Support Gansey Nation -
Buy Gordon a cuppa!
Many, many thanks to those of you who have already contributed!
|
 It was a cold, wet, dreary autumn afternoon, and the three Fates, rulers of men’s destinies – let’s call them Snap, Crackle and Pop – were bored. Earlier, they’d tricked some angels into trying to dance on the head of a pin, it being one of the modern rounded ones so they kept flying off, but it was some hours now since the angels had left in disgust.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Snap said suddenly. “Why don’t we tribulate that Reid chap some more?”
Pop frowned. “Reid, Reid… Didn’t we give him boils and kill all his goats?”
“No, that was Job.”
“Oh yes, the one James Bond electrocuted in Fort Knox.”
 Waves breaking over the lighthouse Crackle sighed. “No, that was Oddjob. This one’s the knitting feller. Why, the last few years alone we’ve given him macular degeneration, a sinus infection, a chest infection and an elbow infection.”
“And don’t,” Snap added, “forget the three cancer scares.”
“Three?” Pop asked.
“Yeah, you remember: vocal cords, lymph nodes and thyroid. Remember when they tried to do that biopsy via the throat and we nudged the doctor’s elbow and triggered that epileptic fit?”
“Oh yeah. Man, that was funny. I was eating breakfast, I laughed so hard I had cornflakes coming out my nose. The last time I saw projectile vomiting like that was an anniversary screening of The Exorcist.”
“Here, hand me that medical dictionary,” Snap said. “There must be something fun we haven’t given him yet. Let’s see, A, A… anthrax, hmm, maybe not.” He looked up. “What about amnesia?”
Pop shook his head. “No point. The guy already can’t remember what day of the week it is, give him amnesia he’s not even gonna notice.”
 High seas at South Head “Got it!” Snap cried. “Anaemia! He hasn’t had that yet.”
Crackle leaned forward and, in a burst of nominative determinism, loudly cracked his knuckles. “Well, he has now…”
All of which rather explains why I shall be visiting Inverness hospital this week for a battery of tests. For it turns out that yes, I do indeed have anaemia, so much so that the doctor who gave me the news advised me to avoid unnecessary exercise like walking or driving until I can see the consultant on Tuesday. On the plus side, at least it explains why I’ve been so tired and run down lately. Hopefully it’s an easy fix, but first they have to try to pin down what’s causing it, and why it’s come on so suddenly. In the meantime, I’m counting my blessings. After all, I suppose, at least it’s not anthrax…
 Happy Halloween!
 For a time there, I thought we might get away with it. Storm Babet had barrelled in on Wednesday night, winds up around the 50-70 mph mark, shaking the windows and rattling the walls like someone taking Bob Dylan way too literally, and three days later it was still at it, but by that point there had been surprisingly little rain. Then Saturday afternoon the rain arrived, and boy did it make up for lost time. As I discovered to my cost, standing outside got you soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. For a brief moment I thought of copying Gene Kelly and start singin’ and dancin’ in the rain, but Gene didn’t have to contend with winds like the exhaust of a jumbo jet; besides, there weren’t any policemen around to see me, so what would be the point?
 The day before the storm Of course, it’s always windy in Caithness, if not usually this windy. That’s the main reason we don’t get midges: the little beggars can never get a foothold because as soon as they poke their tiny noses out the front door, whoosh, next thing they know they’re in Scandinavia. (I never quite recovered from reading that midges make their bites with minuscule teeth. I’d always assumed they operated like mosquitos using the jab-and-suck principle, but no: having lacerated the skin, they then roll up their mouthparts into a tube and use that to suck up your blood. Hmm. By coincidence I’ve got a blood test coming tomorrow at the doctors’, and all I can say is, if the nurse makes a sudden dart at my arm with her teeth, I’ll be ready.)
 Wick Outer Harbour on a calm day In parish notices, Penelope has sent in a picture of another cracking gansey. This one is based around patterns from Filey, double moss stitch diamonds flanked with Betty Martin and cables. It’s a classic combination of patterns, and more proof in any were needed that Yorkshire patterns rock. It’s knit in Frangipani Greystone, possibly my favourite Frangipani shade, which really shows the pattern off nicely. Many congratulations to Penelope, and many thanks to her for sharing.
 Masts reflecting in the harbour And now it’s Sunday, the storm has finally passed, and we look out on a drowned world, shining in the weak autumn sun. The fields, those of them that aren’t actually underwater, are waterlogged. Everywhere looks bedraggled. The roads are littered with broken branches, twigs, and leaves, and a new peril has arisen: the flooded roads hide the potholes like camouflage to trap the unwary. Still, water tends to stream off the promontory of Caithness like breakers off the prow of a ship, so I expect it will subside soon. Though I wonder if this what Noah must have felt when he finally made it back to land—relief that it’s over, coupled with dismay at all the tidying up to be done…
 Well, I’m back, as Sam the Hobbit says at the end of The Lord of Rings; but whereas he’d just seen the last of the elves and wizards of Middle Earth sail away to the Undying Lands, I was at a conference in Stockholm, considering issues around archiving records of nuclear waste. And I honestly don’t know which of the two of us, Sam or me, got more emotional in the end.
I knew I was going to like Sweden right from my immigration interview. The lady behind the counter asked me the purpose of my visit, and I told her about the conference. She wrinkled her nose and said, “Waste?” So I explained I was an archivist, and was there to discuss records. “Records, huh?” she said, and gave her computer monitor a dismissive flick of her finger. “So what do you think about these things?” she asked. “Trouble,” I grinned. She slammed her palm down on the desk in delight, and exclaimed, “Finally! Someone who agrees with me!” And with a flourish of her stamp, I was in.
 Margaret visited the museum of the Vasa shipwreck Mind you, I had to wait till my return to Britain for my most surreal conversation. While we were waiting to depart from Heathrow in the departure lounge, I caught my shin (tibialis anterior) the almightiest crack against one of the fold-down tables the chairs at the ends of the rows have. It made quite a hole, and such was the force of the impact, and the intensity of my howl of anguish, several windows shattered, and pigeons took flight to a radius of several miles. Well, a couple of weeks later the wound still looked pretty nasty, so I went to the chemist and asked their opinion. The charming young assistant heard me out, then rather nonplussed me by asking if I had a picture of it with me. “No,” I told her, “but I have brought my leg, if that’s any good…”
Meanwhile, in parish notices, Judit has come up trumps again. This time she’s knit a Flamborough design, taken from page 68 of Rae Compton’s book, a very pleasing combination of open diamonds and double moss stitch, in light blue. It looks great, and, as ever, many thanks and congratulations to Judit for bringing another pattern back to life, and for sharing.
 . . . and went on a tour of Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s Old Town GETTING MY EXCUSES IN EARLY
So, let’s get this out there: sure, I’ve almost finished the back but, you may think, that doesn’t seem like a lot of progress for nearly a month’s absence, does it? And you’d be right. But apart from all the time spent conferencing and travelling, I do have a couple of excuses.
 Part of the reading room at the National Archive of Sweden First of all, not only did I come back from Sweden with a lot of happy memories, I also brought back a nasty cold. This flattened me out so much that when I got back, for the best part of a week I didn’t have the energy to even lift my arms enough to knit. (I’m much better now, but I’m still a bit behind the curve.)
The other reason is that, when I did start knitting again, I made a mistake all along a row, but didn’t notice at first. By the time I did spot it, I’d knit another 2.5 inches, i.e., over two days’ worth. I did all the usual things—looked at it from different angles, held it further away, tried shutting one eye—in the hopes it wouldn’t be noticeable. But it was. In these cases, there’s really no alternative but to rip it back and re-do it. So that’s what I did. It hurts at the time, but it’s better than leaving it uncorrected. And, as the poet says, we rise upon the stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things. (Still can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner, mind.)
|
|
It was a cold, wet, dreary autumn afternoon, and the three Fates, rulers of men’s destinies – let’s call them Snap, Crackle and Pop – were bored. Earlier, they’d tricked some angels into trying to dance on the head of a pin, it being one of the modern rounded ones so they kept flying off, but it was some hours now since the angels had left in disgust.
