Hoping for fair fancies

Events have, as they say, overtaken me over the last week or so, but I am sure that is a state which I share with very many, and be sure that I have been with you in heart if not in virtual reality.

So my last Pause in Advent for Floss has become a pause on the threshold of Christmas. But I have been reading Unplug the Christmas Machine (worth getting for next year if at this point you feel that you are in need of a helping hand and a shoulder to cry on), and thus I am actually feeling quite relaxed about presents unwrapped and shelves undusted.

Anyway it seems to have become one of our family traditions to wrap presents at the last minute on Christmas Eve - somehow it adds to the excitement, and it is the closest I will get to living on the edge.

The Head Chef and Princess Bunchy have taken over the kitchen and I am only required to admire and congratulate - I had hoped to bake some buns, but I know my place, and am happy to bow to greater skill.

So all that remains is for me to wish you all a very merry Christmas and leave you with one of my favourite Christmas poems. Dear old Thomas Hardy - a bit of an Eeyore, perhaps, but his way with words is wonderful, and his vision, though pained, is never less than percipient.

And with that I thank you all for your good counsel over the past months, and for your kind greetings, and in return wish you what you wish for yourselves.

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

'Now they are all on their knees,'

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

'Come; see the oxen kneel

'In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,'

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

1915

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Present joy

This Sunday was Floss's third Pause in Advent, and I am now taking a pause from my partying to address the issue.

No, there wasn't a party in the polytunnel, unfortunately, but yes, the party frock and the two-dollar earrings had an outing, Pomona's cottage is looking quite festive, and has been the scene of festivities, too. It might have been grey outside, but inside was a warm glow of bonhomie and candlelight and firelight in spite of winds blowing ENE.

The first Christmas lunch of the season has been cooked, and the Head Chef and I were the proud producers of it all. I am sorry that I only took a picture of the parsnips, but the carrots, cabbage, garlic, onions, squash and potatoes were all homegrown and delicious. And the pork, of course, but I would rather not dwell on that. My dearest Head Chef excelled himself on the culinary front, and we realized that it is a big mistake to send two teenage boys out shopping for supplies unaccompanied by a ten-year-old who understands the  gravity of domestic issues in a supervisory role.

We haven't decked the hall with boughs of holly quite yet, because the holly is still drying out next to the Aga, having been soaked and battered by torrential rain and hail today (hence the welly chic), but presents have been wrapped and decorations arrayed about the house.

And I have been thinking further along the line of presents, under the influence of the eminent Professor Waldfogel, and before I present you with a little Advent reading upon which you may meditate at your leisure, I will also present you with a little Scroogenomic disquisition.

The Professor's little book, as befits one by an economist, goes into great detail regarding his research as to the actual value of presents to the receiver, as opposed to the price paid by the giver. According to him, although a present given by someone close to you is likely to hold 90% or so of the monetary value, there is generally some loss in value.

So I thought about all the presents I had received over the years, which merge together in a stream of forgetfulness, and one or two stand out particularly, presents which I still have, presents which hold a value surpassing all things monetary, and where I to this day remember the occasion when I was given them.

 

 And for those of you anxiously searching for the perfect present, I must tell you that neither was bought particularly for me, the giver gave something of herself as she passed these artefacts on to me, and one of them was handmade, and quite imperfectly so.

One of these most special presents is my grandmother's cotton reel holder: at our last Christmas together, when she knew that she was gravely ill, my official present was my Cath Kidston workbox, which I had chosen for myself. Then, almost as an afterthought, she sent me upstairs to a distant and dusty cupboard, a repository for a miscellany of disused objects, to find the cotton reel carousel, saying that I might as well have it, for I would be sure to make use of it. So its value resides in the poignancy of the memories associated with it, and my relationship with the giver, and this simple object symbolizes both what came before and what followed the giving of this gift.

I had always been fascinated by these denizens of old ladies' windowsills from my childhood, and had always wished for one, but had never ever seen one in a shop. So it was also a gift that money could not buy; it remains one of my most precious possessions, and I am always using it. For the economists amongst you, the value created by this present is way beyond any possible purchase price, and so the world is a better place for that gift. My only wish that modern cotton reels would fit on those brass spool holders - will I one day use up all those cottons, and such a useful object become merely ornamental?

I will save the sight of my other special presents for another day, and give you, dear readers, a special present of your own in this little collection of words, words which have been special to me since I was nine years old, and won the Library Prize at school. Some things never change: this was for the person who had borrowed the most books from the library, and I think I am still in the running for the Library Prize.

My prize was a book called Take Joy by Tasha Tudor, a beautifully illustrated collection of Christmas stories and poems and carols, which also described the impossibly idyllic Christmas celebrations of her family in rural America, all unimaginably talented and creative, and I dreamed of being an inmate of that roseate and glowing domestic circle. It is a book now out of print and long-gone from bookshelves, but remains in my memory in a nostalgic glow of Christmas past.

Somehow Christmas in England in the 1970s could never quite live up to that snow-filled, hearth-glowing, candlelit dream of a celebration, but the words which gave the title to the book are a piece of wisdom that I have remembered and rewritten over the years, and a lesson for all of us yearning for perfection and dreaming of somewhere over the rainbow.

Princess Bunchy and I have been discussing the meaning of these words for us but following Floss's example this weekend, I will merely present you with the words as they stand, and leave you to look into your own heart and find your own meaning. And perhaps they may make your own shadows flee away - I hope so.

I salute you!

There is nothing that I can give you which you have not;

but there is much, that, while I cannot give, you can take.

No heaven can come to us,

unless our hearts find rest in it today.

Take Heaven.

No peace lies in the future,

which is not hidden in this present instant.

Take Peace.

The gloom of the world is but a shadow;

behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.

Take Joy.

And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you,

with the prayer that for you, now and forever,

the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

Fra Giovanni (1513)

Going placidly

It is already the second Sunday in Advent, Sarah's little Christmas tree is counting down relentlessly, and everywhere I see and hear the sights and sounds of mounting panic in the face of Christmas almost present.

But dearest Tif has sent me this embroidered traycloth to fortify me in my resolve, and I have taken her advice to heart - I am going to remain calm, and carry on calmly towards the holidays, looking forward to some holiday, some celebrating, some good food ... but I am determined to avoid excess, especially on the shopping and the anxiety front.

And Floss has been encouraging us all to Pause in Advent, with which I heartily agree, especially if that pause involves a little quiet time on the sofa.

And then I thought of the words of Max Ehrmann's 'Desiderata', found on a million posters in the 1970s, but still valid and relevant and full of wisdom.

It begins with the words: 'Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.' So perhaps you may find time to take your own little pause and indulge yourself in a little silence, so that you may continue your journey towards the festivities quite placidly.

I think that it is important to remember that it is only one day amongst many, and sometimes we aim for too much in the way of perfection. And ask yourself, too, what you are really worrying about - and if your worries came to pass, would it really be so very bad?

If you are on good terms with your guests (and I do believe that it is a useful principle in life to determine on being on the most amiable terms with all guests, bearing in mind that, by definition, the presence of a guest is always temporary), then look upon it as a chance to get together and have a nice chat. And if you tell yourself it is not a banquet nor a competition, but merely a glorified Sunday lunch, then the prospect of cooking doesn't seem nearly so daunting. And if the numbers are more than you feel you can manage, ask them to help by bringing a pudding or their pinny. I also make it a point of principle not to cook (or, rather, not to instruct the Head Chef to cook) anything that will not be eaten or is disliked by the majority, regardless of invented tradition.

If the recipients don't like their presents, I hope they are polite enough not to show it, and if they do, well they can always give them to someone else who will appreciate them more, I won't mind at all. As I discussed here, I think the important thing is to give out blessings without thought of return, and that way you won't be disappointed in what you might receive. Unwanted presents can always be given to a charity shop, and that way they can do some good in the world.

And if the guests are apt to be disagreeable, why, just smile at them and make empathetic noises, and feel sorry for them in their self-induced unhappiness with life; after all, we are all the architects of our own misery or joy, and I know that my own wish in life is to spread joy, not sadness or anger.

And I am sure that the way that you can make your children happy is to be happy yourself, and teach them that satisfaction does not come from desiring what you do not have, but from contentment with what you already possess. That is the most valuable gift you can give them.

As Ehrmann writes, 'With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.'

So there ends my little homily, I hope I don't sound too hectoring: I am not really telling you how to live your life, but telling myself - I find that the more I repeat these things (yes, I do sit in a corner muttering to myself rather a lot), the more that they come true. And, yes, Pollyanna is still my heroine, as I mentioned here. And I am getting so old and wise that I feel impelled to share my philosophies (although perhaps not quite as old as Alice, for my children don't yet prepare food for me, but she gives me hope that such an occasion is imminent.)

And tomorrow or the next day I will be back to tell you about pesky squirrels, the most wonderful two dollar earrings, and the joy of buying yourself a present. I know I have mentioned this before, but it can't be recommended too much as an antidote to the stress of buying presents for other people - remember I gave you some handy shopping advice here, so you don't even have to move from your chair to do it!

Look deep into the flame

Floss at Troc Broc and Recup' has organized A Pause in Advent, which is an initiative where bloggers can publish posts offering their thoughts related to Advent, the pre-Christmas season. Floss has written a piece illustrating the pre-eminence of love and family, reminding us not to forget what is most important about celebrating together, and over on her blog is a list of all the participants, and links to their blogs.

So I thought I would join in and share with you a poem by Charles Causley, which prompts us to think about what and why people are celebrating, and to look through and beyond the tinsel and glitter and presents. I think this poem has a relevance, whatever your spirituality, and whether you celebrate Christmas as a Christian, or as part of the turning of the year, or as a chance to get together with family and friends and celebrate.

Innocent's Song*

Who's that knocking on the window,

Who's that standing at the door,

What are all those presents

Lying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger

With hair as white as gin,

What is he doing with the children?

And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,

A cold, cold crown on his head,

Why, when he caws his carol,

Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside

As a spider on a thread,

His fingers made of fuses

And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him

Melt in a million suns,

Why do his yellow, yearning eyes

Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking

Out of the Christmas flame,

Dancing, double-talking:

Herod is his name.

Charles Causley (1917-2003)

According to Nicholas Albery in Poem for the Day, Causley said of this poem that he wrote it 'at the time of the Cold War when such phrases as "the peaceful use of atomic energy" rang particularly thin.'

And the poem still resonates today with its unsettling images not only reminding us of the ubiquity of war, and the fragility of peace, but I also think it has something to say about the way that the spirituality of a religious festival can be lost amongst the tawdry consumerism that seems to characterize so much of our Yuletide celebration nowadays.

The light in the dark: is it the returning sun, a spiritual hope, or a million dazzling Christmas lights, consuming electricity as we consume the earth?

As the comedian used to say (and I can't remember which one), may your own particular god go with you, and if Causley is a little too unsettling for such a festive time of year, then read my post below, all about red, the colour of Christmas!



*[Copyright note: I have not been able to find out anything about the copyright of this poem, so I am not sure of the situation regarding this point - I am happy to acknowledge any copyright holders if they would like to make themselves known.]

Casting off

Today ...

words fail me.

An old friend has died;

something is lost

and found.

Old griefs revive

and I knit them together,

stitch by stitch;

make them tangible;

cast on anew.

I find some solace in words:

perhaps another will, too.

Up-hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin,

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Rossetti (1830-94)

Moments of mess, or the story of stuff

First of all I feel that I should issue a warning about this post - it contains pictures of some rather untidy nooks in my house, entirely disarranged and totally unedited, apart from my attempts to brighten up the pictures so that you can see through the gloom. I am writing in response to an initiative called Moments which comes from the wonderful blog A Commonplace Life, where the idea is to show more of real life on our blogs.

I discovered this via Sarah at Red Gingham and Floss at Troc Broc and Recoup', and felt that I should take up their challenge to show more of the messy bits of life. I started blogging with the aim of encouraging myself to look on the positive side of life and take joy in the everyday place which I find myself, and I haven't aimed to present a picture of perfection, but I have tried to concentrate on the beauty in mundane things. Of course, in the process, the mess gets edited out because I have been trying to look beyond the mess. So today the task is to see the beauty in a spontaneous vision of the places where I work and create - none artfully arranged, just pictured as they were when I wandered about the house with my camera.

But for those of you who have a sensitive disposition, I will start off by showing my side of the swap that I have just done with Sarah, who started me along this track (the messy pictures are for you, Sarah!). A little while ago she indicated on her blog that she rather admires the pretty tea towels she has seen on English blogs, the like of which she cannot obtain in New Zealand. So I offered to send a few bits of English prettiness down south.

 As we are both participants in the Dottie Angel Ultimate Challenge, charity shops were my first port of call and I found three tea towels good enough to send overseas, but I didn't want to disappoint Sarah with a bundle of old tat, and as my version of the Challenge allows for buying new craft supplies and also presents for others, where a suitable secondhand or handmade alternative is not available, then I felt I could buy some new ones (especially as Sarah is probably going to turn them into bags or presents herself).

And, what was more, these all came in pairs, and the twins I can use as my patent recyclable wrapping paper which I mentioned in this post.

And now, having softened you up with a little domestic pulchritude, I propose to present something a little less artful, in the way of domestic disorder.

As he plonked himself down on the sofa in the kitchen (yes, the holiday sofa is now in the kitchen - I need somewhere warm for my afternoon nap), a sofa heaped with a surplus of miscellaneous cushions, crochet granny blankets and my knitting bag made from an old skirt, my dear brother-in-law, Bob the Builder, this morning very amiably expressed the sentiment that perhaps we needed to build an extension. I did respond that I knew that the subtext to this comment was the fact that I have a lot of, shall we say, 'stuff', and that sometimes I dream of living in a minimalist white modern box of the sort that is his stock-in-trade - it would be so much more forgiving on the dusting front. But he knows me well enough to pronounce that minimalism is not really my style. He is right, of course: wellies and pinnies would be quite out of place in such a clean and tasteful setting.

And you have seen from my previous post that I have issues with crossing to the other side of the road when a charity shop looms into view. I did bite the bullet when we turned some rooms over to B&B: you can just imagine how much stuff had to be turned out (or maybe not if you are not of an acquisitive, what's that lying by the side of the road? sort of disposition) and I did hand over nearly a dozen bags to charity shops, rather than liberating them in the other direction, as is more usually the case.

 
 But then when my parents moved to a smaller house, I am afraid that I felt impelled to rehome not inconsiderable amounts of furniture and china, mainly because I knew it was all the sort of stuff that I would pay good money for if I saw it in a charity shop.

Some of my nearest and dearest now have a habit of handing me their charity shop bags to rifle through before they finally dispose of the treasures inside, or very kindly informing me if they have something to take to the tip, because I will probably save them the journey.

So I think that we have established that my house is ranged quite densely with domestic artefacts, but sometimes it does distress me slightly that these artefacts are not ranged as neatly as they might be.

I grew up in a very tidy house, my close female relatives have very clean and tidy houses, and I live so often in a state of disorder with dog hair lapping at my ankles; I do dream of living in a well-regulated household, but I become distracted by poetry and knitting and the exquisite potentiality of yarn and fabric, and when I wake up the disorder has multiplied exponentially. I am very grateful that I have a Head Chef otherwise I might well starve poetically, all the while knitting my fingers to the bone.

Which is why my pictures tend to be close-up, I think: this means that no extraneous mess need be visible and I am fascinated by the representative quality of domestic minutiae, probably because it sure beats doing the dusting.

But after these pictures of my workspace, I will leave you with this one thought for a Sunday afternoon: whose desk is the messiest of all (no, it's not mine!)?

A joy for ever

The rain is teeming down outside today, so much so that I have left the hens shut up for their own good, just as William Cobbett advises, but last Sunday was a sunny day for us all, both literally and metaphorically.

As I think I may have mentioned before, my dear papa, the Commander-in-Chief, and my dear mamma celebrated their golden wedding anniversary last week, and held the loveliest party you could imagine at the weekend. As the Commander-in-Chief mentioned in his speech, my mother is quite sure that she deserves a gold medal for putting up with him for fifty years - my view is that medals are deserved all round for anyone who remains happily married for that long.

And what a beautiful day we had, in spite of some early morning flurries at Pomona's cottage. I had finished Princess Bunchy's Miss Iris skirt in plenty of time, well, certainly by 11am. And then I had the idea of adorning her new white T-shirt with some buttons, which only took half an hour or so.

 There was much huffing and tapping on the part of the General because I had asked everyone to be ready to leave at 11.30am and I was still sitting stitching in my jeans at that hour. (I was about to say that the General was tapping his watch, but I think he was probably tapping the new Ipod that he has acquired, which seems to operate by tapping. I also say acquired because I think it came free, or nearly free, with my new computer, but I was told that it would be wasted on me in my digitally-challenged state.)

I had at one point gazed longingly at the Toast catalogue, and hankered after a new party dress, but that was before taking on the Dottie challenge. So I was a good Pomona and hauled my existing going-out frock from the cupboard, which is, to be honest, a perfectly pretty little number I bought from People Tree two or three years ago. And really it was a Good Thing that I was not wearing something too precious in its newness, for I spilt brown sushi sauce all down the front within minutes of arriving, in a fit of my usual cackhandedness. And luckily this frock has a disruptive pattern of greys, so it didn't really show too much, and someone complimented me on the prettiness of my dress after its embellishment with sushi sauce - to which, of course, I could reply with a clear conscience and polished halo that it was certainly a most ethical dress. And maybe brown sauce improved it.

It was also a very happy weekend because the Ploughboy returned for the party and so I was able to reassure myself of his industrious enjoyment of the academic life, as I heard about his 4am starts (or was that finishes?), and general busyness on all but the intellectual front. But he emailed yesterday asking for pictures of our pigs for a project, so I can comfort myself that it is not all cakes and ale, there is some pork in there as well.

But, as my papa would say, I digress. We arrived at the party one minute before my sister, so we weren't late. My large people acted as car park marshals (although it appears more little and large in the picture above), and little Princess Bunchy had a real live baby to play with, and enjoyed being nursemaid for the afternoon. And I have come to the conclusion that the reason that the finished blanket was not entirely satisfactory to me before was that it needed a baby underneath - that was all that was required to complete the picture of perfection.

And now we come to the presents, or rather present. My parents had said on the invitation 'No presents', but I made an exception for myself and was able to come up with the perfect present which also fulfilled, and indeed excelled, the criteria of the Dottie challenge. It was handmade, it was the most beautiful piece of work that you could ever envisage, and I wrapped it in reusable packaging, namely a tea towel. Yes, the assembled guests also laughed when I mentioned that point - but I blame Sarah at Red Gingham, as she has set my mind running on the potentialities of tea towels. And they make very good, very pretty, and eminently recyclable wrapping paper (it was duck egg blue with spots to match my mother's kitchen).

And having dealt you a few hints as to the magnificence of my present, I now present my present in all its complete and wondrous glory.

You may remember that I wrote a post here about the fantastic work done by my friend, the artist Tom Meek, and as a thank you to my parents for all those years of care and education meted out to children and grandchildren, I commissioned a very special piece which consisted of a little extract from Vita Sackville-West's long poem, The Land, embellished with flowers, apples, cherries, hops, wheat: all things green and growing and special to my mamma and papa.

There is a plough, for my father is a farmer; there are hops as he is the grand old man of hop-growing in this country (you may have heard him on the radio, or even seen him on the television recently, talking about hops).

The owl is partly for wisdom, but also the environment is very dear to his heart, and one farm has won an environmental award, partly because of the care taken to maintain habitats for birds.

The cornflowers and roses were particularly for my mother, and the robin, as messenger from heaven, also has a particular special significance to us all.

Tom has such an amazing talent - the Ploughboy and I put our heads together and made suggestions as to some of the elements, and Tom produced this wonderful design, which appropriately enough includes gold in the lettering, and he also organized the most wonderful green and gold frame to show this piece at its best. Just look at that ladybird, and his trademark Meadow Brown butterfly - I am in utter awe at such skill, and such draughtsmanship.

This is the first time in my life that I have done anything so grown-up as commissioning a work of art, and (unusually for me) words failed me when I first saw it in all its breathtaking beauty. I really feel quite honoured that an artist of such skill and talent has made something so special for me and for my family, and this truly is a thing of beauty which will be a joy for ever.

And now it is back to scrubbing floors and hauling logs, but Sunday was an enchanting interlude, a gathering and a creation of memories, and I am so grateful that we were all able to enjoy such a happy time together, a time to treasure for ever, too.

Settling a pillow by her head

I am afraid that I have been absent from Blogland for a few days because the Head Chef gave me a present. More presents, I hear you say, how exciting! But I am afraid not: this was an unwanted present. The Head Chef gave me a head cold and I spent most of the weekend dwelling miserably upon my indisposition.

After doing a marathon bout of ironing, an absolute Everest of bedlinen, I decided that there was nothing for it but to retire, defeated, from the fray. I had hoped that my little malady would be of the sort that allows one to slide on to the sofa, comforted by a little restorative knitting.

But unfortunately not. The sofa was too noisy, too liminal; I needed to get away from  the hurly burly of kitchen central. There was no alternative but to retire to bed with Dusty Answer.

Before those of you with finely honed morals turn away in disgust, I will quickly point out that Dusty Answer is not a superannuated country and western singer. No, Dusty Answer by Rosamond Lehmann is a most wonderful novel, and just the thing to take to bed, and not get up until you have read it from cover to cover.

If you didn't first read it at the feverish age of seventeen, then it might have passed you by, but I would encourage you to acquire a copy in readiness for your next cold in the head, real or imagined.

Dusty Answer is a coming of age novel in which Lehmann captures the agony and ecstasy of growing up, of unrequited love, of first love, of setting out to find your place in the world - and this is what I adored about it in my angst-ridden teenage years. I identified so closely with Judith, the heroine, that I could not quite believe that someone writing in 1927 had had the prescience to anticipate the confusions and complexities of my life - the sheer intensity of emotion that I felt and the pain of growing up.

And I do believe that I had not read this novel for at least twenty-five years, but there it was, still, sitting on my bookshelf. So I picked it up and took it and a hottie and snuggled under a heap of quilts, quite ready to be disappointed, to find it facile and faintly amusing. But I was absorbed totally, and with the wisdom of years enjoyed it in quite a different way. For a start the agony of first love is not quite so immediate, and I can look back at my poor youthful self, and think that the past is another country ...

I was also struck by the constant echoes throughout the text of TS Eliot's poems,'The Wasteland' and 'Prufrock', which in my ignorance I had not picked up before. (And if you have never read 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock', then do seek it out here: it is one of the most wonderful poems ever written.) And also, in common with so much writing of the 1920s, the First World War haunts the novel, a gaping wound just below the surface of the text, casting a long, long shadow over the characters.

And in this little invalid interlude I discovered that I am now ready to read fiction once more. After so many years researching the subject of my thesis, it seemed to me that I had read every single nineteenth-century novel ever written, and a good few either end of the century as well, and I have to say that, having spent every spare moment since the age of four voraciously devouring fiction, I suddenly found myself in my forties, in possession of a PhD in English Literature, yet feeling completely read out and unable to pick up another novel.

And so for the past couple of years I have mainly read craft and permaculture books, all the while feeling slightly bereft, and floundering without my fictional fix - yearning to become totally lost and absorbed in the world of the imagination, but not quite able to take that leap. But Dusty Answer has proved to be the answer for me, and in Judith's impassioned declaration (yes, I wrote this one down in purple ink, too), and I am so happy to be able to say, dear, dear world of the novel and of fiction, I do love you, indeed, in every sort of way, and to any degree you can possibly imagine ... I just needed a bit of a break, and perhaps to move a little way beyond the narrow confines of nineteenth-century realism.

There is so much more to tell you, and yet it is all the same really ... you can see from the pictures that I also managed a teeny tiny bit of knitting, of which more anon.

And my apologies to those that I have neglected over the past few days of coughing and spluttering; Google Reader is accusingly telling me that my unread posts are legion ... so do not ask, what is it? I must go and make my visit!