My aversion for spring-summer is well documented in my circles. Yet, there are things that I love about the warmer seasons. Mainly these:
I know that the yarn does not quite follow on from the first two; it’s not like it only grows in these colours at this time of year. It doesn’t, but my penchant for candy colours only surfaces around about April, like my longing for yet another escape to Paris, like a broodiness that creeps up on me as soon as the last few daffs shrivel and die. Come my birthday I will want to envelope myself into everything brown, gold, rusty, earthy; come spring I want to metaphorically throw strawberry and cream (or strawberry and Pimm’s) all over my living space, from the lounge and dining room which have been decorated with Christmas in mind (dragon’s blood walls and gold everywhere) to the study, which, in order to promote concentration and intellectual prowess, is all Venetian blue. I wonder why it is then that I cannot work in that room to save my life. I have got computers there (surely, they are part of their problem, even though I must admit that the Mac does not feel half as threatening as the PC), I have got sharpened pencils in all colours, lovely books, a soothing lamp and a creaky white wooden floor. Yet, I never manage to do anything in the study, other than fritter time away. I’ll tell you what, the places that really concentrate my mind are always outside of the house. Coffee places are ideal. There are people that need absolute silence to get to work; I am the opposite. Lock me up at home and I start fretting that life may be happening out there and that I am missing it all in here. In fact, I am writing this away from home. Proof? So there:
I never have coffee somewhere other than Starbee, unless, that is, I am somewhere where Starbee is too small and one cannot work in there without being knocked off the table multiple times. So I decamp at Costa, where there is more space, or at least there is in this one. Today I went out with the sole purpose to get some yarn for a chevron blanket. I found a pattern in Vintage Crochet, in fact it’s fair to say that I bought Vintage Crochet and decided to learn on the basis of chevron (or ripple or zig-zag or wavy, call them what you will) blankets alone. Of course, I feel entirely accomplished on the basis of having the pattern and the yarn and the hook... I am sure the skill will come. Just sitting next to the kit should be enough to let me imbibe the skills from the air, little particles floating up to me and getting into my brain kindly of an osmotic process still unknown to mankind at large.
I figured out that the £ 50 till receipt for the yarn (and that is for one third of the blanket, let me add) should be enough to kick me into action. That and the burning desire to turn up at the knitting group on a Thursday evening and being able to nod slowly and knowingly at the right opportunity and go: ‘aaah yes, rippppple blankets, aren’t theeeey looooovely’ just before whipping my masterpiece out of the bag on cue, all 87 shades of it, balls scattering all over, whoops and cheers and gasps reaching for the sky left and right like the watery walls of the Red Sea. ‘Steph, I didn’t know you were doing a blanket?! Last time I saw you, you couldn’t cast on!!!’. My false modesty in full gear, I would let rip of a little smirk like I am this great, meek thinker capable of so, so, so much more than I let in. ‘Yeah... well...’ eyebrow coyly arched, ‘I only just started it’. Meanwhile I am fingering the balls, re-arranging them in vases, on the side, on the table, in the bookcase, in the bowl. I mean, they don’t look that bad like this, right? Who says that I have to use them?