I have found a clothes peg very useful when reading a book. It aides keeping the pages flat on the left hand side (will only work for early sections of a book, unless you source a mega-sized clothes peg).

Low, low dense clouds. Overcast. The kind of overcast that hints at snow, yet it is seven degrees. Quelle tease.

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Last night in a fun, spontaneous outing to watch some kids play beginner jazz music, (charmant- charmante -charmants), two women admired my knitting and biceps. Can there be any better accolade? If we knit will we get those biceps? one asked. I had to confess precisely what kind of knitting they’d get if they knitted the way I do. “eccentric” is the adjective my capable knitting friend uses. “disastrous” would be my own. I resisted adding “er what biceps?”

Some hot ports & good Connemara company later,  I discovered a misjudgement on the size of the ribbing on the two additional, eccentric front panels of the vest. A significant disparity! Oh dear it’s actually beyond eccentric at this point. V hard to edit knitting, rather your mistakes are recorded like permanent bruises. The joy will come after for the interpreters of those bruises. When I look at the errors once it is finished, I will remember the sound track of what or who I was listening to as I knitted that section.

Starting a dialogue on mortality, adoption and mental illness

Here’s a review I wrote  published in today’s Vancouver Sun of Joan Didion’s Blue Nights.

Where The Year of Magical Thinking was immediate, certain and assured, Blue Nights unrolls and wonders. It situates itself within the longer-term ache and gape of grief and the questioning that creeps in alongside that. Didion ponders the accumulation that is living with profound grief. She asks a lot of questions.

Starting a dialogue on mortality, adoption and mental illness.

What a week for glorious creature sightings… the snowy owl is apparently visiting too.

“Birdwatchers are flocking to Boundary Bay in Metro Vancouver to catch a glimpse of snowy owls, which migrate south only once every four or five years.

…Two feet tall, 60 centimeters, the biggest of the North American owls.”

They are popping in from the arctic. V impressed with their size. We could probably share jumpers since they’re about the same size as my upper body.

If you fancy taking up the needles, there are some very nifty knitting patterns on the V&A website from the 1940’s. 

The body warmer and the “long socks” are intriguing. But I particularly love the stylish waistcoast indicated at the above link.

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I am reading George Stanley’s long poem Vancouver: a poem. I commenced reading it on an eliptical machine the other day. Unfortunately I had my elbow leaning on the incline button which had hit level 14 just when I read the line: “stuck stuck stuck what kind of feeling down in …”

From now on I will only read George when walking on the pavement, rather than above the pavement. This is certainly a poem to walk with, to be walked with, to be walked by. I will not read George’s poem when I put a jet pack on. I am committed to this.

My wrists aren’t doing what God intended them to do (or what I want them to do)

The weather is not doing what I forecasted it would do two weeks ago

It’s a limp Wednesday indeed.

My brain aches every time I attempt the continental knitting, but when you are knitting a jumper for a good man it knits beautifully.

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This is the photo of the bear today that captures his magnificent coat. It was taken by a Vancouver Public Library photographer James Grimmell.

If you get the ‘flu shot as we did aujourd ‘hui (and its ensuing dead arm fallout) we found watching Since Yesterday a film offered by the Vancouver Archive on youtube about the history of transportation in Vancouver rather a comfort to recover with.

I particularly admired that single donkey pulling a bucket of water. The 1945 city buses were a handsome affair.

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We also enjoyed that bloke’s odd channel about random buildings in Doncaster and beyond. (We were viewer number 29)

flyin’

Mrs Olive Stark was the first airline passenger in Vancouver and by my calculation likely endured a bumpy ride. (Apr 24, 1912)

Mrs Alys McKey Bryant piloted the first flight by a woman in Vancouver. (1913)

It’s -1. I think the promised chilly Weds may materialize after all.

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A bear came to visit us today downtown. He had the most gorgeous coat, I can’t get over it. He has briefly usurped Alfie-Cyril (one of our two guinea pigs) and my mother’s lovely donkey Willie (passed on to donkey heaven since) for beauty.  Knitting also seemed rather futile after beholding the texture of that creature.

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