Update on the wheatbag. Despite the previously mentioned needle scarcity I never lost sight of the achievable dream: to actually finish something.
It was to be a long wrappy-round-the-neck wonderful warming luxury. That's why I made it so damned BIG. It was born of 2 long sleeves from a dress I'd decided I hated, had dyed red, still hated, chopped off to be big top, and hated more but kept 'cos it was soft and a nice pattern and now a lovely red. Sewn together they looked kind of obscene, like really unpleasant baggy trousers, but I still had faith. Filled with oats and rice they were weighty, impressive, but this sadly exacerbated my slapdash sewing. But I had not given up. I had plans. In my head I worked out a great way to strengthen the joining seam without unpicking anything. And in my head it looked fab. All I needed was a little chunk of evening time in front of the telly and I would fulfill my ambition. I would finish something goddammit - and there would even be an extra treat at the end of the curling devotion, so damaging to my already aching shoulders - the finished product would be the cure for the labour! A heated embracing and pain-easing collar of joy. One might go so far as to say a triumphant circle of life type thang.
The evening came. The kettle boiled. My moment. So I lifted the giant soft red patterned sausage off the back of the kitchen chair where it had slumped for over a week, as gently as scooping up a sleeping baby. And then, as my slippers seemed to be filling with tiny snowflakes, I am once again slowly slapped back into the real world.
The recent noticable increase in mouse activity?
Happy fat little rodents on the rampage again, fueled by a plentiful supply of fresh oats, obligingly dangled in climbable reach by a total fuckwit.
There. Just in case you thought I was in danger of alienating my audience by an unheralded dose of success, I bring it all back home in the nick of time. Phew..... Business as usual - The Grand Failure. All delivered beneath the familiar inpenetrable crust of adjectives. Under which I hide my head in shame.
But not for long. Will have to speak to the garage tomorrow to find out more on my buggered driveshaft. Drive shaft. Boy Words - no idea. Only when they've fixed that can they test my brakes. Because obviously me saying 'the brakes don't work' is a bit too Girl Words. They need to prove it. In fact the question dear Mr Roving Blade passed on to me from the garagey boys today was whether 'I may have just thought the car felt a bit odd 'cos the drive shaft had gone.' 'Would that affect the brakes then?' I asked. 'No.' 'But the brakes didn't work.' 'Well they can't test the brakes 'til they've fixed the drive shaft.' 'Ooo-kaaaaay..... but the brakes....didn't....brake.' 'Well we'll speak to them again tomorrow.'
'Yes dear. YOU do that.'