Tag Archives: miscellaneous wurbling

Oh, not again!

Why do things happen in clumps? I mean, when one thing happens – say someone reversing into your car – why is it then followed by other things? And why do these things happen when you’re already busy?

(Warning: there is no, or very little, actual knitting content in this post. There aren’t even any sheep. Because when other things were going pear-shaped, at least the knitting held up. And nobody actually reveresed into my car. I reversed it into a fence post getting out of the way of a caravan – it’s December, people, FFS – but it was slow and nothing was damaged.)

All in all, I needed a bit of refreshment. So, dealing with Disaster 3, I decided to take the back way to the big city – that would be Bangor – and get a bit of a reminder that there were good things too.


This is Nant Gwynant, and it is so beautiful…

So, Thing 1. Just before work, I went into the bathroom. The sink was full of glass, broken glass. First thought? I’d broken a tooth glass. Second thought? I do not have a tooth glass.

Looked up. Inner layer of Velux window had failed.

Spend ages putting cardboard up so more glass does not descend, place hoover across door so don’t forget about glass, go to work. Come back, replace cardboard which has fallen down, hoover glass. Repeat three hours later. Repeat next morning, before ringing home insurance. Apparently there was a product recall for these windows manufactured at a certain time. Ring Velux. My window is one. Will be replaced. Fast forward a few days, man from Velux appears. Replaces bathroom window. Checks massive double Velux in kitchen roof – and they need doing too. It’s about 4 metres up, but he’s prepared though a little surprised. (I am trying to work, meanwhile, and there is some, er, disruption.)

Time for pretty pic.


OK, Thing 2. Have heating engineer here trying to work out why one rad has stopped working. This is going smoothly, even though it involves a hosepipe through the front door and black gunk in the garden, when my MacBook Pro decides to have a kernel panic.

This is my first. Run around room shouting ‘someone’s taken over my computer!!!’ until I stop and see the giveaway screen box on top of the chaos. Restart MBP. All seems well, but am not fooling self – really need extra memory. Unfortunately I am the Queen of Static so this will need doing by someone who does not rule the electric realm. Think a female version of Thor, but without the cloak and the muscles. And the facial hair. Hammer, mind, I could do with a (}#%$!! hammer. Now.

Another calming shot.

Llanberis Pass

Thing 3: Sodding washing machine decides to have its annual near-Christmas collapse. I know how it feels, but I do not stop in mid cycle with a load of ringing wet bedding inside, with all my lights flashing, making a terrible noise, and then refuse to give up my prize of a partly washed duvet, sheet, and pillowcases to their rightful owner. However at least it did not do it on Boxing Day this year, and I did find a hammer and released my washing through the exercise of physical violence.

And this is why I found myself driving around the base of Yr Wyddfa / Snowdon, avoiding a strolling family of wild goats, even though I suspected I would actually get my new machine from my lovely local retailer. As I have. It arrives tomorrow.


And the craft fair went fine, thanks. But my takings are going on a new washing machine. Oh yes, and on top of all that I developed a lung infection that I thought was just my usual winter athsma until it was a bit late, so I’ve been on heavy-duty antibiotics. I have now finished the course so I can hit the GIN, and boy do I need the €$^#{\!!! gin.


Earworms and felted bags

I need to apologise for this, but just in case you thought I was getting a bit sensible… and I accept no responsibility for the consequences, by the way.

I clicked onto Facebook yesterday, and a friend of mine who lives inland was lamenting the presence of an earworm – she’d popped out to feed her hens, seen that the Moelwyns were looking spectacularly blue in the early light, and started channelling Laurel and Hardy with a slight adaptation – ‘In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Ffestiniog / in the shade of the lonesome pine…’. All. Day.

I felt (ouch – wait for it) for her, because I’d also been suffering. Only I’d been channelling Gilbert and Sullivan, and I don’t even like Gilbert and Sullivan. And I’d been singing to some cute felted bags I’ve been making for a commission. At least she’d been singing to something animated: her hens.

Think Mikado, OK?


Three little bags from Wales are we,
Fat as a felted bag can be,
We’re really sweet, not ‘ach a fi’,
Three little bags from Wales…


Three little bags which slightly vary,
Due to the kemp we are still quite hairy,
Even so, we are soft not scary,
Three little bags from Wales,
Three little bags from Wales…


There is more, but personally I would like to get through the day without conjuring up visions of dancing bags in Japanese wigs (though it is worth clicking on the YouTube rendition of ‘Three Little Maids’ which involves Lily Savage, who is surprisingly restrained but a good antidote to the cod geishas which populate amateur versions – and some professional ones – of The Mikado).

Oh, and ‘ach a fi’ (‘fi’ is a ‘vee’, not ‘fee’ sound), in case you didn’t know, is a Welsh expression of disgust. Quite.

So. Small bags knitted in a 100% pure wool – Hebridean, in this case, with a stripe in some left-over New Lanark Falklands wool – and felted. Stuffed with newspaper,


which you can just see here, to give them a nice rounded shape, then dried on a radiator during a brief period (soon to be back) when the heating clicked on. Buttons added, labelled, packaged and delivered, all to the accompaniment of fecking Gilbert and fecking fecking Sullivan. And if WordPress changes ‘fecking’ to ‘decking’ once more I will hunt them down and sing to them.

(I haven’t been this irritated by an earworm since the time slugs drove me to rewrite the national anthem. They did, honest.)

Silence is golden… and my broadband is irritating

Apologies for the lack of activity, but the fact is that since before Easter our broadband has been abominable. Partly this is down to the massive population explosion – all with phones and tablets and laptops and even smart TVs in their caravans – that Snowdonia experiences in any holiday season, and partly this is down to ancient cabling.

I’ve been largely reliant on free broadband in cafés – and pleasant though this may be, it’s not really an environment conducive to peaceful, thoughtful, incisive blogging about sheep. You get comments, apart from anything else. But on Monday the road is being excavated on behalf of BT Broadband for new ducting and ‘improvements’. This is essentially happening because there are some new houses being built, but I’m hoping there’ll be an upside for the rest of us. We shall see.

In the meanwhile, this is me and Rumplestiltskin waiting for a site to load:

Rumpelstiltskin / BTI suppose I could do some housework.

Normal service will be resumed shortly… gobeithio (extremely useful Welsh word, meaning ‘hopefully’). Hopefully.

(And as an indication, it has just taken me nearly an hour to post this, and that’s without searching for the image; I had it in my files. AGH!)

Woooooooo – what to do?

OK, I’ve been thinking about this, and I’m coming clean. There’s another reason why I’ve not been posting much lately and, at the risk of sounding like a 1980s pop song (thanks, Rockwell), ‘I always feel like someone’s watching me / and I have no privacy…’


Yup, and homage to Tarkovsky, his moustache and his extraordinary 1979 film Stalker – I’ve got one. A cyber stalker, which is making life difficult. (I’m going to break the rules of grammar and use the third person plural to refer to this person – I haven’t lost my editorial mind, BTW – but their gender is, thankfully, not relevant here.)

In all fairness, I think X is fairly harmless. It’s not a question of a maniac ex-partner, but of someone I knew years ago with problems, and with whom I have had little or minimal contact for over ten years. I don’t think it’s much more than (faintly) innocent obsessive behaviour, but it is creepy and it is getting worse. This person – thankfully – lives hundreds of miles from me, and I honestly don’t believe that they even think of what they are doing as ‘stalking’. To them it’s probably what friends do. No, they don’t. But it is what stalkers do, so let’s name it for what it is.

Following what someone else does online in an obsessive way – rather than in a ‘you’re my mate/relative and I’m interested in what you’re doing and want to intact with you as I do in the real world’ way – is a form of stalking. ‘Liking’ their every post or share or comment on Facebook is stalking. Trying to ‘friend’ their contacts is stalking. Retweeting their every tweet is another form of stalking. In short, it’s all stalking.

I’ve been talking to people about it, but the online community might understand the situation differently, so what do you think? Anyone had the same experience? (This is an iffy area, so I’m monitoring all comments on this post, BTW, as opposed to just new ones so you can say what you want about your own stalking experiences. Absolutely nothing will be published without my approval whether you’ve commented here before or not, and I will close comments after a week. Please say in your response whether you wish your comment to be published, and if not I’ll reply direct rather than in the comments.)

Right, this is what I’ve been advised to do so far, and what I’ve done.

I’ve been ignoring it – advice #1.
This has not worked. Yes, doing anything else gives X ‘the oxygen of publicity’, the attention they want and an importance they do not deserve, but ignoring the situation permits them to continue as though I hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Yesterday I spent a long time on social media, building my business presence, and I could actually ‘see’ X tracking what I was doing, across several profiles. My friends do not need X’s attention, and my clients certainly do not, so I did a bit of blocking and tailoring of my profiles and tweaking the level of access on certain sites. I cannot completely block X from everything, because that’s not the way the world works in practice, not when you’re trying to work online and build a decent business profile for new and existing clients. Also, I am beginning to despise myself for not confronting the issue (but see #3, below). I feel that unless those of us who experience this sort of behaviour do call it out, creepy people have a licence to carry on doing what they’re doing. They’re getting away with it.

Another suggestion is to make myself anonymous or effectively leave t’internet, advice #2.
First, why should I? I enjoy my online life. And how could I? My work is online. I cannot – as another victim of this person’s unwanted attention did – take myself offline. Nor can I simply return to online life under another name (as the other person did). It’s a long-standing problem, and I did take myself off Facebook years ago because of it, but the world has changed, and so has my business. At that time I effectively built several different online personas – this is one – in order to give myself a bit of privacy, but I don’t see that lasting. And I can’t use them for my work.

Advice #3 is to confront X.
The problem here is that I feel that doing this really would be giving X what they want – actual contact, direct contact. Also X definitely has, and evidently always did have, some sort of mental health problem – but it’s not my problem and I don’t want to make it so. Someone who knows us both from years ago (neither of us have actually seen X for over a decade) said ‘don’t get dragged into X World again’ – and I’m not going to. I’ve been there before, trying to help, and it’s not a good place. That’s another reason for protecting my clients and some of my friends from contact with X (some friends will be fine – they’ll just ignore it – but some will not, and I did lose a major client last time; that’s not happening again).

Part of me believes that if X knew how other people saw their behaviour – maybe that their cover had been blown, that what they were doing was indeed stalking, and that they weren’t just a respectable person with a high-powered job but were also going so far online that they fell into the sleazeball category – they would be appalled. And that’s in part why I’m writing this now. The other reason is that people don’t talk about it. We should. My stalker is, I am certain, innocuous if unsettling and rudely intrusive. Other people’s stalkers may be much more serious.

COMMENTS ARE NOW CLOSED ON THIS POST – thank you, everyone, for your support!

Ten guilty pleasures, part the second

Still waiting for specialist’s appointment, so time to fit in a few more guilty pleasures between painkillers and bouts of feeling dizzy. What do we want? Neck transplants! When do we want them? Now!

Of course, feeling like crap warmed up doesn’t stop me indulging in pleasure number 6. It should, but it doesn’t. It has stopped me going to Wonderwool Wales next weekend – though in fairness, other factors have been involved there. So why shouldn’t I go for GP6? Hm?

fluff6. Buying yet more yarn.

I know, I can’t knit much. I know, I’ve got plenty in my stash. I know that I shouldn’t. But – and I’m not making excuses here, honestly – I needed another ball or two of silk/mohair to make a scarf from my latest pattern book purchase. I was given a multicoloured ball, partly unwound, and added the orange; the blue and red come from the stash. So I am using stash as well. Or I would be if I wasn’t emitting so much static at the moment that actually using a yarn as flighty and floaty as Kidsilk Haze is almost impossible. So why am I justifying myself? Well, possibly because of this:


Noro Kureyon Sock. Bought to knit another shawl from the recent purchase because I was emitting so much static etc, etc, etc…

I decided I wanted to move out of my colour comfort zone a bit. Blues, jades, purples: not my usual choices. But very cheerful to those awaiting neck transplants and/or results of MRI scans so they can safely get on with flipping physiotherapy / osteopathy and stop the room whirling or their heads exploding.

Enough already. I think I need another pleasure. Ah, yes.

7. Sweets.

I know I’m not alone in this. Books have been written confessing to a passion for sweets; programmes have been devoted to them, on both TV and radio. Traditional local sweets have been tracked down and saved from oblivion. The Scottish boiled sweet tradition (Hawick balls, anyone?) has been celebrated. But my current weakness is Fruitella:


Nostalgia is a major factor. From milk bottles (never liked those) to soor plums, from cherry lips to Black Jacks which turned your tongue deep purple, from flying saucers to sherbet fountains – you could blow sherbet at your friends through the liquorice stick – the sweets bought on the way home from school have a special resonance for years. Haribo sours? Yum. But you do have to be careful. It’s not just a question of what you like, or it isn’t for me. Many of the chewy, fruity sweets for which I have such a weakness involve gelatine. And I don’t particularly want to be eating pork or beef gelatine in my gummy bears. And yes, I do limit myself!

Wicked Lady8. The Wicked Lady.

Not the dire Michael Winner (ye gods!) remake, but the 1945 original with James Mason and Margaret Lockwood (I keep confusing her with Margaret Rutherford for some reason, which conjures up a whole different vision, eek). I love this movie, possibly because James Mason is fantastic as the splendid highwayman Captain Jerry Jackson, or maybe because I seem to have developed a bit of a problem with actors named James: see point 5 of the previous post. There isn’t a wrong note in this bravura 1940s tale of Restoration Britain and of bold, bad Lady Barbara who inveigles her way into marriage with a rural nobleman and then takes to highway robbery and James Mason to assuage her boredom.

Margaret Lockwood

The acting is great if verging towards high camp at times; the sets are wonderful – the frost fair defined my conception of Restoration London for years – and the costumes are frequently amazing. In fact, extensive reshooting was required for the US release as there was trouble with the censors over the decolletages. They are accurate to the period, and even understated if you check out the portraits of the ladies of Charles II’s court, but were far too low for 1945 America. I’m just amazed that Margaret Lockwood stayed in her bodices. Glue. Sellotape?

James Mason

The Wicked Lady was also quite bold in other ways – Barbara’s venality and cynicism, her ennui, her quite obvious use of sexuality and power, her (shock, horror) extra-marital affair with Jackson, depicted without real moral judgement – quite dreadful. And it was the most popular film with British cinema audiences in 1946.

Plus, of course, it has James Mason in it as a highwayman. I mean, purleease. That voice. The Alan Rickman of his time.

9. Lippy.

I suppose this ought to come here, because one of the most remarkable things for me about the portrayal of seventeenth-century Britain in The Wicked Lady is the perfect 1940s Hollywood makeup of Barbara the Bad (maybe it’s one of the ways you can tell she is bad – her lipstick).


In the 1990s, Philippe Delerm published a little book which everyone in France was reading – La  premiere gorgée de biere et autres plaisirs miniscules – about the small pleasures of his life: reading on the beach, Sunday evenings, the ‘trottoir roulant’ at Montparnasse station. Well, lippy is one of mine. It’s a specifically guilty pleasure because I’ve spent far too long searching for the perfect red. You know, the one that’s just right, that makes you look and feel great.

Then I found it.

Then Lancome discontinued it.

And if anyone out there has Lancome’s Rouge Cubiste sitting around, unused but useable, do let me know. In the meantime, I’m still hunting. Your skin tone doesn’t stay the same for ever, and there’s no guarantee it would still suit me…

10. Magazines.

It’s Saturday, I’m in town early, I’ve done some shopping and I fancy a coffee.


So I buy a magazine to read with my drink. I’m careful; I like to scan them first just to make sure there’s something I find interesting (I have managed to wean myself off the glossies and the home style mags, except in France where I buy the house beautiful ones like no tomorrow). Then I take my mag to the coffee shop, settle down – and discover that, oh, about 75% is devoted to ads. The worst offender is Garden Bloody Illustrated but I still can’t resist it when I flick through, and the best is British Archaeology, though that’s off the hook because it’s specialist. But I don’t seem to be able to stop buying GBI. They could help me, though – they could wrap it in plastic, because I don’t – er, by and large – buy anything I have to rip my way into before I discover it’s full of ads.

So that’s my ten guilty pleasures. I’m sure I can come up with many more, but possibly after my neck transplant…