Yesterday I met up with my two crochet buddies. I still don't get it, we all sit around the table with our Master (well she is one) calling out the stitches, with us following, and somehow they both have lovely little pieces and I have a mangled, knotted heap. (Reminds me of "learning" violin in a group at junior school; the teacher would yell out the notes and we would randomly scrape away on the strings. Completely awful.)
So today I decided that maybe a few alterations were needed and set off for the charity shop where I found a handy little bag full of odds & ends of wool. I also Told the lady at the desk and we chatted about taking an opportunity when it arises.
Back home, struggling on with the crochet, I discover no discernible improvements. Whether I change the pattern, the needle, the wool, or even the colour I still get a distorted blob. The Finger of Suspicion is beginning to point at me.
All is not lost, at least I had a jolly chat on my journey back from town when I called in on a friend who was curious to hear about Homeopathy for Health in Africa and my plans to volunteer there. She then regaled me with her expedition to Milton Keynes theatre last night where she saw a modern take on The Taming of the Shrew. A good production but a bit raunchy, she said (especially as she was watching with one of the lady priests from our town). The stage is a bed, where all the action takes place; there is a chap waving his bum around a great deal and the Hero spends most of the time strutting around with strap-on dangly bits at the front. The irony was that on the way out they bumped into the other two lady priests from our town who had copped a far better view of the Hero from their seats at the front (but hadn't necessarily appreciated it).
No comments:
Post a Comment