It has been a dismal day; doing something silly was the most readily available anodyne. Luckily a stash of disposable overalls has, for reasons far too complicated to recount, been lurking in the back of a wardrobe for years.
My lack of skill in figurative art came out again in a horrible parody of that lovely weed, the germander speedwell.
But anyway I peacefully devoted half an hour to making myself ridiculous.
The blackbirds love me. Sorting out a hundred little plant pots is bunce for them. Not so for the toad hiding in one of them whose otherwise defunct contents I flicked into the garden.* Bit of a surprise to both of us.
Knitting in your sleep is all very well so long as you don’t start knitting to a previous similar pattern instead of the current one.
Undoing the section wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t for the cabling. Taking the whole jumper back would have been even slower and nearly as difficult.
The tension in panel C is a bit wrecked …
* No toads were harmed in the making of this post.
Further to yesterday: the only recipe for which I had flux available was one using alkaline frit. So I weighed and slopped and began to sieve and belatedly discovered that the lumps of frit were not dispersible conglomerations but solid as concrete. After bashing with half a brick they still looked like this:
A sealed pack of frit was also trying to turn itself into lumps, though not yet fully gone off. I have dolloped some of that into the mix (and it did more or less sieve through) but have no idea how much to add. The lumps I removed can’t be weighed accurately as they are now wet, and will also have bits of the other ingredients stuck to them.
Oh well – everything about the next batch of ware will be experimental, so what’s another experiment …?
Boss-eyed with e-books, working on an imposition scheme seemed restful, until the prototype went wrong for the third time.
The traditional method (poundage a little excessive):
Being impatient, I also tried the modern method, in spite of a curious smell, which might have been the microwaved elastic bands. It sort of worked; though it is surprising how much water there was in these few small specimens. At least it used up the stack of essay drafts as blotting paper, a fate that they well deserved.
it’s a seasonal thing at any time, but after a long … long … sabbatical it was odd to sit to the wheel again. In fact, so long that I am impressed that it still goes at all. Best £50 I ever spent.
And after what seems like weeks sorting out the workshop, it’s good to have some new ware to put in it. Miniatures, so I can fool around with some new techniques. Don’t know what they will be yet, but one might work.
The week was miscellaneous.
The end of an era:
Not the end but near the end, and not looking very promising at the moment:
A beginning: Beyond New Age is fairly well written:
Holocene – interesting, but, read in dribs and drabs over a year, it was difficult to keep the large picture in mind. Good words though – palynology, eustatic, oligotrophic, varves.
Winding up the experiment, I am left with a kitchen in a bag. It looks so useful, except I can’t think when it will be used:
It’s difficult to photograph things that aren’t there. Kindly imagine a piano-shaped absence.
It isn’t a word really. But a scrubulous weekend is what I had.
I returned to muggy days and sea mists
and scrubbed ten windows, three double sets of glass doors, and a conservatory. Both sides.
The seagulls were eyeing up the gleaming panes, sniggering to themselves. So it seemed a good idea to get in first.
I was a bit surprised by these lacy ones.
Now I am back in the attic nest with a lot of books about icons.
Being underslept, I had difficulty keeping a focus on the official business of the day.
It was distractingly easy to consider munchy ginger fudge, since they keep the fudge shop so handy to the cathedral. I leave it to each reader to decide on the wisdom of this policy. At lunch time thought became action.
A pamphlet: less obviously enticing. I was nonetheless tempted by this distraction, and was only prevented from some old-fashioned reading under the desk by the very small class size and my corresponding visibility.
Part of the day was spent contemplating hand sewing fine hems of muslin. Later I congratulated myself on the prescience which had caused me to pack pins.
And I have missed it.
We trekked slowly over the ankle-breaking flint cobbles, which at this beach are usually an unlovely shade of orange. The sea pinks’ sprightly defiance is always a welcome sight.
Returning, the falling tide made the upper edge of sand available to us, saving our ankles at the cost of having to nip suddenly up the shingle for the seventh wave.
I indulged in a few minutes’ smugness; the jokes about the Epistle of Barnabas don’t seem to have done much harm.
and possibly five pounds lighter, but at present it’s more a case of inward niggles, wondering which typo or howler has made it through the proof-reading. There has to be at least one. Also worrying slightly about the jokes.
Always risky, jokes. But once I had had the eating weasels rule pointed out to me, the Epistle of Barnabas just had to go in. And once the Epistle of Barnabas was in, one might as well have Warwick the Kingmaker as well (“Are you Edmund Mortimer? If not, have you got him?”) And then somehow The Sorrows of Werther crept into the general stirabout.
It may have been injudicious. I carefully remind myself: who cares what THEY think?