First of all, I apologise for the poor quality of the pictures this week. You see, Margaret’s off on another of her jaunts to the States, leaving me to wipe up the cat vomit for once, and has left me without a camera, save for the one in my iPhone. (Actually, there is a camera, but the truth is I just don’t know how to use it. Apparently you have to press buttons and everything, I mean, come on.)
The cat has developed an annoying bleat over the last year, like a cross between a sheep who’s discovered from that her ram’s been unfaithful with other ewes, and a police siren. She’s taken to roaming the flat making this noise – sometimes it’s quite strident, a ma-waaaah!, like a triumphant seagull who’s just made you drop your ice cream; other times it’s utterly forlorn, and you hear it echoing from distant uninhabited rooms, and you imagine a cat who’s lost all hope, alone in a hostile universe, with nothing to do but cry herself to sleep at the inhumanity of man to cat. (She’s been doing it for seven minutes solid, since I started typing this, and my nerves are like shredded tin. Now she’s decided, oh, what the hell, I suppose I could just eat the damn food he put out for me after all, that’ll show him, the bastard.)
Last week I was woken up by that same cry from a distance of about three inches, as she had climbed up onto my pillow as I slept and leaned over my face like a dragon on a church steeple about to consume a town in flame, and let rip. This was at 5.00am. When I my eyes jerked open I found myself looking right up her nose, which isn’t the ideal way to start the day. Plus she could do with trying a different brand of mouthwash.
Anyway, in spite of the lousy pictures – which for some reason look like I’ve been dyeing the gansey with pastels (probably sunlight, come to think of it – it’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun I didn’t recognise it at first) – this last week’s seen some real progress. So hopefully you can see the shape of the yoke pattern, and last week’s geometry and algebra lesson begins to make a bit more sense. I’ve been immersing myself in The Count of Monte Cristo as an audiobook, all 50 hours of it, which is ideal for knitting to. (Well, that and all the violent dvds Margaret won’t let me watch usually, like Alien and Apocalypse Now, and The Little Mermaid.) The only problem now is I’ve started to talk with a slight French accent…
The cat’s off again – I can hear a despairing wail from the bedroom, as she realises once again that without an opposable thumb it’s a hopeless task to tie the belt on my dressing gown into a noose, plus I’ve taken her shoelaces away. So I’d better go and cheer her up by reading her some Dostoevsky. Or play with a piece of string. Both are good.