Lately, I have found myself not content to wait for the Yarn Harlot's next exciting installment, so I have gone right back to the very beginning of her blog archives and decided to read them one at a time. All of them.
Anyone who knows me even just a little, knows of my reading 'thing'. My mother would say on a regular basis when I was a kid, "Oh, Jenny would read the back of a bus ticket if she couldn't find anything else". And it's true. When I go back to Mum and Dad's, the first thing I do is sift through the mass of magazines and pattern books that Mum collects and leaves on the coffee table. I'm useless if there's something even remotely interesting to read, and a damn near write-off as a human being if there's a Harry Potter within my reach.
And so, I am entertaining myself while Wonderboy is napping with 'Get This' podcasts, and catching up on all there is to know of the Harlot that I didn't already know. It's fascinating - I now know the origins of The Gansey that has plagued the Harlot's life for so very long. Very interesting.
Which leads me to spinning, and my lament that despite having spent money on Ebay for my lovely Ashford wheel, having collected big bags of fleece to spin on said wheel and having pinched my mother in law's handcarders to card said fleece, I don't think I'm ever going to learn to spin. That sounds a little fatalistic, I know. But hear me and my defeatism out. Here are my thoughts behind this decision:
1. I'm not even currently knitting right now. I should be knitting right now, but I'm not, I'm dicking about on the computer (although let's face it, the main reason for me to not be knitting is that as much as I love knitting baby clothes for my friends and their bubs, and I love how soft the yarn is, this is the fourth white stocking-stitch baby hat I've knit this year. I am sick to death of it, and I'm also sick of tiny, tiny needles. The only thing that keeps me at it is the glorious promise of The Next Project) and if I can't even get my arse in gear to continue my beloved knitting, what hope do I have of making time to learn spinning?!?
2. Even though we are ensconced in our lovely new house, which has considerably more room for us and our crap, I have very quickly found that as Wonderboy has become older and more mobile, any space 'for me' is quietly and quickly shrinking. Even my bedside table is no longer my own - I have to keep anything of mine up and out of the way of my little marauder. And so the lovely Ashford spinning wheel has been carefully placed in the room in our house affectionately known as 'the study'.
3. 'The study' is full of any crap we haven't put away yet after the move, plus two desks and Pete's computer, which just breeds crap. I stay away from this room for fear that one day I might go in and never come out again. It has become Pete's territory, and so my poor little wheel is buried right at the back. All the fleece I procured has been shoved under my bed (I was frightened it might get chucked out when I wasn't looking - it's in a kind of Alpaca fleece protection program for its own safety), and so I'm not sure I could get all the stuff I need out to spend any decent length of time spinning.
4. I am a total wussbag. I don't want to try till I've taken some lessons in spinning from someone who knows what they're doing. I bought some books, researched on the Internet (cause I like reading, remember?) but I just don't feel... confident. I know, this is spinning wool, not driving a road train, but... ugh. And do you think I can find any lessons anywhere near my local area?
*sob* I'm waiting for the violins to start playing... hehehe.
While I continue 'not knitting' and wait for the Pity Police to come and take me away, here are some photos of someone who's really doing it tough.
This is Wonderboy, who has of late taken a real shine to any and all new technology in the house. His favourites were phones (mobile and landline cordless, he's not picky), but the proviso was no imitations or substitutions. This kid ain't stupid. He knows that Pete's phone is the most up-to-date of any in the house and if he wants to 'talk' to Nana, he wants to be doing it on that phone. Lately, his techno-lust has extended to my camera, and the following four shots document one little boy's descent into rage as his awful, awful mother refuses to hand over her camera:
1. Making pre-emptive cranky sounds
2. Letting the local district know how unhappy he is (imagine birds flocking out of nearby trees)
3. Hands clenched, shaking with rage
4. That's it woman - you've had it!
Till next time... I'm going to start looking for a spinning guru to whom I can attach myself... cleave to, if you will.
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