It's January, and it is currently pissing down with rain. Ah, England, and your endless weather. We're getting off lightly down here though. The North of England seems to have been almost entirely submerged by floods, rivers bursting banks, lakes overspilling, drains backing up and exploding thousands of gallons of filthy water into the streets, and of course "localised flooding."
Localised flooding is a concept which scares the bejeezus out of me, It basically tells us that regardless of any and all flood precautions you might take, the water WILL GET YOU. It might come up through your toilets and sinks, (see backed-up drains above) or through an air-brick, after you carefully sandbagged the front door, or, most alarmingly, via a re-invigorated underground spring, deciding to emerge through your kitchen floor.
That happened to a neighbour in our village a few years ago.
We live within sight of one river and several smaller streams, all of which are currently in spate. Thankfully we also have water meadows a little way downstream, onto which, as is intended, the rivers spill when they get too full, thus preventing all the houses being submerged. This is why it's a bad idea to build houses on flood plains.
Mr WithaY was sent a photo by a mate Up North which shows her in an inflatable dinghy IN HER KITCHEN, bobbing about on water which is almost as high as her worktops. Gah.
We have had (I think) three frosts so far this winter. There are daffodils already in flower, wasps and bees are still flying about outside, and the roses in my garden are still flowering. I have to take the decision to cut them back, but it seems such a shame when they are flowering. It's almost certain that there will be a month of icy Siberian weather in March or somewhen, when we least expect it to make up for this unseasonal mildness now.
I have a new Thing for 2016. I decided that the single biggest obstacle to me doing fun stuff is my own procrastination. I used to be creative in a big way, making re-enactment kit and so on, and I realised that the reason I was highly productive was that there was always a deadline to be met.
"I must get these shirts finished for May Bank Holiday."
"I promised to get this singlet to them in time for the banquet."
"I need to make fourteen fancy dress costumes by the end of August."
Once Mr WithaY and I stopped doing re-enactment, both the reason for making so much kit vanished, as did the timetable I worked to. Last year I bought half a dozen silk saris from eBay, washed and ironed them, and they have been neatly rolled up in my fabric basket ever since. I was full of vague plans to turn them into summer dresses, or shirts or something. So far, all I have managed is a pair of curtains and a cushion cover for my study. Not good enough.
The new Thing, then, is a sort-of mantra in my head. It is JFDI, which as you may already know, stands for Just Fucking DO It. Crude but effective, it means when I think about doing something, and go a bit wishy-washy, I just think "Oh JFDI" and then get on with it. So far it works beautifully.
It means that we no longer have a three-month-old heap of ironing looming balefully at me, my clothes have been sorted and thinned out and taken to charity shops, and I am working my way through my study in preparation for a big reshuffle at the weekend. I am going to move my sewing table to where my desk is at the moment, under the window, and thus have more light and a view for when I want to sew. My PC can sit on the other side of the room where there is less natural light, but now that I am not poring over lengthy Serious And Important Documents for work, I don;t need the desk under the window.
Small but important changes.
It's also an opportunity to chuck out a ton of old junk which has drifted into corners and onto shelves over the last few years. Oh, and properly clean the floor.
Onwards and upwards, people. JFDI.
Showing posts with label genius at work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label genius at work. Show all posts
Saturday, 9 January 2016
Saturday, 13 October 2012
Choppy
Hey, hello! Remember me? I used to post stuff on here fairly regularly. More than once or twice a month, anyway. I hope at least some of you are still hanging in there, waiting for something to appear. I'd still do it even if it was into an empty, echoing void, but it feels somehow friendlier to imagine one or two people reading what I write.
So. What's new with me, I hear you ask?
I now have TWO part-time jobs, as well as the fledgeling catering business, so my spare time is far more limited than it has been for the last 18 months or so. I'm really enjoying both jobs, one as a cook and one as a waitress/barmaid in a pub, both within walking distance, both of which get me out of the house and allow me to interact with lots of people.
The new business progresses slowly but steadily too. We've had some business cards printed, have advertising arranged in a local publication, and have a few jobs already in the calendar. We have to get some dull statutory stuff sorted out before we start "properly" but we've got plans for that too.
One of the things that needed doing was setting up an account with the local Cash and Carry store. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a Cash and Carry is a huge warehouse full of enormous ENORMOUS boxes of foodstuffs and catering/hospitality supplies which you buy at prices far below those charged in supermarkets. The idea is that businesses are able to effectively buy in wholesale quantities and thus make a profit when they retail the products, or use them in their hotel, or pub or whatever.
You have to have joined the organisation and have been sent a membership card before you are allowed to shop there, and in order to join the organisation you have to be able to prove that you have a business. So. It was a big day when I was able to go to Trowbridge and fill in all the paperwork which allowed me to take my giant industrial shopping trolley round the aisles.
Well. It's like Aladdin's Cave in there. If you imagine Aladdin's Cave to be full of 100kg sacks of rice, and giant multi-packs of cotton wool, and mustard in vats you could bathe in. We scampered round the warehouse in high glee, exclaiming over the things we found. Huge pots of jam. Teeny tiny pots of jam in packs of 100. Gallon jars of pickles. Ickle teeny tiny individual plastic containers of pickle, sold by the box of 250. Bazillions of napkins. Booze. Varied and interesting catering equipment. It was fantastic. Honestly*.
We loaded up the trolley with about 200 different things, including antibacterial hand-wash (pack of 6), a catering first-aid kit, some smart white aprons, a box of bars of dark chocolate**, assorted flours, sugars and butters, and headed to the checkout.
The system is basic but effective. A cheerful man with a hand-held scanner swiftly beeps everything in on the trolley, hands you the bill, and then you go across to a lady behind a glass screen to pay for it all.
The temptation is to spend far more money than you need to because everything is a BARGAIN. I will go infrequently, armed with a shopping list, otherwise any money I'd save on low prices will be negated by the sheer quantity of things I buy. They have ENORMOUS jars of Nutella. I'm only human.
I've also been buying BARGAINS at the farmers market. Most recently it has been ginger. I picked up a 12 kg box of fresh ginger for £2. TWO QUID.
Once the thrill of cornering the Wiltshire ginger market faded, I had to decide what to do with it all.
I've crystallized a lot, for sale as part of the catering business:
I made a batch of Japanese style pickled ginger, which I hope will turn pink in due course. The recipe promised that it would:
And, ahahahahahaaaaaaaa clever, I grated a lot of it, froze it in ice cube trays in 1-teaspoon portions, and now have them all bagged up in the freezer for when I need fresh ginger for something.
Some of the crystallised ginger has since been richly enrobed (oooh, get me) in dark chocolate, and I have to say it is pretty spectacular. I think a lot of people will be getting ginger-related gifts for Christmas.
One thing I learned: if you chop and peel a lot of ginger, it makes your fingers burn, and if you later rub yourself in the eye, it REALLY burns. So try not to do that.
Top tip there.
I've also made plum jam - 2 types - and my first ever batch of Chinese plum sauce. Readers, it is delicious; tangy, not too sweet, heavily scented with star anise. I will definitely buy another box of plums and make more.
As part of ongoing business development I bought a box of proper matching jars (and lids) in two different sizes, and it's amazing the difference it makes to see chutney or jam or whatever all in the same type of jar, rather than in recycled (as in the ginger above) pickle or mayonnaise jars.
What else? The dog, of course. She continues to be a delight, despite the occasional bout of stomach trouble. The colitis has cleared up now, and she seems to be back on top form. Although we did have The Day of Vomit the other week. I gave her her breakfast, which she scarfed down in a matter of moments, then promptly brought the whole lot back up again, in its entirety, onto the rug in the sitting room - the only carpet in the whole of the downstairs. Perfect target identification, dog, well done.
So, I thought "Ah well, she can wait till lunchtime now," and we carried on with our day. She ate her lunch and seemed fine for a few hours, dozing peacefully at the top of the stairs outside my study. I was working hard*** on the computer, and I thought she was fast asleep, until I heard odd wet slurping sounds. I went out onto the landing, and was greeted by a thick rope of dog vomit, consisting predominantly of grass, which the horrible, horrible animal was about to try and eat. Re-eat? Whatever.
I cried out in disgust, then (in even more disgust) picked up the solid lump-o'-vom and carried it outside to the bin. Gah.
Again, she'd managed to barf it all up onto the carpet, rather than either the tile, stone or wooden floors in the rest of the house. Well done, dog. She's so clever. I'm very proud. Here she is, placing her order for a walk.
"I'll take this one please. With extra cowshit for me to roll in, and a plentiful supply of grass to eat. Oh, and some partridges to startle. Make it so."
Good job we love her. She likes to sleep like this, stretched out against the sofa. It can't be comfortable, she's twisted like a corkscrew. That white thing under her head is her fleecy blankie that she brought with her from her parents' place when she moved in. She goes and fetches it from her bed when she wants to go to sleep.
I recently loaded Instagram on my phone. I can take brown 1970s stylee photos like a pro now. This is from one of our favourite walks:
Other news: I have had a drastic haircut. I know I mentioned it before, but here are photos. You lucky people.
I'm fortunate to have naturally thick, wavy hair, which has (mostly) retained its natural colour, apart from the occasional brilliant white one. As my hair is very dark, the buggers really show up. Bah.
For about the last 10 years I have had it fairly long, which I liked. However, a few weeks ago I was sitting reading a book, and I realised that my hair was irritating me. It had got long enough that when I leaned back in my chair, I leaned on it and pulled it, and when I leaned forward it fell over my face and got in the way. I went to put it up, and as I did so I thought "I always wear my hair up nowadays." It had got too long to wear down, so it was always clipped up off my face. And in a blinding flash of inspiration, I thought "Hey! I could have it cut off, and wear it loose again!"
I had 10 inches cut off. Look, here it is:
And here's the end result, please note the extra-attractive red anxious face. Hair is much shorter, and I think rather excellent. It's easier to manage, only takes 5 minutes to blow-dry rather than 25, and if I brush it upside down it looks like I've spent ages styling it. So. Hurrah for impulse decisions that pay off.
It occurred to me several days after I had it cut that I could have saved all the cuttings (clippings? trimmings? whatever) and donated them to that charity that makes wigs for children who've lost their hair. I was really cross that I hadn't thought of it at the time, as my hair was un-dyed, un-permed and in jolly good nick. Next time I have a lot off I will do that.
Other head-related news: Mr WithaY made a fox hat.
He worked very hard on it, cleaning and treating the skin to make sure it wasn't going to rot or shed, and then designing the hat, cutting it out, and sewing it together by hand. I refused to let him use my sewing machine, I have to admit.
Anyhoo. One evening when I was working in the pub, he came in for a drink and was telling the chaps at the bar about his new hat. They encouraged him to go and fetch it to show them. He did so.
They, being farmers and robust Wiltshire country chaps, were very interested in how he'd turned a dead fox into an item of attire, so Mr WithaY was explaining the process. I and the (much, much younger) barmaid listened in.
Mr WithaY: ...so once you've cleaned the skin, and dried it a bit, you have to tan it, which takes ages.
Farmers: Oh yes. Yarp. Oo-aarrrr. (etcetera.)
Mr WithaY: ...and once it's been tanned you can start cutting it out.
Youthful barmaid: Tanned?? What....with fake tan? Why did you do that to it???
I think she was imagining Mr WithaY trying to do a makeover on the fox. Some fake tan. Eyelash implants. Painted claws. Vajazzle the tail a bit.
I'm afraid I bellowed with laughter in a most unladylike manner, and had to go and stand far away till I'd stopped.
Continuing the wildlife theme, the mole has been wreaking havoc in the front garden. Not content with building a scale model of Silbury Hill in the middle of the lawn, he seems to have reconstructed the entire Western Front trench system in the flowerbeds, and thrown up several smaller hills around the edges.
Bastard.
Life is, in the main, very good. We're both still enjoying life away from the full-time rat race treadmill thing, and are finding plenty to do to occupy ourselves.
*We don't get out much
**For making cakes. No, really.
***Playing World of Warcraft. I know, I know.
So. What's new with me, I hear you ask?
I now have TWO part-time jobs, as well as the fledgeling catering business, so my spare time is far more limited than it has been for the last 18 months or so. I'm really enjoying both jobs, one as a cook and one as a waitress/barmaid in a pub, both within walking distance, both of which get me out of the house and allow me to interact with lots of people.
The new business progresses slowly but steadily too. We've had some business cards printed, have advertising arranged in a local publication, and have a few jobs already in the calendar. We have to get some dull statutory stuff sorted out before we start "properly" but we've got plans for that too.
One of the things that needed doing was setting up an account with the local Cash and Carry store. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a Cash and Carry is a huge warehouse full of enormous ENORMOUS boxes of foodstuffs and catering/hospitality supplies which you buy at prices far below those charged in supermarkets. The idea is that businesses are able to effectively buy in wholesale quantities and thus make a profit when they retail the products, or use them in their hotel, or pub or whatever.
You have to have joined the organisation and have been sent a membership card before you are allowed to shop there, and in order to join the organisation you have to be able to prove that you have a business. So. It was a big day when I was able to go to Trowbridge and fill in all the paperwork which allowed me to take my giant industrial shopping trolley round the aisles.
Well. It's like Aladdin's Cave in there. If you imagine Aladdin's Cave to be full of 100kg sacks of rice, and giant multi-packs of cotton wool, and mustard in vats you could bathe in. We scampered round the warehouse in high glee, exclaiming over the things we found. Huge pots of jam. Teeny tiny pots of jam in packs of 100. Gallon jars of pickles. Ickle teeny tiny individual plastic containers of pickle, sold by the box of 250. Bazillions of napkins. Booze. Varied and interesting catering equipment. It was fantastic. Honestly*.
We loaded up the trolley with about 200 different things, including antibacterial hand-wash (pack of 6), a catering first-aid kit, some smart white aprons, a box of bars of dark chocolate**, assorted flours, sugars and butters, and headed to the checkout.
The system is basic but effective. A cheerful man with a hand-held scanner swiftly beeps everything in on the trolley, hands you the bill, and then you go across to a lady behind a glass screen to pay for it all.
The temptation is to spend far more money than you need to because everything is a BARGAIN. I will go infrequently, armed with a shopping list, otherwise any money I'd save on low prices will be negated by the sheer quantity of things I buy. They have ENORMOUS jars of Nutella. I'm only human.
I've also been buying BARGAINS at the farmers market. Most recently it has been ginger. I picked up a 12 kg box of fresh ginger for £2. TWO QUID.
Once the thrill of cornering the Wiltshire ginger market faded, I had to decide what to do with it all.
I've crystallized a lot, for sale as part of the catering business:
I made a batch of Japanese style pickled ginger, which I hope will turn pink in due course. The recipe promised that it would:
Some of the crystallised ginger has since been richly enrobed (oooh, get me) in dark chocolate, and I have to say it is pretty spectacular. I think a lot of people will be getting ginger-related gifts for Christmas.
One thing I learned: if you chop and peel a lot of ginger, it makes your fingers burn, and if you later rub yourself in the eye, it REALLY burns. So try not to do that.
Top tip there.
I've also made plum jam - 2 types - and my first ever batch of Chinese plum sauce. Readers, it is delicious; tangy, not too sweet, heavily scented with star anise. I will definitely buy another box of plums and make more.
As part of ongoing business development I bought a box of proper matching jars (and lids) in two different sizes, and it's amazing the difference it makes to see chutney or jam or whatever all in the same type of jar, rather than in recycled (as in the ginger above) pickle or mayonnaise jars.
What else? The dog, of course. She continues to be a delight, despite the occasional bout of stomach trouble. The colitis has cleared up now, and she seems to be back on top form. Although we did have The Day of Vomit the other week. I gave her her breakfast, which she scarfed down in a matter of moments, then promptly brought the whole lot back up again, in its entirety, onto the rug in the sitting room - the only carpet in the whole of the downstairs. Perfect target identification, dog, well done.
So, I thought "Ah well, she can wait till lunchtime now," and we carried on with our day. She ate her lunch and seemed fine for a few hours, dozing peacefully at the top of the stairs outside my study. I was working hard*** on the computer, and I thought she was fast asleep, until I heard odd wet slurping sounds. I went out onto the landing, and was greeted by a thick rope of dog vomit, consisting predominantly of grass, which the horrible, horrible animal was about to try and eat. Re-eat? Whatever.
I cried out in disgust, then (in even more disgust) picked up the solid lump-o'-vom and carried it outside to the bin. Gah.
Again, she'd managed to barf it all up onto the carpet, rather than either the tile, stone or wooden floors in the rest of the house. Well done, dog. She's so clever. I'm very proud. Here she is, placing her order for a walk.
"I'll take this one please. With extra cowshit for me to roll in, and a plentiful supply of grass to eat. Oh, and some partridges to startle. Make it so."
Good job we love her. She likes to sleep like this, stretched out against the sofa. It can't be comfortable, she's twisted like a corkscrew. That white thing under her head is her fleecy blankie that she brought with her from her parents' place when she moved in. She goes and fetches it from her bed when she wants to go to sleep.
I recently loaded Instagram on my phone. I can take brown 1970s stylee photos like a pro now. This is from one of our favourite walks:
Other news: I have had a drastic haircut. I know I mentioned it before, but here are photos. You lucky people.
I'm fortunate to have naturally thick, wavy hair, which has (mostly) retained its natural colour, apart from the occasional brilliant white one. As my hair is very dark, the buggers really show up. Bah.
For about the last 10 years I have had it fairly long, which I liked. However, a few weeks ago I was sitting reading a book, and I realised that my hair was irritating me. It had got long enough that when I leaned back in my chair, I leaned on it and pulled it, and when I leaned forward it fell over my face and got in the way. I went to put it up, and as I did so I thought "I always wear my hair up nowadays." It had got too long to wear down, so it was always clipped up off my face. And in a blinding flash of inspiration, I thought "Hey! I could have it cut off, and wear it loose again!"
I had 10 inches cut off. Look, here it is:
And here's the end result, please note the extra-attractive red anxious face. Hair is much shorter, and I think rather excellent. It's easier to manage, only takes 5 minutes to blow-dry rather than 25, and if I brush it upside down it looks like I've spent ages styling it. So. Hurrah for impulse decisions that pay off.
It occurred to me several days after I had it cut that I could have saved all the cuttings (clippings? trimmings? whatever) and donated them to that charity that makes wigs for children who've lost their hair. I was really cross that I hadn't thought of it at the time, as my hair was un-dyed, un-permed and in jolly good nick. Next time I have a lot off I will do that.
Other head-related news: Mr WithaY made a fox hat.
He worked very hard on it, cleaning and treating the skin to make sure it wasn't going to rot or shed, and then designing the hat, cutting it out, and sewing it together by hand. I refused to let him use my sewing machine, I have to admit.
Anyhoo. One evening when I was working in the pub, he came in for a drink and was telling the chaps at the bar about his new hat. They encouraged him to go and fetch it to show them. He did so.
They, being farmers and robust Wiltshire country chaps, were very interested in how he'd turned a dead fox into an item of attire, so Mr WithaY was explaining the process. I and the (much, much younger) barmaid listened in.
Mr WithaY: ...so once you've cleaned the skin, and dried it a bit, you have to tan it, which takes ages.
Farmers: Oh yes. Yarp. Oo-aarrrr. (etcetera.)
Mr WithaY: ...and once it's been tanned you can start cutting it out.
Youthful barmaid: Tanned?? What....with fake tan? Why did you do that to it???
I think she was imagining Mr WithaY trying to do a makeover on the fox. Some fake tan. Eyelash implants. Painted claws. Vajazzle the tail a bit.
I'm afraid I bellowed with laughter in a most unladylike manner, and had to go and stand far away till I'd stopped.
Continuing the wildlife theme, the mole has been wreaking havoc in the front garden. Not content with building a scale model of Silbury Hill in the middle of the lawn, he seems to have reconstructed the entire Western Front trench system in the flowerbeds, and thrown up several smaller hills around the edges.
Bastard.
Life is, in the main, very good. We're both still enjoying life away from the full-time rat race treadmill thing, and are finding plenty to do to occupy ourselves.
*We don't get out much
**For making cakes. No, really.
***Playing World of Warcraft. I know, I know.
Saturday, 17 September 2011
Basket cases
Last week Mr WithaY and I went on a one-day willow basket-making course. You can't become a basket-maker in one day, but you can make a basket. Here's how:
You start with 6 sticks, all approximately the same thickness and straightness. You have to find the natural curve of the wood and follow it to get the proper basket base shape. My sticks all looked to be either completely straight or wavy as anything, not the gentle curve talked about by the instructor.
Once you have aligned your sticks properly, you stab them with a deadly steel bodkin, pointy, sharp and scary. Oh, before you do any stabbing, you grease the bodkin point with tallow. It's positively medieval.
Our instructor told us how she once had to rescue her can of tallow from a greedy dog which had its face in it. She didn't mention it to the dog's owners; I expect they found out later that day.
This is how the sticks look once you've STABBED them with the greased-up bodkin. It's interesting how unnerving it is, having to stab something when usually you are all English and repressed and un-stabby.
Once you've finished stabbing, you slide one set of sticks through the other, thus:
This is the basis for your basket. I had to stop and have a cup of tea at this point, all the craftsmanship was exhausting.
After you've had tea and braced yourself, you start doing the next step. It has a technical name which I have completely forgotten, but it involves weaving small willow stems to make the basket base.
See the two different colour willows? One sort has bark on and is slippery, the other sort doesn't and isn't. They're both bloody awkward to weave properly. You have to hold the spokes pressed hard into your tummy as you do this. Painful.
Once you've got the base woven, and it is properly convex, you add long sticks to make the sides of the basket. If it's not convex enough, you have to help it along using your knee and brute force.
Adding the long sticks was fiddly and hilarious, with all of us wrestling with our baskets on the floor. We got there in the end.
Once we'd got to that stage it was lunchtime. Lunch was excellent. Home-made and delicious. I recommend it.
After lunch it was time to start building the basket up. Da da daaaaaaaaa.
You have to STAB it once again with the bodkin to hold it in place while you weave the willow sticks. That's harder than it looks. Getting everything nice and even and tidy is even harder.
Once you've built up the base, you change both style and material to make the sides. I was using a weaving technique that involved using two lengths of willow in pairs at once, in a traditional English style. It's strangely hypnotic.
Then, when your basket is tall enough, you do another set of the stronger weave that you used for the base, to make the top nice and sturdy. If your basket is less than perfectly circular, you assist it with your knee and brute force.
Willow is very forgiving.
Once you've done that, you make the top edge, using the long sticks you stuck into the base to form the sides. Remember them? Yeah you do.
If you're a bit forgetful and have failed to keep your willow sticks wet, they will snap at this point. The instructor will then rescue you and fix it so it will not show. She was very good at rescuing people.
And at the end of the afternoon, you will have a lovely basket.
There were as many different baskets made as there were people on the course. Mr WithaY made one with a French weave in the middle, and conveniently it stacks neatly inside mine. There's tidy.
One chap made these rather fetching finger holes. I shall try that next time I make a basket.
If at any point you got bored or frustrated, and went outside to look around, you could see where the willows grow:
They had information boards up to let people know all the kinds of animals and birds you might see if you looked for long enough. I saw bugger all.
I liked these gigantic sculptures, left over from a Glastonbury Festival, apparently.
And the maze was fun, despite being very low. I reckon I could have stepped over the partitions in an emergency.
So, after a long and full day, a splendid vegetable lasagna and fruit crumble for lunch, a lovely drive through the Somerset Levels, and weird bruises where I hadn't expected any, I now own a basket that I made. And it works.
Did I mention how much nicer this is than being stuck in the office?
You start with 6 sticks, all approximately the same thickness and straightness. You have to find the natural curve of the wood and follow it to get the proper basket base shape. My sticks all looked to be either completely straight or wavy as anything, not the gentle curve talked about by the instructor.
Once you have aligned your sticks properly, you stab them with a deadly steel bodkin, pointy, sharp and scary. Oh, before you do any stabbing, you grease the bodkin point with tallow. It's positively medieval.
Our instructor told us how she once had to rescue her can of tallow from a greedy dog which had its face in it. She didn't mention it to the dog's owners; I expect they found out later that day.
This is how the sticks look once you've STABBED them with the greased-up bodkin. It's interesting how unnerving it is, having to stab something when usually you are all English and repressed and un-stabby.
Once you've finished stabbing, you slide one set of sticks through the other, thus:
This is the basis for your basket. I had to stop and have a cup of tea at this point, all the craftsmanship was exhausting.
After you've had tea and braced yourself, you start doing the next step. It has a technical name which I have completely forgotten, but it involves weaving small willow stems to make the basket base.
See the two different colour willows? One sort has bark on and is slippery, the other sort doesn't and isn't. They're both bloody awkward to weave properly. You have to hold the spokes pressed hard into your tummy as you do this. Painful.
Once you've got the base woven, and it is properly convex, you add long sticks to make the sides of the basket. If it's not convex enough, you have to help it along using your knee and brute force.
Adding the long sticks was fiddly and hilarious, with all of us wrestling with our baskets on the floor. We got there in the end.
Once we'd got to that stage it was lunchtime. Lunch was excellent. Home-made and delicious. I recommend it.
After lunch it was time to start building the basket up. Da da daaaaaaaaa.
You have to STAB it once again with the bodkin to hold it in place while you weave the willow sticks. That's harder than it looks. Getting everything nice and even and tidy is even harder.
Once you've built up the base, you change both style and material to make the sides. I was using a weaving technique that involved using two lengths of willow in pairs at once, in a traditional English style. It's strangely hypnotic.
Then, when your basket is tall enough, you do another set of the stronger weave that you used for the base, to make the top nice and sturdy. If your basket is less than perfectly circular, you assist it with your knee and brute force.
Willow is very forgiving.
Once you've done that, you make the top edge, using the long sticks you stuck into the base to form the sides. Remember them? Yeah you do.
If you're a bit forgetful and have failed to keep your willow sticks wet, they will snap at this point. The instructor will then rescue you and fix it so it will not show. She was very good at rescuing people.
There were as many different baskets made as there were people on the course. Mr WithaY made one with a French weave in the middle, and conveniently it stacks neatly inside mine. There's tidy.
That's his on the left with the fancy French weave thing. Sacre bleu.
One lady made an up-and-over handle. Very pretty. Those round things in the background are big bundles of willow sticks. The barn we were working in smelled lovely.
One chap made these rather fetching finger holes. I shall try that next time I make a basket.
If at any point you got bored or frustrated, and went outside to look around, you could see where the willows grow:
They had information boards up to let people know all the kinds of animals and birds you might see if you looked for long enough. I saw bugger all.
I liked these gigantic sculptures, left over from a Glastonbury Festival, apparently.
And the maze was fun, despite being very low. I reckon I could have stepped over the partitions in an emergency.
So, after a long and full day, a splendid vegetable lasagna and fruit crumble for lunch, a lovely drive through the Somerset Levels, and weird bruises where I hadn't expected any, I now own a basket that I made. And it works.
Did I mention how much nicer this is than being stuck in the office?
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Case in point
In Waterloo concourse this morning, I was party to a conversation between two chaps who were nearby.
Chap 1 was relating a tale of how crowded his train had been. All the way from Winchester, apparently.
"People were stood up in the aisles all the way from Basingstoke. Basingstoke! Well, nobody gets off till London, do they?"
"Naaaaa," agreed his companion.
"And there was a bloke sat in front of me with a case. A big case, mind, on the seat next to him, and another bloke walked up and said "Can you move that so I can sit down, mate?" A really big case. A two week case. Not a weekend bag.
"Right," said the other chap. He seemed an agreeable sort.
"Anyway, the bloke with the case said "But then what will I do with this?" Pointing at his big case. A really big case, it was."
The chap telling the story gesticulated to show how big the case was. Looked pretty big to me, too.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Anyway, the bloke who wanted to sit down said "Well, that's not really my fucking problem, is it mate?" And the bloke with the big case had to sit with it on his lap all the rest of the way."
They both laughed uproariously. I love London sometimes.
Other news: We are enjoying All The Weathers Known To Man this week. So far we've had:
For example, you'd come indoors dripping wet and claim a point for Heavy Rain. Or covered in ice, and claim for Really Cold Out There. If your hair was wildly dishevelled and full of twigs and leaves you could claim High Wind. If you came in on a stretcher you could claim Deceptively Icy On The Roads. If you phoned in your claim from 200 miles away you could claim for Tornado.
I think Tornado would be the trump card, and the player who used it automatically gets extra points.
This could catch on.
Chap 1 was relating a tale of how crowded his train had been. All the way from Winchester, apparently.
"People were stood up in the aisles all the way from Basingstoke. Basingstoke! Well, nobody gets off till London, do they?"
"Naaaaa," agreed his companion.
"And there was a bloke sat in front of me with a case. A big case, mind, on the seat next to him, and another bloke walked up and said "Can you move that so I can sit down, mate?" A really big case. A two week case. Not a weekend bag.
"Right," said the other chap. He seemed an agreeable sort.
"Anyway, the bloke with the case said "But then what will I do with this?" Pointing at his big case. A really big case, it was."
The chap telling the story gesticulated to show how big the case was. Looked pretty big to me, too.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Anyway, the bloke who wanted to sit down said "Well, that's not really my fucking problem, is it mate?" And the bloke with the big case had to sit with it on his lap all the rest of the way."
They both laughed uproariously. I love London sometimes.
Other news: We are enjoying All The Weathers Known To Man this week. So far we've had:
- snow (yesterday morning as I drove to the station at 6.30, ugh)
- dense fog (tonight, driving home from the station, making it even more like a trip through Middle Earth than normal)
- torrential rain (most of yesterday)
- bloody freezing clear cold (tonight)
For example, you'd come indoors dripping wet and claim a point for Heavy Rain. Or covered in ice, and claim for Really Cold Out There. If your hair was wildly dishevelled and full of twigs and leaves you could claim High Wind. If you came in on a stretcher you could claim Deceptively Icy On The Roads. If you phoned in your claim from 200 miles away you could claim for Tornado.
I think Tornado would be the trump card, and the player who used it automatically gets extra points.
This could catch on.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Genius...
I am, yes indeedy do.
I used my wireless-connected laptop to look up the Orange website, then went through the help stuff till I found a page dealing with connection problems. I then followed all the instructions to do with resetting my Livebox, and hey presto, I am back online with my PC.
New ASDL filter, my arse.
I used my wireless-connected laptop to look up the Orange website, then went through the help stuff till I found a page dealing with connection problems. I then followed all the instructions to do with resetting my Livebox, and hey presto, I am back online with my PC.
New ASDL filter, my arse.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
News from the Front
So anyway, remember that dreadful interview I had? On Friday? When my hairdryer blew up and I fell in a hole? Yeah, that one.
Well, today they offered me the job.
They must have either been really impressed by my sang froid* or the other interviewees were even worse.
So now I have to find out what the package is they are offering. If I just took the job as offered, I would effectively be doing an extra 6 hours a day travelling for a £5K a year pay cut. And they hired me for my brains, I assume. So I won't be doing that.
Tomorrow I will talk to them and ask if I can either get my travel paid for, or a couple of days working at home a week, or, even better, a mixture of both.
And if they say no, sorry, this is the only package, I will say "Thanks very much for the offer, but I will not be accepting it."
How marvellous. I am not a complete waste of space after all. Yay me.
*Unlikely, I suggest
Well, today they offered me the job.
They must have either been really impressed by my sang froid* or the other interviewees were even worse.
So now I have to find out what the package is they are offering. If I just took the job as offered, I would effectively be doing an extra 6 hours a day travelling for a £5K a year pay cut. And they hired me for my brains, I assume. So I won't be doing that.
Tomorrow I will talk to them and ask if I can either get my travel paid for, or a couple of days working at home a week, or, even better, a mixture of both.
And if they say no, sorry, this is the only package, I will say "Thanks very much for the offer, but I will not be accepting it."
How marvellous. I am not a complete waste of space after all. Yay me.
*Unlikely, I suggest
Monday, 18 August 2008
Explanation
Ok, due to popular demand*, I need to explain how the fantastic "Barbecue Carnage" diorama was created...
The torso and limbs are made from dried nectarine. Delicious and nutricious. The head is a grape, with pine nuts for eyes. Disturbingly, when you pushed one eye in, the other one bulged out. It was like watching a hideous low-budget horror flick.
The hair, which I am especially pleased with, is a prune. Mr WithaY came up with that. He was watching me assemble my masterpiece on the sitting room table (we don't get out much) and exclaimed "A prune wig! You could make a prune wig!"
We laughed out loud with glee.
We need to get out a lot more.
The mouth is a sliver of dried cherry. The rest of the cherry was delicious, by the way.
The scattered currants represent the barbecue coals, blown clean out of the barbecue by the force of the fatal explosion, caused by a can of lighter fuel, dropped into the flames by accident.
I like how the tomato puree gore clearly shows the terrible effect of the explosion.
I might sell instructions so you can try it yourself in the privacy of your own homes.
My favourite part of the whole event was after I had put all the bits back in the kitchen, and Mr WithaY waddled** in there to find a snack.
He came out crucnhing something, looking faintly dismayed. He held up the latter half of whatever it was he'd been eating, and glared at me. "This is an uncooked prawn cracker, isn't it?" he asked me, waving it about accusingly.
It's not my fault if the raw materials of genius are left innocently in the kitchen.
I mean, dried fruit, yes. Grapes, yes. Pine nuts, yes. Raw prawn crackers, no. They look like mother-of-pearl and smell of prawns. That, to me, is not appetising.
Not when there are prunes nearby, at least.
*One slightly bewildered email
**His legs are still sore from the sponsored walk. He's walking like a gorilla, a low crouching shuffle, making "ooh ooh ooh" noises as he goes. I have to leave the room to laugh.
The torso and limbs are made from dried nectarine. Delicious and nutricious. The head is a grape, with pine nuts for eyes. Disturbingly, when you pushed one eye in, the other one bulged out. It was like watching a hideous low-budget horror flick.
The hair, which I am especially pleased with, is a prune. Mr WithaY came up with that. He was watching me assemble my masterpiece on the sitting room table (we don't get out much) and exclaimed "A prune wig! You could make a prune wig!"
We laughed out loud with glee.
We need to get out a lot more.
The mouth is a sliver of dried cherry. The rest of the cherry was delicious, by the way.
The scattered currants represent the barbecue coals, blown clean out of the barbecue by the force of the fatal explosion, caused by a can of lighter fuel, dropped into the flames by accident.
I like how the tomato puree gore clearly shows the terrible effect of the explosion.
I might sell instructions so you can try it yourself in the privacy of your own homes.
My favourite part of the whole event was after I had put all the bits back in the kitchen, and Mr WithaY waddled** in there to find a snack.
He came out crucnhing something, looking faintly dismayed. He held up the latter half of whatever it was he'd been eating, and glared at me. "This is an uncooked prawn cracker, isn't it?" he asked me, waving it about accusingly.
It's not my fault if the raw materials of genius are left innocently in the kitchen.
I mean, dried fruit, yes. Grapes, yes. Pine nuts, yes. Raw prawn crackers, no. They look like mother-of-pearl and smell of prawns. That, to me, is not appetising.
Not when there are prunes nearby, at least.
*One slightly bewildered email
**His legs are still sore from the sponsored walk. He's walking like a gorilla, a low crouching shuffle, making "ooh ooh ooh" noises as he goes. I have to leave the room to laugh.
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