotton, which I love for lace knitting as the pattern really "pops".

I've sped along with it and am nearly at the top of the main section (I'm working in the round), I have a few more increase rows for the bust shaping, then a couple of inches of lace (with short-rows to make it higher at the front than the back), camisole straps - which I may use ribbon for instead of knitting them - and then I'm done.

My first commissioned piece, designed by me from scratch, and sold for a profit. I think that's something to be proud of.

For two days I couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop talking, just couldn't stop.

The agitation builds and builds and finally I tip over the edge and go into a blind rage, which yesterday expressed itself in screaming at two men meandering across Princes Avenue as I tried to drive down it.

At least the release meant I could sleep last night, which I haven't really been doing all week, and woke around six this morning feeling refreshed and relatively calm.

Now I can feel the energy beginning to swirl again. It animates my face and hands, and sets my thoughts racing. Sitting in one place for too long is physically painful and mentally unbearable. The ideas come too thick and too fast to record more than a quarter of them.

At what point do I stop being able to handle this?

I've been way too busy to post this week, dealing with a bad bout of what my Auntie R likes to call "pre-monstrousness". I actually relish these few days each month when I feel bad enough to consider myself justified in behaving like a total cow.

I spend so much of my life concerned with with feelings of others, and not upsetting them, and far too little concerned with the things that offend me. It's nice to let that go for a couple of days.

It's nice, on a Sunday morning in Tesco's, when confronted by the woman standing by the papers trying to foist copies of The News of The World on unsuspecting shoppers, instead of muttering a meek "no thank you" whilst gingerly reaching round her for my copy of The Observer, to instead look her straight in the eye and say loudly, in a condescending tone, "Actually, I'm after a newspaper."

It's nice, when the really annoying post-room guy comes into the building, instead of hunkering down behind my computer and squirming at his out-of-tune humming, sing-song "I've just come for your ma-il!", and general smarminess, to instead stand up, walk right up to him, and say: "This is an office, people are trying to work, and some of us have jobs that require a little more concentration than picking up bundles of post. Please shut up."

It's nice, when some moronic semi-adolescent boy passes comment on some portion of my anatomy, rather than furiously blushing and moving away from him as fast as I can, to instead turn round and say as loudly as possible "Well, you clearly have a tiny penis. Why don't you go and fuck yourself with it."

It's nice, just every now and then, to be concerned with some of the things that offend me. Like tabloid newspapers, people who don't know when to shut up, and men who think they have a right to make sexual innuendoes to strangers on the street.

It's my hat! I made that! (Thank you Hello Mango for the picture.)

I accidentally opened the letter containing my anthropology exam result this morning. I hadn't meant to as I knew I hadn't failed the module and really didn't feel the need to be confronted by my extreme crapness unless it was strictly necessary.

So imagine my surprise to discover that I somehow managed to scrape a first. Blimey. It was only 70%, but that's still a first, and together with my 73 for the essay I seem to have done quite well. I also have a provisional mark of 72 for the psychology module I took this year, and 73 for sociology. Yup. I may not be quite as crap at this as I'd feared.

I know I don't need to get a first. A 2:1 is perfectly respectable and would get me onto any course or into any profession I might wish. The problem really is that I know I can get a 2:1 without really making an effort, so if that's what I come out with at the end I'm going to feel I've failed.

This all sounds much more ridiculous written down than it does in my head.

Aunt B told Granny, who told Mom, who told me, that it would be a good idea if my cousin, L, who's having a hard time being seventeen in a family that admits no weakness, came to stay with me for a while.

See what fun games of chinese whispers we play?

I told Mom to tell Granny to tell Aunt B that L is more than welcome at any time, but I would prefer her to ask me herself.

I shouldn't really entertain the whispers, but had no time to phone Aunt B myself, as this usually entails a solid hour of listening to her extol the many virtues of my cousin A (who does indeed have many virtues and is a lovely young woman). Is anyone surprised that L has problems?

In my opinion, (not just mine, but I'll protect the innocent) L's major problem is her mother, who has no tact whatsoever and the force of a steamroller.

What I really don't understand is how I, the family screw-up, became the family psychologist.

Some thoughts on feminism, and how to deal with the doubters

I discovered that feminism was a dirty word at the age of twelve. On answering the question posed by a teacher "are you a feminist?" in the affirmative, I was then confronted with, "So, you hate men then?" I didn't understand the question.

Having been raised by a mother who was on the front line of the second wave, I had blithely assumed that feminism was generally associated with the seven virtues, rather than deadly sins. I was entirely flummoxed by the idea that it had to do with hating anyone.

Over the ensuing 16 years I have naturally had some time to formulate a response. This is what I've come up with.

Assuming the principle that attack is the best form of defence, I find that, when confronted by a situation in which the "feminist?" question is likely to arise, it's generally best to get in there first. Once you've posed the query, and received the reply, "Feminist, me? Of course not!" you can go for the jugular.

Adopt a quizzical expression, puzzled yet fascinated. As if examining some strange and rare museum exhibit.

Follow up with: "Really? Wow!" and then: "So, you believe that women were created subservient to men? (it's in the bible and everything.) Girls should not be entitled to receive the same educational opportunites as boys? Pursuing academic enquiry is damaging to the fragile female mind? Women should be paid less than men for work of equal value? Only men should be entitled to vote and take part in the political process? Women should not pursue interests outside the domestic sphere? Women should not own property? The word of a woman ought to carry less weight in a court of law than that of a man? A man has the right to rape his wife - no, sorry, there is no such thing as rape within marriage, obviously. You're not a feminist? How fascinating!"

Maybe it doesn't work, but hopefully it gets people thinking.

Just for the record, here's my personal feminist manifesto:

1. All human beings, regardless of gender, race, disability, sexuality (the list could go on, but I'll stop there) are entitled to equal access to education, politics and protection under the law.
2. Men and women are different. Fundamentally. Genetically, biologically, psychologically. However...
3. ...What unites us is far greater than what divides us. I have a lot more in common with a human man than a female chimp.
4. The fact that men and women are on average different does not predict the talents, abilities, disabilities and shortcomings of any one individual.
5. "Feminine" qualities are as essential to the survival and success of the species as "masculine" ones.

So no, Mr Teacher. In answer to your query, I don't hate men. In fact I love them, in general, and kind of wish I had one to love in particular. This single life's getting tiresome.

So much for blogging like a maniac! As usual with these things, life has somewhat got in the way.

Had my lovely lovely cousins to stay the weekend before last, don't see them anywhere near enough so I was really looking forward to it. Although it was fantastic to spend time with them we've also managed to pry open another huge family-sized can of worms (and this lot are the normal ones - my dad's are the kind of family that turn up as case studies in textbooks). Evidently, I've now been assigned the role of Adolescent Mental Health Expert, and will be able to solve everyone's problem with a click of my fingers and a wave of my magic wand (silver, with sparkly bits). I'm somewhat less than optimistic.

In other news, my good friend E, who was due to have her first baby in mid-August, gave birth last Tuesday. E has a long-standing medical condition which meant that it was no longer safe for her to continue with the pregnancy. She's still very poorly and not allowed visitors outside the immediate family, although her husband assures me it's nothing to worry about. Baby is very small, but doing well.

All in all, it's been a busy couple of weeks. Thanks to the gang at In Stitches for providing a little light relief on Friday evening. It was so lovely to sit quietly in a corner surrounded by laughter. I know I was quiet, but I really did enjoy myself!

Wrote a long and happy post yesterday evening whilst sitting in with The Foghorn whilst Dad was out at Tai Chi. (Mom in Brighton for a conference - lucky her!). Unfortunately, thanks to Dad's dodgy wireless connection, the entire thing has been lost somewhere in the ether. Bah!

Thanks to everyone who's been nice. It does encourage the warm glow. Although I think now I've started I can't stop. I'm sure the novelty will wear off in a few weeks, but for the time being I'll be blogging like a maniac. I'm just going to go with the impulse on the grounds that it's good for my mental health and everyone else will just have to lump it, so there.

I took several of my recent in-need-of sewing-up projects with me last night. The infamous fair-isle beret is now complete, and I'm working on a photo, hopefully without causing terminal damage to camera borrowed from work.

I also managed to sew two buttons onto the pink lace cardi, before having an attack of messing-up-big-style nerves and having to stop. Luckily Mom rang and "offered" to do it for me (there may have been tears, there may have been begging. I'm somewhat hazy on that point.)

The cotton baby jacket for E still needs sewing up at the sides and (despite the nice ladies at the Guild) something wildly inappropriate embroidered on it. Baby not due to put in an appearance till mid-August though, so it'll probably get finished sometime in September.

Thought - What is the correct past tense of "weave"? wove? woven? weaved? Suggest we institute something new, perhaps "weaven" or (my particular favourite) "weave-did" (a lamentably extinct Anglo-Saxon form of the past tense. Why do I know these things?) Any other ideas?

I may have too much time on my hands.

I should explain, now that people are actually reading this (terrifying, enough to make me never write a single word again), I am very new to the whole blogging business and there's much I have yet to sort out - such as pictures, links, anything mildly technical.

Ginny - I live in East Yorks, in Hull, but I actually lived in Birmingham for 5 years and loved it. I started the much-maligned degree there at Birmingham Uni.

Ok. I'm calming down about people reading this. It's a good thing. Honest. I don't mind being judged. Not in the least. I'm not some obsessive control-freak who can't stand not to be in total charge of every tiny aspect of her life. Much. GAAAAAAAAH!

I have one left.

Just one.

One tiny little essay to write and then I am officially 2/3 of the way through my degree.

This needs to be written, and marked, by the end of the month.

It's the 19th today.

No problem, right? I can whip up 3000 words in a day, no problem. I'll probably get a first (still nothing under 72% this year, although I've not yet received a mark for Jake's exam, which I shall be looking at with my eyes screwed shut). It's all fine, right?

Erm. Sort of. Well, if we ignore the chronic writer's block, and the fact that it can sometimes take me weeks to write a single sentence, and there's no way of predicting when said affliction will strike, if we ignore all that, in a word, I'm f****d.

I'm currently at work, I leave here at 4.15 and go spend a couple of hours with The Foghorn. After much strenuous lifting out of wheelchair, onto commode, in the shower, bend and stretch to wash, fight over hair, fight over towels, lift onto bed, more bending and stretching to get dressed, lift back into wheelchair, then from wheelchair to armchair, then tidy up all the mess, prepare dinner, spoon dinner into Foghorn's mouth, and all the while singing and gabbling in an excitable and entertaining manner, because it makes her smile. Once that's done I can barely drive home. I shall open my books and stare at them in a manner of incomprehension/bewilderment, then collapse into an exhausted heap.

I love my sister more than anyone else on earth. I do. I would not give up my precious time with her for all the tea in China (or something I actually want, like a first-class degree). But sometimes I want to cry. I should point out that I'm small and kind of skinny, and whilst she's not exactly weighty herself (being genetically somewhat similar), I'm still basically lifting more than 3/4 of my own bodyweight. No wonder I have biceps like the Himalayas.

Anyhow, I digress. It's nearly time to leave my desk. This essay will get written, somehow, because it must. It just has to. I just have to.

Things are entirely on the up. Hoorah.

Finished another overdue assignment today. One more to go then I'm all caught up.

I'm pretty excited about September now. I never thought I'd be capable of finishing this degree - it's been so many years and such a battle. I'm now about to transfer onto a full time course again, and I'll graduate next summer.

The plan is to carry on after that with postgrad study, eventually a phd... That's slightly too terrifying to think about, I don't think I'll follow that train of thought right now.

No-one thought I could do it, least of all me. I was so ill for so long. Even since I've been (relatively) well, my head was such a mess it just didn't seem possible that I could be this focused and determined. Consider it a hangover from a decade of mental illness.

It's one of those sparkling days when the world seems fresh and nothing is too much trouble.

It helps that the sun's out, summer is here, and it's forever until autumn and the winter dark.

It occurred to me last night whilst chatting with friends just how disengenuous I can be. I never actually lie, but I allow people to make all kinds of assumptions, whilst never really revealing anything.

I have good reasons for doing this. Facts tend to invite questions, and there's a lot I'm not comfortable discussing, at least not publically.

The difficulty is, I do reveal some personal information. People therefore have the impression they know a lot about me, and I can see the doubt on their faces when I say something which doesn't quite match some assumption they've made. I probably come over as a compulsive liar.

Ah well, enough gloom, it's a beautiful day. Let's just enjoy the sunshine.

I have been writing in my head for days. Sketching words, diagramming sentences, constructing paragraphs in my mind. Every time I consider committing these thoughts to paper something freezes inside me. That spark of fear ignites which constricts my throat and tightens my muscles, until I think later, I’ll do it later and I can breathe again. There is always later.

And so I write piecemeal, as always. Taking breaks – playing pointless digitised card games and smoking endless cigarettes – because that’s the only way I can, and I’ll go crazy if I don’t.

I have had to conclude that the what is not important – the writing itself is the thing. That process which I must endure in order to commit thoughts to paper. I must practice. I must repeat and repeat until it becomes easy, or at least a habit. I am good at habits, after all.