April is the cruelest month, according to TS Eliot. He was of course wrong: it’s February. January goes on forever but you get through it, wrapped in a hazy leftover glow from Christmas, and then you think, Well, at least February’s short, and then it’s practically spring, how bad can it be? And every year the answer is: pretty bad. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, gales, hurricanes, tornadoes, and in the immortal words of Dr Peter Venkman, “Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria!” In short, February sucks. I bet Eliot originally had February down as the cruelest month, except it didn’t scan.
We lost quite a few tiles off the roof over the winter, so last week the builder put up scaffolding so he can go up and replace them (though having grown up on too many westerns every time I hear the words “they’re building a scaffold” I get a sudden urge to skip town). It’s a huge construct of poles and planks, so that the side of our house now resembles a pocket medieval cathedral—though, with a rather pleasing touch of irony, they’ve not been able to actually start work yet because of all the ongoing gales and snow. I remember back when we lived in Northampton we lost a roof tile in a gale which landed smack on our car, parked in the street a little way away, doing a considerable amount of damage. It was just like one of the severer trials of Job, if Job had owned a natty red Nissan Micra, and had it wrecked by a roof tile which had blown off the top of his tent.
In parish notices I’m delighted to highlight another splendid gansey by Judit, this time in a very fetching shade of green. It’s the classic “Vicar of Morwenstow” pattern, one of my favourites, which uses simple light and shade to create distinctive blocks of colour, like looking at an aerial photograph of alternately ploughed fields, or, of course, a chess board. We ran out of superlatives long ago for Judit and her many ganseys, so this time I’ll just say many congratulations again to her, and many thanks for sharing it with us.
Surely it must be Spring?
My own gansey project is growing steadily. I’m pacing myself. (I nearly wrote, “because ‘measure twice cut once’ is my watchword”; but since it’s obvious by now that my watchwords are “close enough for jazz” and “will this do?”, on reflection I’d better not push my luck.) It’s a complicated pattern that requires concentration, so I’m taking it slowly. But the natural yarn shows it up a treat, a real Sunday best gansey in every sense.
And now, and with one eye on the events unfolding in Eastern Europe, I’m going to end with a classic Chinese poem from the Tang Dynasty, by the poet Li Qiao (lived 644-713). It’s called Wind, and—spoiler alert—it’s not just about the weather:
In autumn, leaves blown from trees, In spring, flowers opened in blossom; Passing over the river, a thousand-foot wave, Passing through the bamboo forest, ten thousand poles are bent.
I’ve been contemplating some pretty weighty matters this week. For instance, how did Darth Vader blow his nose? And what happened when he sneezed? In Return of the Jedi, when Luke takes off his helmet, you can see he clearly has a nose. Obi-Wan says that he is “more machine than man”, but I bet his sinuses were organic. Where did he keep his hankie? I’m not seeing a lot of pockets under that cloak—did he have a handbag for his car keys and spare change for when he felt like a packet of crisps from the Death Star vending machine? Maybe that little box in front of his mouth, which I always assumed was a harmonica the Emperor had thoughtfully fitted inside the helmet in case Vader ever felt like joining in a Blues session, was in reality a box of disposable tissues? So many questions; and that’s before you consider “bathroom emergencies”.
Jaunty pied wagtail on the harbour wall
And then there’s Batman, though of course he has a few other problems. For instance, if you look carefully you’ll notice that every incarnation in the role since Michael Keaton wears black eyeliner under the mask, otherwise he’d have a ring of pink around the eyes. But when he takes his mask off, there’s no eyeliner. I assume he keeps a stick on his utility belt along with the shark repellant and grappling hooks, for emergencies or maybe if he just feels like going clubbing. Or consider the Batmobile: it seems to be fitted with a jet engine and afterburner that shoots flames out the back. But imagine innocently pulling up behind Batman at a red light—when it went green and he floored the gas pedal you’d be incinerated.
In parish notices, Lee has finished his “Aran Islands Gansey”, which we featured a few weeks ago. Lee has kindly sent us some pictures of the gansey at rest and also being modelled, next to the celebrated curragh. Many congratulations to Lee on what looks to be a cracking gansey, and may it bring him many happy (and warm!) hours of—what exactly? Paddling? Rowing? Curraghing? (Lord, more questions…)
Waves crashing in on North Head
The Darth Vader/Batman questions also apply to astronauts. Imagine being the first man on the moon and finding yourself unable to appreciate the awe and mystery because you have an itch in your nose you just can’t scratch. Or sneezing and then missing the view because the inside of your helmet was spattered with *stuff*. And as for toiletry considerations, the early pioneers of space flight had to, er, fly by the seat of their pants. Some wore condoms—luckily they were all male—or else just went in their suits. On one test flight the astronaut Alan Shepherd had to do just this, leading to the immortal radio message to Ground Control: “Well… I’m a wetback now…”
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TECHNICAL STUFF
Yoke pattern – side panels
This is another gansey inspired by a photograph from the Wick Society’s Johnston Collection of old photographs, that of the fisherman Fergus Ferguson. I say inspired by because it’s not an exact replica. This is for two reasons: because the original, as ever, was knit to a much finer gauge than I can manage with my big, fat archivist fingers, and also because it’s been scaled up to fit me and not a slim Scotsman with the unfair advantage of a waist and Hercule Poirot moustache. Or sometimes it’s matter of preference. For example, on the lower body of the original, the zigzags mirror each other; I prefer the look of having them all running up the same way. I used a three-stitch moss stitch between the zigzags, where the original was slightly different. Anyway, Margaret charted out the pattern, and then we had a bit of back-and-forth to customise it to my tastes.
I’m knitting this one with some of Graeme Bethune’s lovely gansey yarn (or, to use his trading name, Caithness Yarns). It’s very soft. I shouldn’t be surprised, but so far I’m using up about as much as I’d expect to use with Frangipani. White is a great colour for these intricate patterns, especially in winter; because not only does it show them up superbly, but also I can actually see what I’m knitting for a change! I can’t tell you what a difference it makes.
I actually started this way back before Christmas, just a row or two each night, as a break from the darker ganseys I was knitting, and because once it was established the lower body required next to no concentration. I timed it so that I’d start the yoke just as I finished the dark navy project, so alas my slacking days are over now we’ve got to the fiddly bits.
It’s the Feast of St Valentine, and nothing speaks of esteem and affection like chocolates a finished gansey. As ever, it’s not until the gansey is completed, washed and blocked that you can see it in all its glory (though bearing in mind the yarn is navy and the season is still, alas, winter, seeing is a relative term here). As I mentioned before, this is the third time I’ve knitted this pattern in little over a year, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But if you think this is impressive, and it kinda is, the original was even finer and way more detailed, and I can only assume it was knit with spiderwebs on piano-wire needles.
Fishing for the next meal
I had an idea for a story the other day. Actually, I have lots of ideas; my problem isn’t so much the initial spark, as the subsequent graft and follow-through. Sometimes I think I should adopt the model alleged to have been deployed by Alexandre Dumas, Tom Clancy, or (mutatis mutandis) certain Renaissance painters: setting up a sort of factory where I start things off, then hand it over to a school of drudges who then write the other 150,000 words. It’s a model followed of course by many celebrities, whose biographies are written by journalists and based on a number of interviews.
Last year’s flowers
I was profoundly disappointed as a child to discover that that’s what was meant by a ghost writer: how much cooler, if creepier, I thought, if your book was written, not by some hired gun, but by the ghost of Charles Dickens, say, or Jane Austen. Though I suppose it would rather depend on whose spirit you ended up with. Get Jerome K Jerome or PG Wodehouse and your life becomes a sort of musical comedy; but summon the shade of Joseph “Laughing Boy” Conrad and you know it’s not going to end well, especially if you’re offered an African river cruise.
Ice on the river
But speaking of Charlie’s ghosts reminds me: I was going to tell you my idea. I was thinking of the end of A Christmas Carol, and of Tiny Tim; who, if you remember, “did NOT die” (something I can no longer read without hearing Rizzo the Rat saying, “Aw, isn’t that swell?”). Well, what if that came true? What if Tiny Tim—or Tim, as his wife probably called him, unless their marriage ended in disappointment—actually lived on, immortal, to the present day? You could make some telling social points, comparing Victorian London with the present day; he could even be visited by three spirits. It’s a concept full of promise. But I shan’t write it, not without a collaborator or the aforesaid school of drudges. Though even that is fraught with risk: the story goes that Alexandre Dumas once had a new book out, and mentioned it to his son. “Have you read it?” asked Dumas père. “No,” his son replied, “have you?”
It’s always gratifying when a gansey comes together and you wake up one morning to find it’s almost finished, the end clearly in sight. That’s the case this week, with just the last bit of sleeve and cuff to go. All things being equal I’ll finish it this week. This is the third time I’ve knitted this pattern in just over a year: it’s a bit of a shock to think I’ve probably knitted it more than any other except the classic Staithes/Henry Freeman of Whitby. And yet it’s such a great pattern I doubt if I’m finished with it yet.
Approaching Squall
Now, there are many disadvantages to growing old—hair loss, the lack of tunes in modern music, knees happening to other people—but this week I discovered a sinister new one: getting dressed while my mind is elsewhere, so that I put on back to front my—well, given children and pets might inadvertently see this blog, I shouldn’t be indelicate—let us say, my unmentionables. I didn’t notice right away, not till I was at work, which then required some nimble footwork in a toilet cubicle as I attempted to make the necessary adjustment without letting any scrap of clothing touch the floor. To an impartial observer I must’ve looked like someone trying to Morris dance while performing a striptease, something I must remember to suggest to the lads at the next practice.
And just what distracted me at the crucial moment, I hear you ask? (Or at least I would, if I hadn’t shut the window. I mean to say, it’s cold.) Reader, it was a new fountain pen.
Along the Path
A little over a decade ago I started treating myself to a new pen whenever I had something big to celebrate. (I never buy a fountain pen when I’m feeling down: not only would I bankrupt myself in a few weeks, I’d always associate them with sad memories; and I think writing with a nice pen should always be joyous.) So when I started my new role at work last month I ordered one I’ve had my eye on for a while. It’s my first Japanese fountain pen, and it’s a thing of beauty. But I really bought it because the barrel is transparent and lets you see how much ink is in there, and it fills using a vacuum method (basically, you stick it in some ink, depress a plunger and *insert technical information here* you have a barrelful of ink. At least I think that’s how it works).
Harbinger of Spring
I’ve accumulated a small collection of pens down the years, and each one takes me back to a particular time and place as surely as hearing an old record (from the time when people wrote music with proper tunes, I mean). I fear the tide of history is ebbing, and I’m in danger of being left stranded: by using a fountain pen, by telling the time by a pocket watch, by wearing a tie at work, by still occasionally listening to Larks’ Tongues In Aspic (Rolling Stone magazine: “You can’t dance to it, can’t keep a beat to it, and it doesn’t even make good background music for washing the dishes”). If so, I shall accept my fate with a good grace, and go to meet my maker proudly with bluish ink stains on my thumb and index finger…
April is the cruelest month, according to TS Eliot. He was of course wrong: it’s February. January goes on forever but you get through it, wrapped in a hazy leftover glow from Christmas, and then you think, Well, at least February’s short, and then it’s practically spring, how bad can it be? And every year the answer is: pretty bad. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, gales, hurricanes, tornadoes, and in the immortal words of Dr Peter Venkman, “Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria!” In short, February sucks. I bet Eliot originally had February down as the cruelest month, except it didn’t scan.
We lost quite a few tiles off the roof over the winter, so last week the builder put up scaffolding so he can go up and replace them (though having grown up on too many westerns every time I hear the words “they’re building a scaffold” I get a sudden urge to skip town). It’s a huge construct of poles and planks, so that the side of our house now resembles a pocket medieval cathedral—though, with a rather pleasing touch of irony, they’ve not been able to actually start work yet because of all the ongoing gales and snow. I remember back when we lived in Northampton we lost a roof tile in a gale which landed smack on our car, parked in the street a little way away, doing a considerable amount of damage. It was just like one of the severer trials of Job, if Job had owned a natty red Nissan Micra, and had it wrecked by a roof tile which had blown off the top of his tent.
In parish notices I’m delighted to highlight another splendid gansey by Judit, this time in a very fetching shade of green. It’s the classic “Vicar of Morwenstow” pattern, one of my favourites, which uses simple light and shade to create distinctive blocks of colour, like looking at an aerial photograph of alternately ploughed fields, or, of course, a chess board. We ran out of superlatives long ago for Judit and her many ganseys, so this time I’ll just say many congratulations again to her, and many thanks for sharing it with us.
