It has been a curious few days. It was lovely to see my parents, partake of a marvellous feast (cooked by Tom), and play some silly games. But my festive spirit has been somewhat curtailed by the combined effects of a chest infection and a particularly grim bout of fatigue. It is fair to say that I am not feeling my best. And yesterday, my bank called to tell me that some festive fraudsters had just purchased two outlandishly expensive El Al air tickets using my debit card. This will all be sorted out, so I won’t be out of pocket, but it is all rather disturbing, not to say annoying. Then, later, I had the genius idea of beginning a new knitting project with some yarn which lies hidden somewhere in the depths of my stash. Tom was out with Bruce, and I foolishly chose that moment to go and look for it. I assumed the yarn was in a box on one of the upper shelves of my work-pod, so I climbed onto a chair, and from thence onto a table. It was the first time in ten months that I’d attempted such acrobatics. “This is brilliant,” I thought, “I can get up here, just like I could before.” I’m sure you can guess what happened next.
I can laugh about it now, but really, it was no laughing matter. I landed awkwardly on my left side, and realised immediately I had done something nasty to my ‘bad’ foot. There are no bones broken, and I can just about walk on it – but ‘just about’ is the operative phrase – I have a green balloon where my foot once was and am in quite a bit of pain. There will be no outdoor activities for a few days at least. The fact that it is all my own fault makes me feel even more abject – I had promised Tom faithfully that I would never attempt such manoeuvres while he was out, and clearly this is why. I have had my comeuppance. And I’ve still not found that yarn.
In other news
1. I have a feature in issue 27 of The Knitter, which has just come out.
As well as airing a few of my own bugbears about the way some knitting ‘traditions’ have been invented, there is also discussion of the Suffolk Herring Festival and the work of the brilliant Deirdre Nelson.
2. My Ma loved the cushion.
3. Like most Archers‘ listeners I am agog to discover what the BBC have planned for the soap’s 60th anniversary, in a week’s time. There has been talk of “Ambridge never being the same again” and I am hopeful of a small disaster which somehow involves the terminally irritating Pip and egomaniacal Hellin, but should remember the lesson of the Christmas storyline of a few years ago. . . there had been talk of Terrible Events befalling the divided Archer’s clan, and I was looking forward to Shula’s untimely demise, but all that happened was that a cow sat on Dayvidd, and the family’s tedious arguments about their “inheritance” came to an end.