I want a medal. I’ve done the washing up (granted mostly because my hands were cold and I thought it’d warm me up) and cleaned the backdoor. No, this is not a euphemism, I really have cleaned the back door. Scrubbed off splattered eggs to be more precise. For some reason the local kids manage to periodically drag themselves away from their Playstations, X Boxes, marijuana smoking and underage fumblings in alleyways to come and throw eggs at my house. Occasionally they go for a bit of variety and throw mud instead, but there have to be certain precise weather conditions for that.
Of all the hateful, scum sucking jobs in the world, cleaning off solidified egg has to be right there at the top of the list. I would know, I’ve got children and I’ve had to perform some doozies of cleaning jobs in my time. Once, my daughters covered themselves head to toe in my deep purple hair dye. Yes, I know, it’s my own fault for having it in the first place and for leaving it within reach, but sending them to school in various fading shades of red and pink as it gradually wore off was an experience in itself. The headmistress was most concerned for their welfare after that.
Is it any wonder I have a growing paranoia about being the local neighbourhood funny lady? It’s bad enough that I sit at my desk for a goodly amount of hours per day, slowly becoming like that pale, withered, slimy grass you find when you lift a rock up in the garden. I don’t have woodlice or earthworms on me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The actions of the local youth mafia are akin to posting a sign in my yard warning of evil within. Why eggs? Can anybody tell me what the fascination is? I’m tempted to go out and about lobbing a few myself to see if it’s something I’ve missed that might bring on that enormous sense of wellbeing that people go on about.
I suppose I’d better offer an update on the nail-bitingly scintillating crochet progress, eh? I sat myself down yesterday with some new yarn that I picked up in town. I thought it might be inspiring, and hoped it would be less splitty than the other stuff I had. It was also reduced to £1.50 per ball. It took an hour of hideous mess ups and nasty, woolly, skanky things rolling off the hook before I finally sorted myself out and produced anything that actually looked like crochet. There was a Youtube video tutorial involved, at which I yelled and cursed as the woman irritated me beyond measure. Talking too slowly, then too quickly, rambling on about her crochet hooks (see, I don’t call them needles any more) and being all condescending with me. She refused to stop when I made mistakes and I huffed and puffed throughout.
Eventually I managed to create the thing below, which I stuck onto a piece of paper and posted through Lynn’s front door. I think she’sproud of the end result, though she might be less so if she’d witnessed the process. It wasn’t that relaxed granny-by-the-fire-with-cat-at-feet-and-cup-of-tea-and-warm-smile thing at all. This is not how I pictured crochet.